Planning a vendetta against another player amounted to no small matter, so I left it off the table in the meeting. In the following weeks, I considered how to reach the gnoll. She’d lay low somewhere in kobold or gnoll country, both of which posed a danger to humans. Since we had never found a map of the continent’s interior, I did not know where to search.

  Charitybelle’s knockout left an ashen aftertaste, making me reconsider the virtue of revenge. People who haven’t suffered wrongdoings underestimate its allure. Polite circles don’t celebrate vengeance. But it made sense that civilized institutions dissuaded it—relentless tit-for-tatting behavior undermined institutional authority and fostered chaos.

  But Miros was a power vacuum, and living in the wilderness clarified a person’s motives. Out here, revenge was good and moral. It became a force of nature, as tangible as weather, as useful as the Pythagorean Theorem, and as indisputable as gravity. Revenge could reset a person’s universe back in balance. The pursuit of satisfaction didn’t justify reckless behavior or blinding oneself to consequences. Still, nothing had ever motivated me as much as my desire to knock out Winterbyte from the contest.

  The subject warranted meditation. I spent much of my time alone dwelling on the matter.

  True to dwarven fashion, someone constructed sturdy planters around the roundhouses and town hall. I didn’t notice them until the flower seeds from Grayton sprouted and bloomed. Forren’s fertility made them blossom quickly. They gave the thoroughfares around the structures a sense of order, and their color and beauty made Hawkhurst feel like an established town.

  But I avoided the flowers. The flora served as a ubiquitous reminder of Charitybelle and evoked desires for vengeance—making me want to seek out Winterbyte every time I saw them.

  I put in an appearance at the town hall during dinner. As a governor, it fell on me to answer questions and listen to comments. I took notes and made a wish list of items for our next trip to civilization, including tools, food, and raw materials.

  People incessantly complained about bunk assignments. No one wished to sleep by the stairs, and the southern side of the roundhouse felt chillier because of the wind. Some people preferred a warmer place to sleep—others less so. Snoring became a common grievance, and it made me half-ready to prioritize another roundhouse to avoid arbitrating everyone’s sleeping arrangements.

  The pink sun warmed Hawkhurst Rock. I sat on it, overlooking the water by the flagpole—a peaceful spot for meditation. Charitybelle’s memorial stone rested beside Brodie’s. It made for a poor companion, but sitting next to it came as close as I could get to her for the rest of my virtual life.

  I watched the moons, clouds, and seagulls overhead while my Familiar warmed my lap.

  A pattern of speckles graced the griffon’s downy feathers, a camouflage so effective I nearly missed him when I first sat in the nest. His slight weight and warmth reminded me of cuddling with Charitybelle. These lazy afternoons on the lakeshore became therapeutic and helped me decompress.

  Instead of stroking Charitybelle’s hair with my fingertips, I petted my griffon’s snowy down. His body mass seemed disproportionate to his big beak. I named him Beaker, and he provided great comfort. I could see why Familiar became Charitybelle’s favorite spell. Chloe seemed indifferent to everyone else in town, so I doubted we’d ever see the hawk again.

  Beaker would become another flier, but surveillance wasn’t why I saved him. He became my emotional tourniquet. I lavished him with affection. He would die without a mother caring for him, and the little guy deserved another chance. In a corny way, he reminded me of my childhood.

  Aside from being kitten-sized and having four legs, Beaker had no other feline attributes. I wasn’t sure if the front or back legs on griffons were usually lions—or if I confused them with sphinxes—but Beaker’s front and rear legs both ended in bird claws. His speckled white down reminded me of fur, but it would turn into feathers as he grew older, a process which Ally assured me would happen faster because of Forren’s growth buff.

  Whenever I took Beaker outside, he telepathically protested the temperature. “Cold! Cold!” It taught me to wrap him in a blanket, and I carried him around in a basket fashioned by Murdina—who made it complete with a handle. He seemed happiest when we lined it with scraps of fur we’d taken from the goblins.

  As far as baby animal antics went, griffon chicks were dull pets. Beaker spent all his time sleeping, and when awake, his thoughts vacillated between food and water. Aside from speckles on white down, his only prominent feature was an oversized parrotlike beak. Its hooked and bulbous shape reminded me of cartoon birds. Still, he looked cute in a dopey, helpless way, and I spent unnecessary stretches watching him sleep.

  Beaker and I played together. Whenever I wiggled my index finger up and down, he raised his beak to mimic the motion, often brushing it against my hand. This was the only way we touched, as he disliked petting. Whenever I raised my hand to scratch or caress his neck, he craned his neck and opened his mouth to ward off offending fingers. He never snapped at me, so perhaps the opened beak made him feel bigger.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Beaker sent panicky thoughts when I reached to scratch his head, causing me to recoil. Petting my dog’s ears remained among my favorite childhood memories, but no reassurance could relax my griffon, so I stopped trying. I eventually discovered he liked me to stroke his chest and cocked his head from side to side in odd displays of appreciation.

  As the weeks passed, his range of telepathic expressions included demands like, “Take me!” and “New food!” Griffons were omnivores. They ate grains, nuts, fruits, and meats. He liked cooked and uncooked food, eating anything a human or animal would, and I brought him to meals in the town hall, where he became a popular curiosity for the dining crowd. The place’s noise didn’t put him off, but he found going inside buildings strange. His eyes widened and dilated whenever we went indoors, possibly because ceilings cut off views of the sky.

  Soon, Beaker associated the town hall with “new food,” and Mrs. Berling put together special bowls for him. The old biddy cooed and talked to him while he picked through the vittles. He tossed unwanted food on the floor, and she soon learned his preference. All the attention created a monster, and he unfortunately learned to make noise whenever he wanted something.

  Occasionally, he vocalized whenever he projected thoughts. He became so loud the entire assembly of feasters would stop talking and search for reasons for the commotion. His volume regulation seemed untethered by his thoughts. He shrieked like a trumpet for simple things like, “Sleeping now!” or whenever he recognized someone passing by—especially Fabulosa.

  For some reason, Beaker especially loved Fabulosa. Whenever she walked into the town hall for dinner, he screeched for her attention, which made me a little jealous. She did nothing special to deserve his affection.

  She wriggled her fingers at him. “Hey, Chickers! Let me fetch some food first.”

  Beaker’s body tensed as he watched Fabulosa walk past our table to the kitchen area.

  I soothed Beaker as she walked away. “Don’t worry, buddy. She’ll come back. She’s getting her dinner.”

  Beaker wriggled out of my arms to greet her when it became clear she was coming over to sit with us. His feeble efforts to flap his wings and occasional squawks made everyone smile.

  After stroking his chest, Fabulosa played the wiggle-finger game with him. She tapped her finger, and Beaker mimicked the motion by pecking the table. No matter how often I fed, bathed, or played with him, he never seemed as excited to see me.

  As time passed, I longed for more purpose than catering to the whims of a pet. A few weeks into my stay-cation, I began a training regimen in the battle college. Establishing a settlement wasn’t easy, and I intended to reap its rewards, even if it meant putting up with a pretentious combat instructor.

  Leaving Beaker asleep beside my bunk in the roundhouse, I entered the battle college after breakfast and found Blane and Bernard sparring under Dino’s supervision. Rachel and Val, two of Iris’s guards from Fort Krek, faced each other in practice duels.

  Dino smiled, winked, and waved to me with a regal flourish.

  Can’t this guy do anything normal? I reminded myself the town loved him. Nitpicking his personality would undermine my leadership. Besides, I didn’t have the energy.

  When I first encountered the battle college, its abstract architecture awed me. Dino insisted the place belonged to him, although the game’s location labels hadn’t supported this claim. Now, I stood beneath a finished wooden sign stained with berries or whatever people used to stain wood. The sign read—Dino Marcello de Piane’s Battle College.

  I studied the floor while reminding myself that it didn’t matter to whom the battle college belonged. As long as it improved our melee skills, I could set me ego aside.

  Dino crossed the floor to greet me. “I have caught you admiring my new sign, yes?”

  “Wait. You can’t leave the arena. So how did you get a sign?”

  “Oh-ho-ho! You have stumbled into a mystery beneath your very own nose! How does Dino Marcello de Piane have an insignia, whereas the esteemed governor does not?”

  Fabulosa answered. “The dwarves made it for him. The ladies in the quarry got Angus and the Silverviews to carve a coat of arms from a wood plank left over from the barns. I reckon they feel sorry that Dino can’t make one of his own. They went overboard, but it classes the place up. Don’t you think?”

  I spoke evenly. “That was very nice of them.”

  From behind, Fabulosa gave me a hug against which I bristled. “Give him a chance. He has his own vibe.” She squeezed me until I relaxed—and I had to admit it felt good to be held. She patted me on the shoulder and let go. “He’s downright good at combat, too. If he can whoop me, he’ll show you a thing or two.”

  I noncommittally grunted.

  Fabulosa didn’t embrace Dino or engage in public displays of affection as she and RIP shared on their hunts. In the training arena, she showed only sober professionalism. Perhaps Dino’s influence wasn’t altogether obnoxious.

  I studied a matrix of classes hanging on the wall. In the middle of the week, the morning classes included defense, dodging, and slashing weapons, of which my ranks were 16, 20, and 18, respectively. They practiced basic skills and suitable warm-ups for Dino’s training routine. Being the highest-ranked student in the class took the pressure off me.

  I bowed. “Do you have time for another student in your defense class?”

  Dino plucked a wooden spear off the wall. “But of course! You look to be no stranger to the spear.” He handed it to me, drew a practice sword, and promptly whacked the side of my head.

  “Ow! Hey, I wasn’t ready.”

  He tutted and lunged his weapon at my stomach.

  I dodged it easily.

  Dino quickly swiped upward toward my shoulder, but I used my spear to block the blow, but something felt wrong. Deflecting his attack rushed me, and I wasn’t in position for another, but he lowered his weapon and withdrew.

  While we sparred, Fabulosa avoided watching us. Was she jealous or embarrassed by my performance? I couldn’t guess where on the spectrum of aptitude I fell. Everything in the game seemed so upside down that not even combat stances applied.

  Dino clicked his tongue and lowered his weapon. He spoke as if talking to someone else. “Cadet Apache has vibrant yet brooding balance points. Faults infest the governor’s contrapposto shift like errant wood shavings in a fine cheese. His stabilizer muscles are weak as porcelain made from loamy silt. I expected immaturity and am not surprised.”

  Dino’s facial expressions conveyed more explicit messages than his tortured similes. His use of “vibrant” evoked a modicum of encouragement.

  Shouldn’t he temper his opinions in the wake of my loss? Perhaps he habitually abused his pupils like a drill instructor. I didn’t see how he could dismiss me after only a few combat maneuvers. He amused me, in a way, and his critiques bothered me less than I expected.

  I came here to learn, even if the curriculum included ridicule. Teasing in junior high school had prepared me for the onslaught of criticisms, and Dino, at least, promised to improve my game.