When the clamor of choice quieted, Duchess Dander and Sir Pawdfoot wanted no additional council. The river’s cry for assist carried all of the authority they required. “To the village,” Dander declared, chin lifted, bow cosy at her again – her voice regular because the forest wind. Pawdfoot barked an keen settlement, armor clinking like distant bells. Wheezy, nonetheless panting and wiping his forehead, fell into step beside them. They forged one final look towards the bridge.
There, between fractured planks and curling shadow, Roxy Nightshade flashed like moonlight on metal. The raccoon’s blades sang as she danced away from the wraith’s snapping maw, dodging tendrils of purple darkness. She spared them a single grin – half problem, half apology – after which turned again to the combat. “I’ve acquired this,” she rasped. “Go. Inform the king.” With that, she leapt into the fray once more, a streak of shadow and silver too swift to rein in.
So that they ran. Courageous as they had been, Dander and Pawdfoot arrived at Wheezy’s village to search out chaos unrolled like a damaged scroll: thatched roofs smoked, market stalls lay overturned, and villagers – badgers, tabbies, and sparrows alike – scrambled with baskets and bundles. Shapes of ink and chilly mild skittered throughout lanes, feline silhouettes of malice that hissed and reached with ghostly claws.
Sir Pawdfoot moved first. With a cry that was extra consolation than command, he planted his defend and fashioned a bulwark between the fleeing and the fright. His sword arced in broad, protecting sweeps – extra coronary heart than finesse – however every swing carried an trustworthy, warming braveness that steadied the frightened. Duchess Dander took the excessive floor, one arrow after one other whispering from her bow. Her photographs had been fast, true as a sovereign decree; they singed the perimeters of the shadow-beasts and drove them again into the alleys they’d come from.
The battle may need turned on stubbornness alone if Wheezy hadn’t tumbled into view – muzzle foaming, robes singed, workers cracking in a single trembling paw. He set his scroll upon the cobbles, unfurled it with a hand that shook, and let magic pour from the written phrases. Sparks leapt; a hoop of shimmering glyphs rose and folded like a web round Pawdfoot and Dander, absorbing the darkish strikes. Wheezy’s wheeze turned to a decided wheeze as he hissed arcane syllables, and one after the other the shadow-cats shrieked and unraveled, their purple tentacles sputtering into innocent motes.
When the final wisp had been routed, the village set free a single breath it had been holding for too lengthy. A toddler who had been clinging to a basket dropped it and threw his arms round Pawdfoot’s leg. An previous baker pressed a trembling loaf into Wheezy’s paws with watery thanks. Duchess Dander lowered her bow and allowed herself the briefest smile of reduction – quiet, fierce, and proud.
Wheezy’s eyes, large with the horror of what he had seen, hardened into resolve. “I can not keep,” he gasped. “Not whereas these issues crawl from the cracks. I need to include you – in case you’ll have me.” There was no pomp in his plea, solely the uncooked plea of 1 who had watched house burn and wished to make sure no different house would.
They accepted with out pomp. With bandages utilized, water shared, and the village pulsing again to cautious life, the trio – archer, knight, and wizard – set off towards the capital. On their street they handed fields quilted with late wildflowers and a lonely tollhouse whose keeper wanted a rescued cart; they crossed vivid meadows the place Pawdfoot taught Wheezy the right approach to polish a defend (with an embarrassingly solemn ceremony), they usually threaded by foggy hollows the place Dander’s arrows guided them previous hidden snares. At night time they traded tales by embers – Dander’s quiet braveness, Pawdfoot’s mild jokes, Wheezy’s ridiculous rhymes – and by daybreak they had been companions stitched collectively by shared hazard.
Finally the towers of the Cat Capital rose into view, a sunlit crown above a bustle of markets, large roads, and flags fluttering lazily within the breeze. The fort of King Meowrick the Magnificent watched from its perch like a benevolent big, its banners vivid, its courtyard heavy with the hum of a feast in progress. Tables had been laden; laughter rolled down from excessive home windows; the palace kitchens labored as if nothing on the planet would possibly ever be amiss.
They didn’t announce themselves with trumpets. They marched straight by the market, previous astonished retailers and spilled baskets, and into the echoing marble corridor. Servants paused with platters; a minstrel’s tune faltered. King Meowrick, mid-morsel, blinked on the sight of orange fur at his threshold and the shining of armor and scroll.
For a heartbeat – for the span of a heartbeat – everybody waited.
Then responsibility pressed ahead just like the tide. Duchess Dander straightened, bow at her again and pendant heat at her neck, and ready to talk for the shadows that had already crept by the realm.
Now, noble readers, how ought to she stand earlier than the king?
Make the alternatives for the final chapter – how will the story finish?
Make the key alternative in our Fb corridor:
👍 React Like if Duchess Dander ought to go all in – daring, loud, and unashamed – declaring the hazard and demanding rapid motion.
❤️ React Coronary heart if she ought to enter with apology and humility – interesting to King Meowrick’s authority and feelings first.
Make the minor alternative in our Instagram courtyard:
💬 Remark “Sir Pawdfoot” if you need the knight to talk up, recounting the battle and utilizing his expertise to bolster the duchess’s plea.
💬 Remark “Wheezy the Wizard” if you need the wizard to inform the story of his village’s break – first-hand proof of the immediacy of the risk.
Solid your votes – your selections will form the subsequent chapter of Cheezburgia’s destiny – the final chapter of the story!
