Chapter 34
Sir Dorian Lionsreach knew something was wrong the moment the chicken woke him up.
Not because the chicken never woke him up.
But because it was being polite about it.
It stood at the foot of his bed.
Silent.
Still.
Watching.
Dorian squinted at it through one half-open eye.
"...If you're about to lay an egg," he muttered, "I swear to every god I acknowledge—"
The chicken clucked once.
Firm.
Final.
Dorian sighed and sat up, rubbing his face.
"What," he asked the room, "did I miss?"
The answer came in the form of bells.
City bells.
Not alarm bells.
Not celebration bells.
Arrival bells.
Dorian froze.
"...No," he whispered.
The chicken blinked.
"No," Dorian repeated, louder. "Not today."
The bells rang again—measured, ceremonial, unmistakable.
Someone important had reached the gates.
Dorian swung his legs out of bed and stood so fast he tripped over his own boots.
"Alright," he said, tugging on his coat, "this is fine."
The chicken hopped onto the bed.
"This is absolutely fine," Dorian insisted, jamming his arms into sleeves.
The chicken tilted its head.
Dorian pointed at it. "You. Stay."
The chicken hopped down and followed him.
"...I hate you," Dorian said affectionately.
The guild hall was already in motion.
Clerks whispered. Guards straightened. Apprentices sprinted in all directions like ants whose nest had been gently but deliberately kicked.
Dorian strode in, clapping his hands once.
"Everyone calm down," he said. "We have rehearsed this."
A clerk stared at him. "We have?!"
"Yes," Dorian said confidently. "In theory."
Another clerk rushed over. "Sir Dorian! The city council is requesting your presence."
Dorian waved her off. "Later."
"The merchant guild wants assurances."
"After."
"The scholar consortium has... a list."
"Burn it."
The chicken strutted into the hall behind him.
A guard whispered, "It came inside again."
Dorian whispered back, "At this point, I think it owns shares."
He marched toward the central board.
Someone had already updated it.
NOTICE:
Guild Master Valebright is expected to return today.
Underneath, in smaller writing:
Please do not panic.
Someone else had added:
Seriously.
Dorian stared.
"...Who wrote that?"
No one answered.
He turned slowly.
"Alright," he said. "New rule."
Everyone leaned in.
"We act," Dorian continued, "like nothing happened."
A clerk raised her hand. "Sir... nothing nothing?"
"Yes."
"But—"
"—Nothing," Dorian repeated. "This city has survived dragons, cultists, and an experimental cheese festival. We can survive a conversation."
The chicken clucked.
Dorian pointed. "You are the conversation."
The chicken blinked.
The bells rang a third time.
Closer now.
Dorian inhaled deeply and straightened his shoulders.
"This," he said, "is manageable."
A guard approached hesitantly. "Sir... Guild Master Valebright has entered the city."
Dorian nodded. "Excellent."
The guard swallowed. "He's... walking."
Dorian blinked. "...Walking?"
"Yes, sir. With Lady Valebright."
Dorian froze.
"...Both of them?"
"Yes."
Dorian closed his eyes.
"...That's worse."
The chicken clucked.
"Do not," Dorian warned.
The city outside the guild hall grew quieter—not silent, but attentive. People paused mid-conversation. Windows opened. Someone dropped a crate.
Rowan Valebright did not announce himself.
He never did.
He simply arrived.
Dorian stood at the guild entrance, hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate, expression calm in the way only a man deeply lying to himself could manage.
The chicken stood beside him.
Like a witness.
Footsteps echoed up the stone path.
Steady.
Unhurried.
Dorian swallowed.
Rowan Valebright stepped into view.
He looked... rested.
That was unfair.
The armor was gone, replaced with a travel cloak dusted from the road. His beard was neatly trimmed. His eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—took in the guild hall in a single, sweeping glance.
Beside him walked Lila Valebright.
Calm. Poised. Smiling faintly.
Dorian felt his soul leave his body and immediately file an apology.
Rowan stopped a few paces away.
"Dorian," he said.
"Guild Master," Dorian replied crisply.
Rowan's gaze flicked to the chicken.
Then back to Dorian.
"...I see," Rowan said slowly.
Dorian nodded. "Yes."
Lila tilted her head. "Is that—"
"A morale asset," Dorian said quickly.
Rowan raised an eyebrow.
Dorian continued, "Auxiliary."
Rowan looked back at the chicken.
The chicken looked back at Rowan.
They regarded one another for a long moment.
Then Rowan nodded once.
"...Of course it is."
Dorian exhaled.
That was not the reaction he expected.
Rowan stepped past him and into the guild hall.
Dorian followed, heart pounding.
Rowan's eyes tracked the notice board.
The apology postings.
The reinforced beam that definitely had not been reinforced last month.
The unusually large stack of forms labeled INCIDENT (PREEMPTIVE).
He said nothing.
That was worse.
Lila glanced at Dorian over her shoulder, sympathy flickering in her eyes.
Rowan stopped in the center of the hall.
Silence fell.
Everyone waited.
Rowan turned slowly.
"Dorian," he said calmly.
"Yes?"
Rowan folded his hands behind his back.
"I was gone," he said, "for two weeks."
Dorian nodded.
Rowan continued, voice even. "I would like you to explain."
Dorian opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Smiled.
"...Where would you like me to start?"
Rowan looked at the chicken.
Then at the humming storage room door.
Then back at Dorian.
"...With that."
The chicken clucked.
Dorian sighed.
"Alright," he said. "But I would like it noted—"
Rowan met his eyes.
"—that I did my best."
Rowan studied him for a long moment.
Then nodded.
"I know," he said.
Dorian blinked.
Rowan placed a hand on his shoulder.
"We'll talk," Rowan added. "Later."
Dorian nodded.
The chicken clucked softly.
Rowan looked down at it.
"...You too," he said.
The chicken blinked.
Somewhere in the guild hall, a clerk fainted.
Dorian stood very still.
This was not over.
Not even close.
Rowan Valebright did not raise his voice.
This was how Dorian knew he was in real danger.
The guild hall had returned to motion—not normal motion, but the careful, exaggerated productivity of people pretending not to exist. Clerks shuffled papers that did not need shuffling. Guards adjusted armor that was already adjusted. Someone polished the same spot on the floor for a concerning amount of time.
Rowan walked.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Dorian followed two steps behind, hands clasped behind his back like a man attending his own sentencing.
Lila walked beside Rowan, her expression calm, observant, and—this was unfair—amused.
The chicken walked too.
No one commented.
Rowan stopped in front of the notice board.
He read.
He did not blink.
"...'Closed for Confidence,'" Rowan read aloud.
Dorian nodded. "Temporary."
Rowan hummed thoughtfully.
He turned and walked toward the storage room.
The humming from behind the door immediately intensified.
Rowan paused.
"...Is it alive?"
Dorian considered the question carefully.
"Yes," he said. "But not aggressively."
The humming stopped.
Rowan placed a hand on the door.
The door did not push back.
Rowan opened it slightly, peered inside, then closed it again.
"...We'll discuss that," he said calmly.
Dorian nodded. "Of course."
They continued.
Rowan inspected reinforced beams, revised patrol routes, a new section of the charter labeled MISCELLANEOUS (EXPANDED), and an entire filing cabinet labeled APOLOGIES (ACTIVE).
He said nothing.
That was still worse.
Finally, Rowan stopped at the central desk.
He turned.
"Dorian."
"Yes?"
Rowan folded his arms. "How many apologies were issued?"
Dorian hesitated.
"...Define issued."
Rowan closed his eyes.
Lila cleared her throat gently. "He tried," she said.
Rowan opened one eye. "I can see that."
He looked at Dorian again.
"You held the city," Rowan said. "No one died."
Dorian straightened slightly. "Correct."
"You did not escalate into panic."
"Also correct."
"You did not start a war."
Dorian smiled. "Low bar, but yes."
Rowan nodded slowly.
"...You also did not stop."
Dorian's smile faltered.
Rowan's tone remained even. "You filled every space I left."
Dorian swallowed.
Rowan sighed—not in anger, but in tired recognition.
"I should not have left without setting clearer boundaries," Rowan said. "That is on me."
Dorian blinked. "It is?"
"Yes," Rowan said simply. "But this—" he gestured vaguely at the guild hall, the chicken, the paperwork, "—this is on you."
Dorian nodded. "Fair."
Rowan studied him for a moment longer.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"You did better than most would have."
Dorian stared.
"...I did?"
"Yes," Rowan said. "You just did it loudly."
Dorian let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
Lila stepped forward. "Also," she added, "the city's already calling it 'The Incident.'"
Dorian winced. "Of course they are."
Rowan glanced at the chicken.
"...And that?"
Dorian sighed. "It followed me."
The chicken clucked.
Rowan nodded. "Naturally."
He looked back at Dorian.
"We will address it," Rowan said. "Later."
Dorian nodded. "Yes, Guild Master."
Rowan paused.
"...Take tomorrow off."
Dorian blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"You're exhausted," Rowan said. "And I need to review... all of this."
He gestured again.
"...Preferably without commentary."
Dorian hesitated. "Are you sure?"
Rowan met his eyes.
"I'm back," he said.
Dorian smiled—small, genuine.
"Yes," he said. "You are."
The chicken clucked.
Rowan looked at it.
"...You're staying," he said.
The chicken blinked.
Rowan sighed. "Of course you are."
That evening, Dorian stood on the guild balcony one last time.
The city below was calm.
Normal.
As normal as Eastrun ever got.
Rowan and Lila walked the streets together, unbothered, unhurried. People waved. Children ran up to them. Life settled back into place like it had been waiting.
The chicken hopped up beside Dorian.
"Well," Dorian said, "that's that."
The chicken clucked.
"Yes," Dorian agreed. "I survived."
He leaned against the railing.
"Book's closed," he added. "Apologies filed."
The chicken tilted its head.
"...No," Dorian admitted. "You're right. Something else is coming."
In the distance, thunder rolled—not from a storm, but from something heavier, deeper.
Dorian felt it.
He straightened.
"Well," he said lightly, "good thing the Guild Master's back."
The chicken clucked.
Dorian smiled.
"And if not," he added, "I've got experience now."
The city lights flickered.
Somewhere far away, something ancient shifted.
Dorian did not look worried.
He looked ready.
"Please," he said softly to the night, "stop asking me that."
The chicken clucked once.
Agreement, or prophecy.
Hard to tell.