Draven glanced up at the sky, where the moon hung low and heavy, casting silver light across the village. The stars were still bright, the darkness still thick. It was midnight, not dawn. They had hours yet before the sun would rise.
"Gob Lynn," Draven said, his voice careful. "It's still the middle of the night. Would it be permissible for me to stay here until dawn? I don't want to wake the duke at this hour. He's... particular about his sleep."
John crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "You want to stay here? In my village? This ain't exactly a hotel, you know. We don't have room service. No heated towels. No complimentary mints on the pillows."
"I don't need any of that."
John jabbed a thumb toward the huts. "You sure? I mean, are the accommodations even suitable for a noble rich ass like yourself? We've got dirt floors. Leaky roofs. The occasional wolf spider. It's not exactly Greystone."
Draven's expression didn't change. He wasn't taking the bait. "I am perfectly fine sleeping on a chair. Or in a tree. I've slept in worse places."
Without waiting for a response, the knight walked over to one of the wooden chairs near the central fire pit. He sat down, leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. Within seconds, his breathing slowed, steady and deep. He was asleep. Just like that.
John stared at him. The goblin chicks who had been watching from behind a hut were staring too. Their yellow eyes were wide, their green cheeks flushed. One of them whispered to another, loud enough for John to hear.
"Look at his jaw..."
"So sharp..."
"I bet he could crush a rock with those cheekbones."
John's eye twitched. He wasn't getting jealous. He wasn't. He was the leader. He was the one they should be admiring. Not some human pretty boy who could fall asleep on command like some kind of zen master.
"Stupid," John muttered under his breath. "Stupid chiseled jawline."
He grabbed a chair, dragged it next to Draven's, and plopped down. He crossed his arms, leaned back, and tried to copy the knight's pose. It was uncomfortable. His back hurt. The chair creaked under his weight. But he was committed now.
John closed his eyes.
The next thing he knew, sunlight was poking through the trees, and there was a rhythmic sound filling the air. Thump. Thump. Thump. John's eyes snapped open.
Draven was on the ground, shirtless, doing clapping pushups. His bare back was a map of muscle and scars, every ridge and valley defined, every tendon visible. Sweat glistened on his skin, and his dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. His arms moved like pistons, driving his body up and down with mechanical precision.
"Two thousand three," Draven counted. "Two thousand four. Two thousand five."
John sat up, rubbing his eyes. His own body ached from sleeping in the chair, his neck stiff, his back sore. Draven looked like he had just woken from a perfect night's sleep and decided to casually do a few thousand pushups before breakfast.
"Are we going to Greystone," John said, his voice dripping with passive aggression, "or are you going to work out all morning?"
Draven pushed up from the ground and stood, brushing dirt from his chest. He looked at John with a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, my apologies. Force of habit. I can't start the day without a morning workout. It throws off my entire rhythm."
He grabbed his shirt from where it was draped over a branch and pulled it on.
"Fraudrian," Draven called out. "Open a portal."
John looked around. Where was Fraudrian? The shadowy hand had disappeared after the fight, vanished into the darkness. John scanned the trees, the huts, the clearing.
"Up here," came a voice from above.
John looked up. Fraudrian was sitting on a branch twenty feet in the air, his pale legs dangling, his dark eyes watching. He had been there the whole time. Keeping watch. While John slept. While Draven did pushups.
"Stupid," John muttered under his breath. "Stupid aura farmers."
He walked toward the shadow portal that was spreading across the ground like spilled ink. Draven stepped through first, his tall frame swallowed by the darkness. John followed.
The world folded, and when it reassembled, John was standing in front of a castle.
It was massive. White marble and sandstone, rising from the earth like a mountain carved by gods. Towers stretched toward the sky, their spires adorned with golden flags. Battlements lined the walls, and archers patrolled the ramparts, their armor gleaming in the morning light. A drawbridge spanned a deep moat, and beyond it, a courtyard bustled with activity. Servants. Guards. Nobles in fine clothes.
"Stupid," John muttered. "Stupid cool badass old timy fantasy castle."
He followed Draven across the drawbridge, his goblin feet clanking on the wooden planks. They passed through a massive gatehouse, then another, then another. The castle was a maze of corridors and hallways, each one more impressive than the last.
"Stupid vaulted ceilings," John muttered as they walked through a hall with arches that seemed to reach forever.
"Stupid stained glass windows," he muttered as they passed a chapel with images of knights and dragons.
"Stupid marble floors," he muttered as his boots clicked on polished stone that reflected his own green face.
"Stupid chandeliers," he muttered as they entered a room with crystals that caught the light and scattered rainbows across the walls.
Draven glanced back at him. "Did you say something?"
"No," John said. "Nothing."
They reached a pair of massive oak doors, carved with scenes of battle and triumph. Guards flanked the entrance, their halberds crossed. At Draven's nod, they stepped aside and pushed the doors open.
The room beyond was a council chamber. A long table dominated the center, polished to a mirror shine, surrounded by high-backed chairs. And in those chairs sat seven people.
John didn't recognize any of them. They were all nobles, clearly, with fine clothes and sharp eyes. Some were old, some were young, all had the look of people who were used to getting what they wanted. Four of them were posing in their chairs, their chins resting on their hands, their gazes fixed on the far end of the table. Aura farming. Definitely aura farming.
At the far end, seated on a slightly elevated chair, was Duke Ashford. His gray hair was cropped short, his weathered face unreadable. His hands were clasped on the table in front of him, fingers interlaced. He wasn't moving. Wasn't blinking. Just... sitting there. Aura farming harder than anyone else in the room.
Behind him stood the remaining four hands. Armstrong, his glasses glinting, his black robe immaculate. Aaris, her clawed gauntlets resting on her hips, her slitted eyes scanning the room. Dyros, crackling with barely contained electricity, his wild hair standing on end. Luis, his metallic skin gleaming, his massive arms crossed.
Fraudrian was still at the goblin village. John noted that.
He looked at the seven nobles, at the duke, at the four hands. Everyone was staring at him. Waiting.
John sighed.
"Stupid," he muttered. "Stupid cool. Stupid kingdom."