In the royal palace in the city of Eldmere the gilded halls echoed with emptiness.

  The King and the royal artist were busy with the latest royal masterpiece.

  “Your majesty, what do you think of using custard to signify your hair?” asked Rembrandt enthusiastically. His blonde hair falling into his eyes as he leaned over the table, putting together different baked goods into a portrait of the king.

  The King- silver-haired, jowly and utterly delighted-clapped his hands. “Oh that’s splendid! What a splendid idea, Rembrandt!”

  “Your Majesty, a reminder that you have a meeting in the council chambers in an hour, Benjamin said from the doorway, his dark fingers clasped together in front of him, in an effort to calm himself.

  “I don’t want to go, Bennie, you handle it for me.” Whined King Helmut completely undignified like a school boy.

  Benjamin's jaw tightened. “Of course, your Majesty, however I would like it noted that you haven’t attended a meeting in the previous six months. I feel it’s important that you attempt to attend a council meeting soon.”

  “Yes, yes, don’t nag me, Bennie. You’re so boring! Council meetings are the worst thing ever invented. Why should I even attend?”

  “You are the King, your majesty. That is what Kings do.” Benjamin replied trying to keep the exasperation from his voice.

  “I’ll tell you what Kings do, Bennie. They delegate. Kings, my dear Bennie, get to do whatever they please.” Helmut said looking down his nose at Benjamin.

  Benjamin sighed, turned and went to his chambers to prepare for the council meeting.

  ***

  The next morning in a muddy clearing at the forest’s edge, the light struggled. The sky’s gloomy glow teased its way through the leaves- weak, grey, depressing.

  The cockatrice woke confused, startled. But instinct was instinct. He crowed - started the cascade that roosters would answer for miles.

  And instantly regretted it.

  His head throbbed. The crowing made it so much worse. He collapsed back into the mud and leaves and passed out again.

  ***

  Seren woke up at cock-crow and dragged herself upright.

  She pushed aside the tent flap. Ink was already outside waiting. The grey sky promised another dreary day. At least yesterday's entertainment was something.

  She scanned the festival grounds as they walked - habit now. Exits, crowds, who was watching who. Ink's nose worked what Seren's eyes couldn't - reading the air for trouble. Together they covered what neither could alone.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  ***

  By the time the two of them finished their patrol the skies had cleared. The first clear day in almost 3 weeks. The wet ground gently steamed away in the warm morning sun.

  As they headed back to the tavern for breakfast they found a crowd had already formed near the performance stage.

  Not the scattered sleepy morning crowd she expected. A large animated crow talking about a prophesying cockatrice.

  "—saw him myself, iridescent blue-green scales—"

  "Scales? It was just a big rooster, mate. Fancy one, sure, but—"

  "Fell right out of the tree, drunk as a lord!"

  "Prophesied, he did. I heard him!"

  "You heard a drunk bird squawking. My uncle's magpie talks too, doesn't make it prophetic."

  "That was no magpie! Cockatrices are rare, but they're real. Read it in a bestiary once—fair, just creatures."

  "Fair? It's a bloody dragon! They petrify you with a look!"

  "That's basilisks, you moldy parsnip."

  "Well I reckon anything's better than the king we've got now. When's the last time anyone even saw him?"

  "True, he never leaves his palace while we're out here starving!"

  "Aye! Find the cockatrice! Crown him king!"

  "If he can prophesy drunk, imagine what he could do sober!"

  Seren's hand drifted to Stormdrink's hilt. Her first real test - and it was against people who just wanted a better king. People who didn't realize that crowds had their own logic, their own momentum. Masaru had warned her about this.

  The crowd was growing. She counted heads, noted exits, marked who carried what could become weapons.

  Ink pressed against her leg. Alert. Tense.

  "Go get Dain," Seren muttered.

  Ink shot off to Dain’s tent.

  ***

  Ink nosed into Dain’s tent.

  “Woof!”

  Dain turned his back to her.

  She grabbed his blanket between her teeth and pulled while adding a little growl for emphasis.

  Nothing.

  One hard yank. The blanket hit the ground.

  Dain groaned and pulled the pillow over his head.

  Ink hopped onto the bed and bit the pillow and tugged gently.

  “No-” Dain moaned. “Five more minutes.”

  That did it, Ink pulled harder Dain and Ink had a brief tug-of-war before Dain gave up and let the pillow go, Ink went flying backward as Dain’s opposition stopped.

  “OK, I’m getting up!”

  She kept the pillow between her teeth. She loved biting stuff. Pillows, blankets, arms, legs—everything was better with teeth marks.

  She scrambled back and shoved her muzzle right in his face. Close enough so her whiskers tickled his face. Her favourite thing to do to Seren when she needed Seren to get up. Works like a charm. Her tail wagged furiously.

  She gave another little growl.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes! You’re worse than my mother!”

  Ink grabbed his pant on the floor and flung them to him. When he didn’t move, she grabbed his tunic that was lying on the floor and shook it at him side to side, whipping him with it repeatedly, fabric slapping his face with every shake while she was growling.

  “FINE!” Dain sat up, squinting against the daylight. “Meet you at breakfast.” She launched herself at him and grabbed his wrist and growled.

  “But I need to!”

  She let go of his hair and started barking. Sharp. Insistent.

  “OK, ok, ok! I’m getting up, don’t make so much noise.”

  Ink sat down and waited for him to get up, he huffed and got dressed.