The gelding, bless its equine heart, seemed to understand the urgency. It surged forward, its hooves echoing on the packed earth of the stable yard. Nolan, perched precariously on its back, let out a yelp that was less fear and more a surprised grunt as the horse picked up speed. Bartholomew, surprisingly agile for a creature of such sedentary habits, clung to my saddle horn, his tail twitching like an irritated conductor’s baton.

  “Faster, human!” Bartholomew commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the leather. “The hounds of inconvenience are surely baying at our heels!”

  “Tell me about it, Bart,” I muttered, urging Steve the Wonder Pony into a gallop. The cool night air whipped my hair around my face, carrying the mingled scents of horse, straw, and the distant, ominous aroma of the city’s less savory districts. Nolan, clinging to the horse’s mane like a shipwrecked sailor to driftwood, shot me a panicked glance.

  “Are we… are we going the right way?” he stammered, his voice thin and reedy.

  “North, Nolan,” I called back over the rhythmic thudding of hooves. “Towards the north gate. Kaelen said the inn was northeast of the city. We get through the gate, we’re out of Aethelgard proper, and hopefully, we’re putting enough distance between us and… well, us and the source of your proximity-based ailment.”

  My sarcasm was, I admitted, a little mean. But Nolan’s sudden, albeit temporary, clarity had been a godsend. His entire existence had been reduced to a series of annoying pop-up notifications and irritating status effects. It was a programmer’s nightmare, and honestly, it was pretty metal.

  As we galloped through the deserted streets, the city’s defenses began to stir. Torches flared to life along the ramparts, casting leaping shadows. We heard the distant clang of armor and the sharp bark of a guard’s command.

  “Oh, great,” Nolan moaned, hunching over the horse’s neck. “I think we just triggered a ‘Wanted Level’ increase.”

  “Nonsense,” I retorted, though a prickle of unease traced its way down my spine. “We’re just… exercising. Very vigorously. In the middle of the street.”Bartholomew let out a disgusted snort.

  “Your attempts at plausible deniability are as flimsy as a cobweb in a hurricane, Paige.”

  The north gate loomed ahead, a massive wooden maw framed by stone towers. A handful of guards, their armor glinting in the torchlight, were beginning to draw the heavy portcullis.

  “Faster!” I urged Steve, who responded with a burst of speed. Nolan yelped again. It was a symphony of panicked equine and human noises.

  We reached the gate just as the last few inches of the portcullis were being lowered. The guards looked at us, their faces a mixture of surprise and suspicion.

  “Halt!” one of them commanded, raising a spear. “Who goes there?”

  “Just trying to catch a late-night ride!” I yelled, pulling Steve to a skidding halt. Nolan bobbed precariously behind me, his face pale. Bartholomew remained stoically perched, his gray fur ruffled by our hasty departure.

  The guard squinted at us. “You’re a peculiar sight. Especially you, Master. You look like you’ve wrestled a greased goblin and lost.”

  Nolan, his breath coming in ragged gasps, managed a weak nod.

  “It… it was a rough night.”

  “And your feline companion,” the guard continued, his gaze falling on Bartholomew, “he doesn’t look like he’s enjoying the… ambiance.”

  “He’s all about the ambiance, officer,” I said smoothly, my eyes flicking to the rapidly closing gap beneath the portcullis. “And frankly, we’re all about getting out before the city locks down for the night. Urgent inn business, you know.”

  The guard hesitated, clearly debating whether we were worth the hassle. Then, with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like an admission of defeat, he gave an order. “Let them pass. But make it quick. The gate’s closing.”

  With a groan of wood and metal, the portcullis halted its descent, leaving just enough space for us to squeeze through. I didn’t need a second invitation. I nudged Steve forward, and we galloped out into the open country.

  Behind us, the heavy thud of the portcullis slamming shut resonated through the night. We were out. We were free. And, more importantly, we were moving away from… Mr. Fluffkins.

  As we cleared the immediate vicinity of the city walls, I felt it. A subtle shift. The tightness in my chest, the phantom itch that had been bothering me since we left the tavern, began to recede. Nolan, who had been hunched over his horse, sat up a little straighter. His breathing, though still a bit shaky, smoothed out noticeably.

  “Whoa,” he breathed, a flicker of wonder in his eyes. “It’s actually working. The signal strength is definitely decreasing.”Bartholomew let out a purr that sounded remarkably like a smug chuckle.

  “As I predicted. The influence wanes with distance. A most satisfactory outcome, considering the circumstances.”

  I grinned, a genuine, unforced grin that felt foreign after the tense hours we’d endured. “You didn’t predict shit. It did work, though, and that’s enough.”

  We continued to ride north, the path ahead illuminated by a sliver of moon and the distant, wavering glow of Kaelen’s indicated inn. The air felt cleaner, the world less oppressive. Nolan, though still looking like he’d gone ten rounds with a particularly aggressive motherboard, was visibly relaxing. He even managed a tentative pat on the gelding’s neck.

  “So,” he said, his voice more steady now. “The inn. What’s the plan there?”

  “The plan,” I said, picturing Kaelen’s grim expression and the whispered rumors of the Shadow Lord’s growing power, “is to get some rest, figure out where we’re supposed to go next, and hopefully find a way to reverse the ‘curse’ on this whole world. And maybe, just maybe, get you a potion of antihistamine.”Nolan coughed, a dry, raspy sound.

  “That would be… optimal.”Bartholomew adjusted his position on the saddle.

  “Indeed. And once we are suitably ensconced, perhaps we can discuss the rather pressing matter of this feline’s dietary requirements. This journey has been taxing, and my reserves are depleted. A certain level of comfort and sustenance is now imperative.”

  I rolled my eyes, but a smile played on my lips. It was a ridiculous situation. A programmer, a sarcastic millennial, and a self-important talking cat, fleeing a medieval city. But the task ahead didn’t feel entirely insurmountable. We had a direction, a plan, and a growing distance between us and the very real, very fluffy threat to Nolan’s sinuses. And that, in my book, was a solid start. The quest log in my vision updated again, the objective stark and clear:

  [Objective Complete:] [Reach the Crooked Oak Inn.][New Objective] [Survive.]

  That didn’t seem particularly comforting, but there was nothing to it but to do it.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “The Crooked Oak Inn it is,” I said, giving Steve a gentle nudge. “Let’s go get our medieval Airbnb.”

  The crooked oak that gave the inn its name was a gnarled, ancient thing, its branches twisted into a permanent state of supplication towards the moon. A single lantern swung from its thickest limb, casting dancing shadows that made the whole structure seem to breathe. The inn itself was a ramshackle affair of timber and plaster, its windows glowing with a warm, buttery light that promised ale and a soft place to land. It was the most beautiful thing I’d seen all day.

  “Home sweet hovel,” I murmured, swinging my leg over Steve’s back and landing with a soft thud. My knees protested, but the relief of being on solid ground was immense.

  Nolan practically fell off his gelding, his landing less a dismount and more a controlled collapse. He leaned against the horse for a moment, breathing heavily. Bartholomew, with far more grace, simply leaped from the saddle to the ground, landing silently.

  “Sustenance first,” the cat declared, tail held high as he trotted towards the heavy oak door. “Diplomacy and lodgings can wait for a sated stomach.”

  The common room was a chaotic symphony of life. The air was thick with the smells of woodsmoke, roasting meat, stale beer, and damp wool. A bard in the corner half-heartedly plucked at a lute, his song lost beneath the din of a dozen conversations. Rough-looking men with beards that could hide badgers nursed mugs of ale, while a few women, likely staff, bustled between tables. It was a perfect slice of medieval fantasy life, and for the first time, it felt less like a threat and more like a refuge.

  A portly innkeeper with a magnificent, sweat-stained mustache eyed us from behind the bar.

  “Two rooms?” he grunted as I approached, his gaze flicking from my worn leather armor to Nolan’s… everything.

  “Two beds. Just one room, a hot meal for two, and,” I gestured to Bartholomew, who was now sitting primly on the bar, staring the innkeeper down, “whatever you have for a discerning feline palate. A bowl of cream, perhaps? Some fish?”The innkeeper blinked at the cat, then at me.

  “Cat wants cream?”

  “My good man,” Bartholomew intoned, his voice cutting through the nearby chatter. “It is not a matter of what I want. It is a matter of what I require to maintain my regal disposition and oversee the well-being of these two hapless mortals. The fate of the world may very well rest upon a saucer of your finest dairy.”

  The innkeeper stared, his mouth slightly agape. He looked at Nolan, who just shrugged weakly. Finally, he let out a great sigh that ruffled his mustache. “Fine. Cat gets cream. Rooms are two silver a night. Meal’s another fifty coppers. Pay up front.”

  I slid the coins across the worn wood, and soon we were settled at a corner table, a massive wooden trencher piled high with roasted chicken, root vegetables, and hunks of dark bread between us. Bartholomew had his saucer of cream and was lapping at it with a delicate precision that was at odds with the room’s general lack of it. Nolan, bless his heart, was inhaling a chicken leg like he hadn’t eaten in a week, which, to be fair, was close to the truth.

  The tension of the past day began to melt away with the warmth of the fire and the ale. The [Survive] objective still hovered in the corner of my vision, a nagging reminder of our precarity, but for now, it felt distant.

  When the food was gone and our bellies were full, a comfortable quiet settled over us. Nolan, looking more human than he had since I’d met him, wiped grease from his chin. He reached into a pocket of his strange, multi-pocketed traveler’s coat and pulled out a small, rectangular box.

  “What’s that?” I asked, leaning forward.

  He slid the contents onto the table. A deck of cards. A standard, blue-backed Bicycle deck, looking ridiculously out of place on the rough-hewn wood. It was a tangible piece of home, a relic from the world we’d left behind.

  “Thought it might be… good for morale,” he said, shuffling them with a surprising dexterity. “Know how to play Five Card Draw?”I grinned.

  “Are you kidding? My Uncle Frank thought poker was the fifth food group.”

  And so we played. We used copper pieces for chips, and the game became a slow, gentle interrogation. Between hands, I learned that Nolan had been a backend developer for a soulless data-mining corporation in Portland. He’d lived alone, his only real companions the online avatars of his gaming guild. He talked about his life not with regret, but with a kind of detached analysis, as if it belonged to someone else.

  “It wasn’t a bad life,” he said, studying his cards. He looked less sweaty and greasy in the firelight, his features softer. “It was just… static. Every day was the same code, the same takeout, the same empty apartment. I bet three coppers.”

  “I’ll see your three,” I said, tossing my coins into the small pile. “So this is better? Fleeing for your life, catastrophic allergies, the looming threat of an evil overlord?”He actually chuckled, a low, rumbling sound.

  “It’s… more dynamic. There are variables I can’t control. It’s terrifying. But it’s not static.” He looked at me over his cards, his eyes surprisingly clear. “What about you? You said something about a communications degree?”

  “Yep. Graduated right into a thrilling career of writing clickbait headlines for a lifestyle blog. ‘Ten Ways to Know Your Houseplant Hates You.’ ‘This One Weird Trick Will Revitalize Your Sock Drawer.’ I was changing the world, one pointless article at a time.”

  “A noble endeavor,” Bartholomew commented dryly from his spot on the bench, where he was curled into a perfect, fluffy circle. “The fundamental organization of hosiery is the bedrock of any civilized society.”

  I ignored him, focusing on Nolan.

  “I got bored with that six months in and quit. Been doing odd jobs ever since. Dancing from one bad life decision to another.” I shrugged and adjusted the cards in my hand. “The point is, I get it. The static. I felt like I was stuck waiting. I just didn’t think I was waiting for this.”

  We played another round in silence. Nolan wasn’t a great poker player; his bluffs were as transparent as glass. But he was trying, and something was endearing about it. He was a problem-solver dropped into a world where the problems had names like ‘Shadow Lord’ and tried to kill you with swords instead of syntax errors.

  As he dealt the final hand, I decided it was time. The inn was quieter now, the bard having given up and gone to bed. The fire had burned down to glowing embers. The moment felt right, insulated from the rest of the world.

  Instead of picking up my cards, I reached into the pouch at my belt. My fingers closed around the folded piece of parchment depicting the Firebrand Cult’s sigil.

  “Nolan,” I said, my voice softer than before. He looked up, his hand hovering over his cards.

  I unfolded the parchment and laid it on the table between us, right next to the pile of coppers. The drawing was stark under the flickering lamplight. It was a stylized flame, sharp and angular, almost like a piece of tribal art designed by a graphic artist. It looked like a logo you’d see on a craft beer or an edgy tech startup. Kaelen had called them the Firebrands.

  Nolan froze.

  It wasn’t a dramatic, theatrical freeze. It was a subtle cessation of all movement. His hand stopped, his breath hitched. The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin pasty and blotchy. He wasn’t looking at me; his eyes were glued to the drawing on the parchment, his expression a frantic, horrified mess of recognition.

  “A barmaid found this a while back and gave it to us, shortly after a bunch of cultists tried to unalive us,” I said, keeping my tone even, conversational. “She said that the patron who dropped it spoke oddly and was accompanied by a talking cat, just like Bart. He was passing through on his way to the capital.” I leaned forward slightly, my eyes never leaving his. The friendly, awkward nerd from Portland was gone, replaced by a cornered animal.

  “It’s a cool logo. Very memorable. Good branding.” I tapped a finger on the parchment. “Is it yours, Nolan?”