Chapter 9: Into the Fire

Dawn crept into Briarbrush like a tired milkmaid—soft, chilly, and not entirely welcome.

The mist still clung to the thatched roofs when the clip-clop of a finely shod horse echoed across the crooked stone bridge.

The courier dismounted with the sort of practiced elegance that suggested he usually delivered invitations to balls, not summons to pest wranglers. His boots, made from some unfortunate but expensive-looking animal, gleamed like vanity itself. His cloak bore the deep cobalt of the royal post, edged with sunburst embroidery. And his nose, lifted just slightly too high, twitched as if offended by the air.

He surveyed the village with mild suspicion, then the shed beside Bram’s cottage with alarm. It leaned slightly to the left, held together by hope and a strategically placed rake.

"Bram Thistleside?" the courier asked, voice clipped like a well-trimmed hedge. "Pest-control expert and, allegedly, local hero?"

Bram, sleeves rolled and forehead smudged with dirt, was mid-glare at a particularly insolent wooden beam. He turned, squinted against the morning light, and wiped his hands on his already filthy tunic. "Allegedly," he said. "Depends who you ask. Or who’s pressing charges."

The courier didn’t blink. He reached into his satchel and withdrew a scroll sealed with sapphire-blue wax, the crest of House Aurenschild glinting at its heart—a mountain beneath a rising sun. He held it like a surgeon might offer a scalpel.

"By royal summons," the courier declared, with all the gravity of someone announcing an execution, "you are required at Plynocco Keep. Effective immediately."

From above, a green snout peeked down from the thatched roof. Croaksley, half-curled in a sunbeam, blinked lazily. "Didn’t even say please," he croaked. "No snacks, either."

The courier frowned up at the frog, clearly uncertain whether to acknowledge him or burn the village down and start over.

Bram took the scroll and broke the seal, scanning the elegant hand. His brow furrowed. Then lifted. Then furrowed again.

“Well,” he said at last, folding the parchment. “Looks like I’m going back to the castle.”

Croaksley leapt to Bram’s shoulder, sighing dramatically. “So much for our relaxing morning of shed intimidation.”

The courier turned on his heel, already mounting his horse. "Word of your expertise in these … situations … has spread throughout the kingdom. Don’t dawdle. The capital has... urgent needs."

As the horse’s hooves faded into the mist, Bram muttered, “They always do.”

Behind them, the shed gave a defiant creak. Bram glared at it one last time.

“I’ll deal with you later.”

And with that, they packed.

***

Eleanor eased onto the brocade cushions beside Lord Berend, a quiet noble with a fondness for embroidery and scandal. Nearby, a circle of courtiers laughed over spiced pears and tales of disastrous magical accidents.

Berend leaned over, voice low. "Did you hear the whispers from Greendale? Entire orchard turned to honeycomb."

"Magical mishap?" Eleanor asked.

He nodded. "They say some apprentice alchemist dropped a containment charm. But… I’ve heard three such 'accidents' in as many weeks."

Across the room, a pair of baronesses murmured beneath fluttering fans. Eleanor excused herself and made her way over, trailing casual conversation like perfume.

"Baroness Irta," she said warmly. "Is that new silk from Calvenmoor? It suits you."

Irta blushed. "Sharp eye, Your Highness. I ordered it for court—but I fear I’ll never keep up with the wizard’s entourage. Morvaene’s people dress like stormclouds ready to burst."

"Speaking of his people," Eleanor said lightly, "I heard his steward has taken an interest in the southern watchtowers. Odd for someone so steeped in theory, isn’t it?"

Baroness Irta raised an eyebrow. "Odd indeed. Especially since my cousin was replaced as tower quartermaster last week. No reason given."

Eleanor filed the detail away. Small threads. But they wove together into something larger.

Lady Lysandra caught her eye from across the hall and offered a faint, approving nod.

Eleanor smiled to herself. The sword had its place. But words—they could move mountains without lifting a hand.

***

By midday the next day, Bram was trudging up the last stretch of the hill road to Plynocco, boots caked in dust and his cloak snapping behind him like a disgruntled flag. It wasn’t exactly a heroic silhouette—more a man being heckled by his own outerwear. The sun hung high overhead, gleaming off the distant towers of the royal keep. Even from afar, the castle looked like it had opinions: proud spires of pale stone, banners flaring in the wind, and archers on the battlements who watched everything with the weary expression of men paid just barely enough to care.

As Bram and Croaksley approached the outer gate, the clang of metal was drowned by a sudden, high-pitched shriek—not of war or warning, but of horticultural distress.

A frazzled gardener sprinted past, arms flailing, chased by what appeared to be a flock of extremely aggressive, airborne puffballs. Each one was the size of a walnut, covered in green bristles and sprouting hummingbird wings. They darted and dove with the precision of a cavalry charge.

"Burrwings," Bram muttered. "Of course."

The herb garden was in chaos. Dozens of the tiny, spiteful burrwings zipped through the air, shredding leaves and pelting anyone foolish enough to approach. The mint patch had become a no-fly zone. One poor footman was pinned to the ground beneath a pile of broad squash leaves, weeping softly.

"You want me to handle that?" Bram called out, eyeing a nearby guard who was trying to shield himself with a silver serving tray.

"You're the expert," came a dry voice from behind him. The captain of the guard strolled up, unbothered but mildly exasperated. Without ceremony, he handed Bram a pair of long-handled tongs, a battered helmet dented in suspiciously plant-shaped places, and a single fireproof glove that had clearly seen better, less-flammable days.

Bram stared down at the gear. "Is this the deluxe package, or just the 'we don’t want to get near it' bundle?"

"We’d help," the captain said, not helping, "but we’re rationing tetanus salves."

Croaksley adjusted his perch on Bram’s shoulder. “At least ask if there’s hazard pay.”

“There isn’t,” the captain said.

“I feel deeply underpaid,” Bram sighed.

What followed was less a battle and more a very determined, herb-scented dance of survival. Bram used the satchel of emergency oregano as bait, swinging it in wide arcs to lure the burrwings from their nesting zone. Several darted after it, buzzing with fury. Bram dodged behind hedgerows, flung sacks of decoy dill, and narrowly avoided a rogue basil grenade someone had left behind from last week’s catering mishap.

Croaksley, from atop a statue, shouted strategic directions. "Left! No, other left! Mind the rosemary, it's territorial!"

Finally, Bram skidded to a halt by a barrel lined with old garlic wax from the kitchens, popped the lid, and shook the oregano satchel over it like a lure. The burrwings swarmed in—and Bram slammed the lid shut.

The muffled thumps and outraged squeaks inside the barrel slowly faded.

Bram leaned against the barrel, panting, covered in thorns, scratches, and what might have been thyme paste. His hair stuck out in directions that defied both gravity and fashion.

Croaksley clambered down and sniffed delicately. "You smell like a cursed salad."

Bram didn’t even argue. "Let’s just hope this is the worst of it."

From the other side of the courtyard, something exploded with a faint pop and a flash of green light.

Croaksley turned his head. "They say that heroes run towards danger."

Bram groaned and he started running towards the sound. "I’m not trying to be a hero or a leader. I’m just the pest control!"

***

Meanwhile, in the upper levels of Plynocco Keep, Eleanor moved like a whisper behind the walls. She wore a servant's cloak and carried a stack of decoy linens, which had the dual benefit of blocking her face and giving her an excuse to be anywhere.

Morvaene had not returned to his official apartment in the royal castle, but one of his cloaked attendants had. She followed the man—thin, hawk-nosed, and prone to muttering—to a disused observatory built into the tower’s spine.

***

Back in the castle’s southern courtyard, Bram faced his second infestation of the day: the laundry lines.

The royal sheets, enchanted to self-dry and fold, had developed aggressive independence. Dozens of linens were attacking passersby, flapping and twisting like fabric banshees. One guard had been trussed like a roast.

Bram glared at the largest sheet. "We can do this the easy way or the extremely wrinkled way."

The sheet slapped him.

It ended with Bram wrestling the linens into a giant trunk while Croaksley shouted motivational limericks.

"You're lucky I'm fond of castles," Bram said, breathless. "Otherwise, I’d be charging by the tantrum."

"You say that like you won’t anyway," Croaksley replied.

***

In Morvaene’s observatory, beneath a half-draped model of the heavens, Eleanor saw an ominous sign: runes scratched in haste across the floor, a sigil of binding chalked in a spiraling pattern, and a blackened brazier still smoldering with cold fire.

The attendant whispered into the air. The shadows answered.

Eleanor’s breath caught. The shapes forming behind the brazier weren’t natural. They had angles that bent wrong. They pulsed like thoughts in pain.

She stepped back. A floorboard creaked. The attendant turned—too fast, too alert.

But the hallway beyond was empty.

Eleanor didn’t stop running until she reached the old west corridor. Her pulse thundered like war drums. Whatever Morvaene was planning, it had moved from theory to practice.

She needed to warn someone.

***

Croaksley blinked slowly from Bram’s shoulder, surveying the carnage ahead. The castle’s east wing looked less like a royal hallway and more like the aftermath of a perfume merchant’s duel with a fireworks cart.

“We’re officially past quirky,” the frog murmured.

The air shimmered with heat and the acrid tang of scorched silk. The scent of expensive perfumes clung to the air like guilt at a garden party. Half-charred linens still fluttered from shattered curtain rods. Servants crouched behind overturned tea carts and smashed settees, whispering prayers or cursing quietly into their aprons.

Furniture twitched. Not metaphorically. An ottoman skittered sideways with a hiss. A mirror angled itself suspiciously.

Bram adjusted his goggles and pulled the fireproof glove tighter over his hand. “Let’s get to work.”

Then the floor cracked.

It began with a single tremor, like a heavy sigh from below. The marble groaned, split, and buckled inwards as a jagged fissure yawned open. From the dark seam surged a shape—tall, ragged, and wrong. It moved like smoke pinned into form. A griffon, roughly. But its wings were frayed tapestries, its claws black lace wrapped tight over bone-shaped shadow. Its beak gaped in a voiceless scream, and when sound finally came, it was less a roar and more a prolonged, miserable complaint—like a ghost airing its grievances.

“Croaksley!” Bram shouted, backpedaling.

“Already regretting everything!” the frog cried, leaping clear.

The creature lunged.

Bram rolled aside, grabbed a jar from his belt, and hurled it with all the enthusiasm of a man who’d once taken alchemy as an elective. The glass shattered midair, releasing a burst of phosphor dust in a crackling blue-white flare.

The creature shrieked, recoiling, wings twitching and shedding flakes of soot.

Servants screamed. A mirror exploded in protest. The very air buckled, as if reality had hiccuped.

“Contain it!” Bram shouted.

“I’m a frog, not a wizard!”

Improvisation followed. Croaksley kicked over a serving tray and began flinging silver forks like sacred javelins. Bram snagged a half-melted ladle and drew a crude binding circle in spilled perfume. With one hand, he brandished a blessed mister borrowed from the chapel and with the other, he spun his spider-silk net high into the air.

He lunged—net first—snaring the creature at its smoldering core.

The shadow-griffon let out one final wail, a sound like poetry being boiled, then collapsed in on itself, dissolving into a smoking heap of ash and the faint scent of old gossip.

Bram slumped against a toppled armoire, catching his breath.

“That wasn’t laundry,” he muttered.

Croaksley, standing atop a singed cushion, nodded grimly. “No. That was a warning that we’re in the wrong line of work.”

***

That evening, a quiet knock came at Bram’s borrowed quarters. A servant stood outside, pale and nervous, holding a letter.

No seal. No name. Just a folded piece of parchment.

Bram read it once. Then again. Then turned it upside down, just in case.

The handwriting was delicate but swift, inked in a firm, confident hand:

The spiral turns beneath us. The doors are opening. We must close them. Meet me in the west courtyard. Tomorrow, after breakfast. Come alone.

—E.

Bram folded the letter carefully, tucking it into his coat.

Croaksley raised an eyebrow. "Trouble?"

Bram’s expression tightened. "The useful kind."

No seal. No name. Just a folded piece of parchment.

Outside the window, the moon climbed over the tower, casting long shadows across the courtyard.

Whatever Morvaene was planning, it was no longer in the distance. It was here.