[28:17:08]

  [Alert! Prisoner Escaped!]

  [Maybe try chains next time? Or a muzzle? Just a thought.]

  Buck watched in revolted fascination as the jackalope’s body underwent its grotesque transformation - it melted. Like really melted. Not unlike everything in this godsforsaken world, it was horrible. The creature’s flesh parted like a grotesque zipper along its spine, revealing glistening musculature that pulsed unnaturally. Ribs elongated into barbed hooks that sank deep into the tree bark with wet crunching sounds. Organs slithered outward with disturbing purpose, the pine’s surface rippling like liquid to engulf each glistening mass. Worst of all was the jackalope’s triumphant grin - the knowing smirk as bark sealed over its face like a living coffin.

  “Gods…” Buck gagged, tasting bile. The tree bark settled back into place, now faintly streaked with crimson veins. “That’s the most disgusting spell I’ve ever seen.”

  Flint remained dutifully kneeling, though his ears twitched at the slurping sounds still emanating from the tree. “He has escaped Master. I am sorry if my actions—”

  “No,” Buck interrupted, still trying to unsee the horror show. “It has to be some sort of escape spell. Remember how we couldn’t find…what did this guy call it?... your Pairing? The other jackalope that came with you? That’s how he must have escaped. They’ve got some sort of tree-teleportation magic.” He shuddered. ‘Nasty tree-teleportation magic.”

  Flint’s response was to place both massive palms against the blood-streaked bark and push with all his undead might. “Fascinating.” The tree groaned in protest, sap oozing from fresh cracks.

  “Whoa there!” Buck grabbed Flint’s arm, feeling corded muscles straining beneath matted fur. “It’s magic, buddy. You can’t muscle your way through arcane bullshit.” He paused, considering the resurrected warrior before him. “Though…I guess that’s exactly what I’d try to do. No wonder Evander has been so frustrated with me. Maybe you should read my notes after all.”

  Flint’s ears perked up with surprising alertness. “I would like to read your notes.”

  Buck blinked. The same warrior that had just tried to bench-press a tree now showed scholarly interest? His ‘notes’ were more of a stream-of-thought collection of everything that had happened to him since his journey began. Yeah, his [Writing] had increased to level 14, but he was far from an author. Hells, he didn’t even know if what he wrote down would make any sense to a twice-resurrected jackalope barbarian.

  “Hells, I’ll let you read it.” Buck conceded. “But first, we must go over what that other jackalope said. What was that tribe he mentioned? Children of the Howling something?”

  “Children of the Howling Moon.” Flint’s response came crisp and immediate as if recalling a memorized fact. He picked absently at the pine sap now coating his paws. “They must be one of the tribes.”

  Buck stared. Flint’s mind worked in baffling extremes - razor-sharp recall paired with childlike confusion. He was all over the place. He had no idea how spells worked but could remember what the jackalope said word for word? Flint may have no idea what was going on, but he wasn’t stupid. Just…slow? No, that wasn’t right. He was like a newborn, given the memories of a warrior but none of the context.

  But what he had said struck something. He was right. Their escaped prisoner had said the tribes weren’t united. Were these Children of the Howling Moon the opposing force he needed to defeat? Or was there still some hidden enemy that he hadn’t stumbled upon. This whole [Quest] was becoming more of a hindrance than a guiding light.

  [Rude]

  “Ah shit,” Buck said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry Bev, I know you're doing all you can to help me.”

  [Thank you]

  Buck laughed to himself. It was easy to forget about the ever present mind-reading AI. But he couldn’t let go of the complexity of the scenario he found himself in. In one afternoon he’d gone from needing to stop a single group of bad guys to being hunted by an entire society of jackalopes. At minimum, it would’ve been nice to know how many they were facing.

  [Ugh, Very Well, Blackwood, I am Tired of your Confusion]

  [Quest Updated!]

  The sudden system alert made Buck jump. The text shimmered with visible irritation:

  [Quest]

  Your Kingdom is beset by opposing forces. Do not allow them to claim your Nexus. Venture out and find out who your new enemy is and defeat them by any means necessary [0/3]

  Reward: You will gain a Defensive Structure of your choosing

  Reward: You will be able to Place your Village

  {28:17:06}

  Buck stared at the updated quest marker, his mind racing. So there were three jackalope tribes - the Children of the Howling Moon confirmed, but who were the others?

  Buck knew he didn’t fully understand the situation yet. All this talk of the Burned Queen and the Warrior-Pairings showed that the Root had created a whole new backstory for these barbarians, complete with elemental weapons. Fire, Stone, Wind…was there a pattern here?

  But, there had to be another clue in what Coal had said. Buck still didn’t understand why they wanted to kill him in the first place. He’d called him an interloper, claiming his ‘wonton slaughter’ hadn’t gone unnoticed. Buck rolled his eyes; he’d only killed one jackalope. If that was wonton slaughter, there would be no reasoning with these creatures.

  “Master.” Flint’s voice cut through his thoughts as the Revenant secured his tomahawk. “Shall we capture another?”

  Buck’s gaze snapped to Flint’s armor - he really looked at it for the first time. The leatherwork was exquisite, with each pelt of tawny fur seamlessly integrated into the design. His breath hitched.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Flint, your armor—” Buck began, but the jackalope was already unbuckling his belt with unsettling enthusiasm.

  “No! Gods, just- keep it on!” Buck shielded his eyes as Flint paused mid-disrobing. “I just— Do you know what it is made of?”

  “No, Master,” Flint said, looking down at himself. “My armor is a part of me. I do not remember a time without it.”

  As Flint refastened his belt, Buck was able to take a closer look. How had he not noticed this before? He’d killed enough of these creatures over the past month to fill a lifetime. Flint’s armor seemed to be adorned with the hides of coyotes. Buck couldn’t believe that he had missed this. Hells, he was sleeping underneath a tarp made of coyote pelts most nights now.

  The realization struck like one of Evander’s quick-witted jabs. He sprinted back to the fallen jackalope, his boots kicking up pine needles. Kneeling beside the corpse, Buck traced trembling fingers over the heron feathers adorning its armor—those vibrant blues and oranges he’d seen decorating dozens of tomahawks.

  The pieces clicked together with terrible clarity. Coyote pelts, Heron feathers. The animals he’d butchered for experience weren’t just monsters—they were sacred. No wonder he had an angry barbarian horde collapsing upon him.

  He’d spent all his time going on a murderous rampage through their home, killing the animals the Root had based their tribes on and turning their hides into equipment while slaughtering their jackalope worshippers.

  Buck’s hands began to tingle first—a strange numbness creeping up from his fingertips. The jackalope’s blood on his skin suddenly felt scalding, like he’d dipped his arms in molten metal. His breath hitched, catching in his throat like a fishhook. The forest sounds—wind in the pines, Flint’s footsteps—muffled as if someone had stuffed his ears with wool.

  “Master!” Flint shouted, finally catching up to him. “Is there a threat! Point me towards it!”

  His vision tunneled. The heron feathers on the dead jackalope’s armor blurred into smears of color. That vibrant blue—the exact shade of the birds he’d slaughtered by the riverbank last week. Their dying shrieks echoed in his skull now, sharp as broken glass. His stomach lurched. He could feel the snap of their fragile bones under his fists.

  Flint was shaking him now. But that was just a distant feeling.

  The scent of iron flooded his nose. When had he started sweating? Despite the afternoon sun, his shirt clung to his back, icy against his skin. His pulse hammered in his temples, each thud sending fresh waves of nausea through him. The coyote pelts in Flint’s armor seemed to ripple—were the stitches moving? No, that was just his hands shaking hard enough to blur everything.

  A metallic taste filled his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue. The coppery tang mixed with the memory of charred meat—those first coyotes he’d roasted over a fire, thinking nothing of it. Their hides were in his bedroll now. He slept wrapped in their skins every night.

  Flint’s voice reached him as though from underwater. Buck tried to focus on the words, but his own heartbeat drowned them out. His lungs burned. Why couldn’t he get enough air? Each gasp scraped his throat raw. The pine needles beneath him tilted violently though he hadn’t moved.

  His fingers curled into the dirt, seeking an anchor. The soil gave way too easily—just like the coyote’s ribs had when he’d—

  “Master?!?” Flint’s shadow fell over him. The concern in that deep voice the only real thing in the spinning world. “Name your target!”

  Buck squeezed, his eyes shut. Ground himself in the grit under his nails, the ache in his clenched jaw. One breath. Then another. Shallow at first, then deeper, until the forest sounds rushed back in a dizzying wave.

  With a steadying breath, Buck closed his eyes. “There’s no threat. No more targets. Not until we understand what we’re really fighting.” He turned to face his undead companion. “First, we talk. Then… I’ll teach you how to read.”

  Flint’s ears perked up with childlike eagerness, his massive frame settling into an attentive crouch.

  —-

  The sharp crack of Boo-Boo hitting the bars echoed through the camp again. Alice’s arms burned from hours of throwing, her muscles trembling like plucked guitar strings. Each [Slam] drained her faster than sprinting ever could—like someone was siphoning her energy through a straw with every throw. Why did it make her so tired? She glared at her shaking hands. Stupid pointy-ears and his stupid lessons. All that reading and writing. What good did it do her now?

  She kicked the dirt floor, sending up a cloud that settled onto her stupid dress. The fabric itched against her skin, the ruffles catching on her knees every time she moved. Back home, her parents always fussed about keeping dresses clean—like stains were worse than being weak. Alice picked at a loose thread, imagining tearing the whole thing off and burning it.

  Alice sat down. The ground in her prison had been well and patted down, looking almost like a proper floor. Minus the glaring hole she had been forced to dig in the corner. Alice had been fascinated to see how her [Attributes] changed her body, but she still needed to do her…you know…business. A shiver went down her spine. She didn’t want to think about that.

  The sudden commotion snapped her attention to the clearing. Two jackalopes burst from the massive tree they called the Pillar of Voices—one wreathed in flickering embers, the other leaving trails of disturbed air in their wake. Alice pressed against the bars, her nose wrinkling at their acrid sweat-and-smoke stench.

  “Warchief!” The fire-bunny roared, her voice fraying at the edges. “Warchief! The Whisper has claimed another!”

  Alice’s fingers tightened around Boo-Boo’s reinforced paw. Finally, something interesting.

  She had learned much about the tribes that held her prisoner. Hell, all she could really do was listen to them blab on about their lives. Surrounding the Pillar of Voices were tents for the craftsman of the tribe. It was a central area for all the bunny people to gather and share their wares. Pointy-ears had said that the craftspeople were the most important part of the Cracked Kingdoms. Alice, as with most things, thought pointy-ears was full of shit. Clearly, the strong ruled in this world.

  The Warchief emerged from her tent like a storm-given form. Every movement crackled with purpose—no wasted steps, no extra words. Alice kinda liked her. She admired how her muscles flexed beneath her red scarred fur and how the other jackalopes instinctively made space. This was a real strength. Not pointy-ears’ endless scrolls and stupid clean robes.

  “Pyre. Gale.” The Warchief’s voice lashed out like a whip. No greeting. No pleasantries. Just the implicit threat of wasted time. “You return early? And without anything to show for it? Explain.”

  Pyre’s flaming blade sputtered as if doused by the Warchief’s presence alone. “Warchief. Quill and Coal missed our check-in—”

  “What we found was the aftermath of an attack.” Gale interrupted, cutting in as he placed his hand on Pyre’s shoulder.

  The Warchief’s paw struck the earth. A single tap. The ground shuttered, sending cracks spider webbing through the soil at Gale’s feet. “And?”

  Pyre’s voice steadied under that gaze—the way prey stills when a predator’s shadow falls. “The blood patterns… only the Whisper kills like this. We traced Coal’s mana signature to a tree where he escaped, but—”

  “---he hasn’t returned.” The Warchief finished. A flicker of something dark passed behind her eyes. “Our foe proves itself once again. Flint’s betrayal gave this beast time to grow. Time to adapt to this Kingdom. Our Kingdom. Now its power rivals even our Burned Queen’s.”

  “Blasphemy!” Pyre surged forward—

  —and ate dirt. Alice blinked. One moment, Pyre stood raging; the next, she lay sprawled in the dust, her snout bleeding from a backhand faster than lightning. It was…impressive.

  The Warchief didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. When she spoke, the words vibrated in Alice’s teeth: “Do not speak to me of blasphemy. I am the Burned Queen’s voice made flesh.” The temperature spiked. Sweat dripped down Alice’s neck as the Warchief’s scars began to glow like banked coals. “I am the one who intuits her words. There is none other here who can survive the tribulations of our holy mother. I am Aeris Edge, Warchief of the River’s Wrath, the Burrowborn, and the Howling Moon. I am she who walked the Ashen Path unscathed. The Four Winds sharpen themselves against my hide. You dare question me?”

  By the time she finished speaking, both warriors pressed their faces into the dirt, their entire bodies shaking as they lay prostrate in front of their goddess. The Warchief’s power rolled off her in waves, making even the Root-created walls of Alice’s prison thrum like plucked strings.

  “Rise.” The glow faded from Aeris’s scars. “Take the Untested. Let their purity shame your weakness.”

  Gale dared a whisper: “You’d send children against—”

  “They are jackalopes.” The Warchief’s smile showed too many teeth. “Or have you forgotten what that means?”

  The warriors fled. Alice’s heart hammered against her ribs. This—this was truth. This was strength. Not reading books or writing down her thoughts. Not pointy-ears prattling about “knowledge.” Real power didn’t negotiate. It didn’t hesitate. It burned everything in its path until the world bowed beneath its splendor.

  She threw Boo-Boo with renewed fury. The reinforced bear left splinters in its wake.

  Soon.