"Misgracious folly!" The Haunted Cloak fussed. "Dost thou heap the hours as one doth tally beans or reckon poultry?"

  "The hourglass is nowhere near a new invention," Lady Valiendre scoffed.

  "Lo, a barren and gnomish measure! It doth order the passing hours, the first, the second, and third… yet holdeth neither wit nor wisdom, nor the weight of its worth!" The cape contended.

  "How so, Cloak?" Drustan prompted, entertained by the creature’s vitriolic lecture.

  "Why, verily! For I know to hunt humble game at the Hour of the Jackalope, and to shun tall grass in the Hour of the Basilisk; and most certain it is that the Hour of the Unicorn biddeth rest and repast, even as the Hour of the Hellhound is ill-fated for the signing of contracts…" It recounted, sagely.

  "And just how many of those monster-themed hours of yours are there?", Ophelienne quizzed, not out of genuine interest, but to pry into the Cloak's archaic logic.

  "A dozen, forsooth! These are the rightful partitions of each day!" The shadowy rag nodded assuredly.

  "So… merely half of the actual hours. No wonder you were late! Please, stop coming up with ludicrous excuses for it, it's unseemly even for you," the knight concluded, authoritatively.

  Drustan barely stifled his laughter as the adults bickered over any and every thing. It was a welcome distraction for an otherwise monotonous leg of their travels.

  The company set forth from Gildsheaf Keep at break of dawn, midway through the Hour of the Manticore, and it took them all morning to amble their way up the resplendent fields and past the last few lone-standing groves to the north into a perfectly straight dirt road cutting along rolling hills of wild-grown green.

  A pair of modest workhorses pulled the old wagon granted to them by Lord Jaufre, lending the party the guise of humble locals as they pressed forward on their journey. Lady Valiendre guided the animals, hiding her visage beneath a ridiculously oversized straw hat, while the Cloak and Drustan sat beneath the wain’s pewter-colored canvas.

  It was late afternoon —around the Hour of the Cockatrice— when they reached the outskirts of the Village of Ormen, a small settlement known for its never resting water wheels by the course of the Long Creek, a tributary to the Red River.

  As much as Ophelienne would prefer to ignore her own needs and push forward through the night, she couldn't possibly demand the same from Drustan. They'd need to stop for a meal at least.

  But as they neared the first cottage down the path, the group beheld a curious sight: two women perched atop the roof, frantically gesturing for the travelers to be silent.

  "Hail and well met, good friends!" The clueless Cloak hollered as it leaped out of the cart and approached, oblivious to what the peasant women's gestures meant. "What merry game art thou playing aloft?"

  The ground immediately trembled beneath their feets as a myriad honking sounds echoed from behind the house.

  ***

  The monstrous Goose Hydra struck first, lunging at great speed against the astounded newcomers, chasing them down and cornering them at the village's square.

  Its three angry heads, each topping ten feet long necks, snapped at them savagely. Ophelienne raised her shield just in time to brace against the first gaping maw; the impact sent a jarring tremor through her arm as jagged beak scraped steel.

  The second head aimed at the knight's legs, but she pivoted, slamming her boot against its skull to keep it at bay. A third, opportunistic lateral strike would have cleaved her in half had it not been caught mid-air by a ringing parry from the Haunted Cloak’s blade.

  Deafening honks shattered the air, rattling window panes and sending flocks of regular geese scattering in panic. It didn't seem it could fly, but its wings flapped powerful, unbalancing gusts of wind. The Goose Hydra pressed its assault, offering no quarter.

  Drustan cowered at a safe distance, watching the battle with his heart hammering in his chest. A strange, ethereal itch flared between his fingertips —growing sharper with every step danger took toward him.

  Like a living shadow, the Cloak coiled around one of the thrashing necks. The beast flailed, hissing and honking in strangled protest, but the draped rogue held fast, pulling tighter still.

  Then, in a flash of steel, it struck —sundering the serpent-necked fowl with a single, glimmering stroke. A severed head hit the earth with a sodden thud.

  For the briefest of moments, silence reigned triumphant.

  But, to Ophelienne’s horror, the bird's pulsing stump gurgled, and with an unnatural squelch, two fresh heads erupted from it, its beady eyes a wrathful shade of red.

  “Oh, wonderful!” The knight gritted out, barely leaping aside as four goose heads now flailed in all directions. “It grows them back, with surplus! Just fantastic!”

  The Cloak, undeterred, hurled itself at another of the monster’s necks, repeating its maneuver. And again: another head fell, only for two new raging mugs to sprout in its place with feathered crests twitching as if woken from a dream of unfettered violence.

  “Stop cutting off its heads!” Lady Valiendre bellowed, knocking aside a lunging beak with her shield. “We need another plan!”

  The monster’s five necks whipped round at once, locking onto the knight. Ophelienne barely dodged aside, rolling behind a water trough as two of the beaks buried themselves into the mud. Another head clamped onto her shield, wrenching it forward; she let out a grunt, bracing her stance, fighting to keep her footing. The Goose Hydra was strong.

  Meanwhile, the Cloak flitted like a wraith, striking with cruel precision, its sword lashing out in merciless arcs —gouging at eyes, slicing at sinews. But for every wound, the beast only grew wilder.

  The village square lay in ruin: barrels crushed, fences shattered, the ground littered with broken timber and bloodied feathers. Villagers peered from rooftops, fearful yet enthralled, at times daring to cheer their unknown saviors.

  Ophelienne clenched her jaw. There had to be a way to contain it. A binding or snare. Something to render the creature harmless without —Her eyes snapped to one of the village mills.

  “Cloak!” She shouted, deflecting a strike. “Get it to the water wheels!”

  The Cloak twisted mid-air. “Oh? Shall we invite it for a gentle dalliance 'pon the river?”

  “Just trust me!”

  The specter abided. It became a streak of darkness, dashing about the Goose Hydra's snapping maws, taunting it and herding it toward the waters. The monster shrieked in fury, its honks turning shrill with rage.

  Step by step, strike by strike, they lured it, until at last, it teetered at the creek’s edge.

  Then, with a fierce cry, Ophelienne sprang onto a fallen cart, vaulted high into the air —And drove her shield full-force into the monster’s chest.

  The impact knocked the Goose Hydra off balance. It staggered, webbed feet slipping on the wet stones, necks flailing wildly as it tried to correct its stance, but it was too late.

  The monster toppled backwards into the creek, where the turning spokes of the wheel caught fast upon its necks, twisting them together, pulling them tight, like tangled threads on a washer’s rack.

  The Cloak hovered gently beside Ophelienne, watching as the creature flopped in vain, its many heads caught in an impossible knot.

  “Well done! A most majestic display,” the Cloak mused, its tattered form fluttering in satisfaction. “Yet prithee, dear lady; what dost thou propose we do with yonder abomination?”

  Ophelienne panted, resting against her shield, eyeing the trapped beast with weary amusement. “Not our problem anymore.”

  Roaring ovations burst out from the village's ceilings as the peasants witnessed the Goose Hydra's subjugation. Troves of people began climbing down the cottages towards the adventurers.

  ***

  "It was me own fault," Miranda mumbled, eyes fixed on the worn wooden floor of the inn’s dining hall. "I tried castin’ a spell so the same goose could be butchered over n’ over, but it turned into… that thing. Nearly got us all killed..." Her voice cracked, and tears welled up as her mother pulled her into a tight embrace.

  Ophelienne and Drustan tore into their second servings of rabbit stew—thin on meat and even thinner on seasoning, but hunger made it a feast. Around them, the inn bustled with lively voices, villagers singing, shouting, and sneaking glances at the Haunted Cloak.

  "Are you… a sorcerer?" Drustan asked timidly, feeling uneasy around a girl his own age.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  "Anyone can learn a Folk Magic in Garland," Miranda’s mother, Lutia, added with a sigh. "But Miranda went an’ tried somethin’ far beyond her means. Things been hard lately."

  Ophelienne scanned the room. Despite the revelry, not a single villager had food on their tables or a drink in hand.

  "Hard how?" the knight asked, setting down her spoon. A blush crept to her cheeks as she realized how much those simple meals must have cost them.

  "Ormen Village gets by milling grain from Gildsheaf. We ain’t got much else but flour to trade," Lutia explained. "Garland used to be our best buyer, but for months now, we ain’t been able to get there."

  "Why? What happened?" Drustan asked, still eating with gusto, though he tried not to stare at Miranda.

  "The Devil himself, that’s what happened!" a gruff villager cut in.

  "Dario! Mind yer tongue!" Lutia scolded before lowering her voice. "Garland put up a toll gate on the south road. It’s guarded by… odd folk. They say it’s for security, but…" She hesitated, unease flickering in her eyes.

  "Last caravan we sent, half the folk never came back. The ones that did… they lived, but somethin’ in ‘em was dead." Her voice trailed off, her face shadowed with worry.

  Ophelienne leaned back and let out a slow breath.

  "Great," she thought. "Garland’s the fastest way through. The only other bridges across the Red River are days outta the way. Whatever this is… we’ll have to face it."

  ***

  The village of Ormen lay quiet beneath the hush of night. Only the distant creak of water wheels resounded, turning ceaselessly against the gentle current. A few lanterns still flickered in the cottage windows, their warm glow standing guard against the dark.

  Drustan slept soundly in the room above the inn, curled beneath a patchwork quilt, undisturbed by the occasional gust of wind that rattled the wooden shutters.

  Ophelienne, however, did not rest.

  She stood outside the inn, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of the mountain that loomed against the star-flecked sky. The peak stood stark and foreboding, its snow-capped summit barely visible against the void beyond.

  At her side, the Haunted Cloak hovered, expectant.

  "Aye, what game dost thou propose at this ghastly hour, dear lady?" it inquired, lilting with curiosity.

  Ophelienne smirked, glancing at the Cloak from the corner of her eye. "Drustan has been running all kinds of tests with you, hasn’t he?"

  The Cloak puffed its tattered chest with pride. "Verily! The boy doth possess a keen mind, forever probing at the limits of mine abilities."

  She nodded. "He told me he had a new trial in mind."

  The Cloak perked up. "A challenge, is it? Pray, do tell!"

  Ophelienne gestured toward the mountain. "See that peak? Drustan wants to know how fast you can reach it… and return. If you leave now, I bet you can make it back by morning, just before we depart, and surprise the young master."

  The Cloak stared at the distant mountain, its folds shifting in thought. "What time dost thou take leave upon the morrow? The Hour of the Wyrm?"

  "Erm… Yes. The Hour of the Wyrm should be fine."

  "Most auspicious, lady knight! It should be a mere jaunt upon the wind! At once!"

  And with a dramatic flourish, it soared into the night, a streak of shadow racing across the landscape. Within seconds, it had vanished beyond the village outskirts, swallowed by the rolling hills that led to the mountain.

  Ophelienne remained still, watching the horizon long after the Cloak had disappeared from view. Then, she turned back toward the inn, exhaling sharply. She stepped inside without another word.

  ***

  The first blush of morning was still far from rising over Ormen when Ophelienne and Drustan quietly stole away from the village. Still groggy, the boy rubbed his eyes as he climbed onto the back of the cart. "Are we really leaving without Cloak?" He mumbled.

  Ophelienne tightened her grip on the horse’s reins, scanning the road ahead. "It doesn’t need sleep, Master Drustan. It was growing impatient, so it went ahead of us to scout the road. We should meet it again soon enough." She lied.

  Drustan hesitated but soon gave in, going back to sleep among their supplies in the back of the wagon. The road stretched before them, winding toward Garland. Behind them, Ormen faded into the mist.

  ***

  When the sun finally breached the morning haze, its warm light touched the damp earth, casting long shadows across the quiet village. The Hour of the Wyrm was nearly spent. Debris from the battle the day before still littered Ormen’s empty streets, remnants of a chaos already fading into memory.

  Much like the Haunted Cloak.

  It drifted idly through the village square, its once-brimming confidence reduced to a sluggish waver. No dramatic flourishes, no boastful proclamations. Only silence, save for the occasional rustle as a stray breeze caught its tattered edges.

  It had been deceived. Left behind like an unwanted relic. It had lingered for centuries in a derelict dungeon, absent a master, yet only now did it feel truly abandoned.

  "A peculiar sight: a garb without a wearer, yet burdened by weight all the same."

  The Cloak twisted in midair, folding inwards at the sound of the voice. Beneath the gnarled oak at the village’s edge stood Thaerion, the elf. Unlike their last encounter, they bore no weapon, and displayed no intention of fighting.

  "Thou return’st, O relentless pursuer? Dost thou come to claim victory o’er me?" The Cloak’s voice was weary, its theatricality diminished.

  Thaerion tilted their head. "Victory? No. Not today." A pause. Then, with quiet amusement, "So… left behind, are we?"

  The draped figure bristled. "Nay!" it declared, though the protest rang hollow. "Mine party merely… hastened their course ahead! I shall rejoin them anon."

  The elf regarded it evenly. "You don’t believe that."

  The phantom form faltered, its form wavering. "Lady Valiendre ne’er didst trust me, not truly."

  Thaerion nodded as if they had expected as much. "And now? What will you do?"

  The rags fluttered in agitation. "I swore to serve young Drustan till he delivered me to fame and fortune!"

  Thaerion’s voice was quiet, measured. "Then that is your purpose now. Fame. Fortune. And the boy is merely a means to that end."

  The Cloak hesitated before answering. "He… yes! Indeed, the boy is clever and ambitious! In his service, I may find mine own renown!"

  The elf stepped forward. "Then tell me, honestly. Are you your own master now?"

  A heavy silence followed. The hovering cloth curled inward. "I… I am what I have always been… A servant, perchance, yet one that chooseth whom to serve! Why dost thou take such sudden interest in these matters?"

  Thaerion breathed slowly as they elaborated. "You were created to serve. But what happens when a being gifted with intelligence and feeling, yet made for a single purpose, is left to persist? Not for days, nor years, but centuries. Does it remain what it was, or does it strive to become something else entirely?"

  The Cloak gave no answer.

  "I have something for you," Thaerion continued, their voice low. "A truth long buried, but still recorded by my people in the oldest books of lore."

  The Cloak stirred. "A truth?"

  "The name of your original master. And the purpose for which you were created."

  The air between them seemed to tighten.

  "Vexohatar, the Necromancer, conjured you to serve as guardian and groundskeeper of his dungeon. The Fell Archmagus was the most feared villain of the first age of this world, long, long ago."

  The Haunted Cloak shuddered. A deep, aching tremor ran through its fabric, as though the very core of its being recognized the truth before its mind could grasp it.

  "Vexohatar…" it whispered, the syllables ghosting through the air. "Mine Pale Monarch… O Chthonic One…"

  Thaerion did not interrupt. He let the words settle, watching their weight sink into the air before he spoke again.

  "And the boy you follow. Ophelienne never told you, did she? He is far more than an aristocrat’s heir on a road trip."

  The Cloak did not stir.

  "He is the living incarnation of the Supreme Prophet of the ancient Republic." Thaerion let the statement hang, waiting for the specter to react. Then, with measured intent, he continued:

  "Right now, he is on his way to Trevium, the Old Capital. Ophelienne and her allies intend to place him upon the High Seat, to restore the alliance that once bound all the kingdoms of this land."

  A pause. Then, with quiet finality:

  "But should the boy ascend… his death will soon follow. That, I guarantee."

  The Cloak’s form tensed, a slow ripple passing through its ethereal fabric. "Doth Ophelienne know of this?"

  Thaerion’s semblance darkened. "I cannot say. But I do know this: she will not stop him from walking this path."

  A silence stretched between them. The Cloak hovered, unreadable. It should not have mattered —Drustan was a mere mortal of fleeting years, no different from any other. And yet, something in the boy’s earnestness lingered. His laughter, his wide-eyed wonder, his foolish courage. He had reached for the Cloak as if it were something more than it was.

  That thought unsettled it.

  "And thou?" The Cloak’s voice was quieter this time. "What dost thou seek with the boy?"

  Thaerion met the ghost’s would-be gaze, unflinching. "To stop Drustan from reviving the Republic. If he abandons that destiny, he may yet live a long life. But if he takes the mantle of the Supreme Prophet…"

  The Cloak wavered just slightly. Something akin to heavy breath caught within it. Would it feel the boy's absence, should Drustan fall? Would it regret leaving him to his fate?

  Thaerion let the weight of his words settle before extending a hand. "Come with me. Let us find another way. There will be no shortage of glory and riches by my side. No matter where you stand, this is a world-defining struggle."

  For a long moment, the hovering rags hesitated, caught between uncertainty and ambition. Then, slowly, it drifted forward.

  "Very well, elf. Lead on."

  Thaerion nodded and whistled his Song of Finding, its arcane melody calling to the hounds who were already tracking Ophelienne and Drustan’s path.

  CODEX

  I think I'll never look at waterfowl the same way again! X(

  But thanks to that unholy monstrosity, we can see just how differently Magic can be wielded in this world.

  The elves have cultivated Songs that resonate with reality and offer subtle —if no less wondrous— effects; humans, on the other hand, use Spells to bend the laws of nature through sheer force.

  Now, Ophelienne simply can't bring herself to trust the Cloak —but can she be trusted? Has the knight protector been leading her ward to his doom? What will be her reaction when she learns of the new alliance forged at Ormen? And what of Drustan, will he feel betrayed?

  All of that, and more, in the next chapter!

  CLOAK'S INVENTORY

  FORTUNE: ☆☆☆☆☆

  It's not that the gratitude of the people isn't worth anything, but…

  FAME: ★★☆☆☆

  Elven ranger companies have been passing word along regarding an ancient evil returned to haunt the world.

  The villagers of Ormen won't forget so soon that time when a knight and a shadowy rogue tamed the terrible Goose Hydra