Leaving the crossroads—now adorned with a statue of a griffin mid-strike, destined soon enough to become a shrine to Cluckthulhu, Breaker of Beaks.

  Two horses carried four riders as fast as they could toward the cave—a place Mary apparently knew.

  “Do you think he knows?” Narro whispered from the back of the saddle, arms around his wife.

  “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Mary replied. “So either he doesn’t… or you overreacted his reaction.”

  Narro thought about that. “He doesn’t know,” he decided.

  Because if Reralt ever learned Mary was a gorgon—Medusa, to be precise—he’d probably make it his holy mission to mount her head on the castle wall. Right between the moose antlers and the thing nobody talked about.

  Narro also wondered what Reralt would make of him—the husband of such evil. Or Syril . He knew Reralt saw him as a friend… but the man lived on the razor’s edge of borderline frenzy. Any bad news could tilt him into a story the world would not forget.

  Still, Narro reasoned, better to control the timing of that tilt than let it be a surprise.

  “So you can plan to run away?” Mary had asked him once.

  “Well, yes. Of course.” He had answered.

  A plan formed: slowly, carefully, he would ease Reralt toward the truth. First “special powers, used for good” then “odd hair,” then—years later, maybe—“gorgon.” The word Medusa was never to be spoken. Narro nodded to himself. Brilliant.

  “Drive closer to Reralt,” he whispered to Mary. She glanced back, kissed him—stone-cold, as she always was after using her powers—and obeyed.

  “So… have you thanked Mary yet?” Narro asked, smug.

  Reralt looked at Mary. “Thank you,” he said. Then back at Narro. “Uh… for what?”

  “Shouldnt you ask that first?” Narro’s entire plan collapsed like bad parchment and filed itself in the bin of unsolicited writing advice.

  “Nah, they’re usually right,” Reralt shrugged.

  The Void distracted them with a twitch of its tail. Reralt hastily agreed with the cat, changed sides, and rode beside Mary.

  Mary frowned. A question mark crawled up her brow.

  “Ask Narro,” Reralt said.

  Mary turned her head. Narro sat stiff in the saddle, clinging to her like a terrified child.

  Mary looked down the road. Nothing unusual: trees lined both sides, not too dense, sunlight pouring through in generous patches. She sniffed. It smelled like forest. It sounded like forest.

  Except for the goose.

  It waddled in the center of the path, nibbling moss from the roadside.

  She glanced at the two men clinging to their saddles, pale as parchment.

  “Am I missing something here?”

  The goose raised its head. Its eyes glimmered with malice, its neck stretched unnaturally long. For a moment, it looked less like a bird and more like something that had stepped out of a villain’s dream.

  It hissed—sharp, serpentine—then took two deliberate steps toward them.

  Narro’s muscles locked. He wrapped himself even tighter around Mary, as though she were the only thing standing between him and eternal damnation.

  Mary sighed, leaned down, and nudged the goose aside with the tip of her boot.

  “Look. The cave,” she said brightly, as if nothing had happened.

  ***

  Ahead, half-hidden in the hillside, yawned a dark opening. A cart stood abandoned in front of it, wheels sunken into the earth.

  They continued, constantly looking backward, were the goose followed confused at a safe distance.

  the Cave mount slowly looked bigger. the cave looked like it went deep underground.

  Torches lit both sides.

  Narro and Reralt dismounted in perfect unison—making absolutely sure the goose would have to go through Mary first.

  Mary threw her hands in the air. “It’s a goose!” she snapped.

  “Let’s just go find Syril,” Narro muttered, his voice climbing into a nervous squeak. Reralt nodded far too quickly.

  “Hold.” Mary raised a hand in the universal stop-being-stupid gesture. “Either of you actually read the Prophecy?”

  Reralt nodded proudly.

  “And remembered it?” Mary’s voice was turning sharp, her patience thinning faster than Syril’s bedtime tolerance.

  “Of course,” Reralt said. “The important parts. About Reralt.”

  Narro barked a laugh. “What did you expect?”

  ***

  The goose stared at them through beady eyes, vision shimmering like a heat map. Two warm, juicy men stood before her, practically glowing with promise. Her beak watered. Cluckthulhu would feed today.

  Only one obstacle blocked her—the little void-cat, an infuriating snack-thief. Perhaps this time she would not listen to reason.

  Then her gaze slid sideways. Something else stood nearby. Cold. Heatless. Like stone. The boulder. The one that had dared push her aside. that thing was not visible with her heat vision.

  ***

  “It’s taking position again,” Narro hissed, elbowing Reralt, who immediately began to sweat.

  “Without Miss Hacky we don’t stand a chance,” Reralt stammered, already backing toward the cave.

  “Mary, do something! It’s going to attack!” Narro’s voice cracked, wobbling into full panic, disturbingly close to that of a teenage girl in pigtails.

  Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Will you—”

  The goose charged.

  ***

  Cluckthulhu made up her mind. She was hungry.

  BigBird hadn’t shown up for their rendezvous hunt. The griffin was never late. That pissed her off.

  Then she’d been shoved aside by what could only be described as a invisible sentient boulder. Also insulting.

  Lastly, there was the feeling. This was what she was born to do.

  With a mighty honk, she scraped the mud with her left paddle—once, twice. Like a bull testing the arena floor.

  Then she charged.

  Her beak lifted proudly, her throat full of fury, chanting her battle cry again and again:

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  “Honk!”

  The cries of fear and agony only spurred her on. She honked louder, ran faster, hungrier.

  Her targeting vision locked: three points glowing hot, one straight, glorious honking charge away. Dinner was served.

  And then—

  The boulder grabbed her by the neck.

  She squawked, flapped, and before she could even honk a protest, the stone thing hurled her clean out of the cave.

  She landed in the dirt, feathers puffed, beak-first, dignity somewhere still airborne.

  For a full minute she stood there, neck bent, eyes narrowing, trying to process the situation.

  What. The. Honk.

  ***

  “Can we go now?” Mary snapped, grabbing the wild goose by the neck and flinging it out of the cave.

  The men just stared, mouths hanging open.

  “I’m going with the Medusa,” Reralt declared, and ran after her.

  “Yeah, good call, she—” Narro froze mid-sentence, slapped back into reality. “Wait. You know?”

  “I know everything,” Reralt boasted. “Too much hair for a basilisk.” He winked.

  ***

  “So let me get this straight,” Reralt said for the third time, voice thick with boredom. “I find a Hat. Then I find the gods.”

  “Correct,” Mary said tightly.

  “Which I’m not going to do. Gods are annoying.”

  “Why?” Narro asked — and instantly regretted it under Mary’s glare.

  “Because then it’ll all be about them again,” Reralt huffed. “Gods. Dieties. Worship. No freedom left to worship whoever you want.”

  Narro nodded, surprised at the rare coherence.

  “They want to worship Reralt,” Reralt added, flexing proudly in the dark.

  “Figures,” Narro muttered.

  “Good figure,” Reralt grinned, striking another pose just for him.

  “Forgetting the part where the godchild—our Syril—is thrown into the Well of All, from which only a god can pull her out,” Mary said menacingly, jabbing Reralt in the chest with her finger.

  “And to add to that,” Narro said loudly enough for both to hear, “the balance states the five lost gods have… counterparts.”

  “Don’t get me started.” Mary shook her head. “Stupid rules.”

  The group fell silent.

  “So I am five gods” Reralt nodded. That sounded about right..

  The others fell silent again this time stupefied.

  Somewhere in the darkness, a faraway honk echoed through the cave.

  Narro and Reralt quickened their pace.

  ***

  The Well lay deep within the cave. At Narro’s request, there was no sign to mark that this was:

  The center of the realm.

  “Equally dumb,this way” Narro muttered.

  “What?” Mary asked—then froze.

  Ahead, Devin stood, holding Syril. The baby was wrapped tight in a straightjacket, wriggling furiously.

  “The fiend!” Reralt roared, charging forward.

  “Reralt!” Mary shouted after him. “Try to keep Syril’s jacket intact!”

  “Agreed,” Narro said quickly. “Heavily agreed.”

  ***

  Devin saw Reralt coming. He had thought about this moment a thousand times. He held Syril high above the Well.

  “No!” Mary squeaked.

  Narro bolted forward. He knew Reralt better than anyone — far better than Devin, who had been chamberlain for thirty-four long years.

  Reralt’s eyes burned red. His mouth fumed. He was a storm on legs.

  “If you come any closer I’ll drop the child,” Devin began, “and then you’ll have to—”

  He realized his error too late.

  Reralt did not think.

  Bonk.

  Reralt slammed headfirst into Devin, launching the man clean across the chamber.

  Syril slipped from his grasp.

  “Nooo!” Narro leapt. He knew he wouldn’t make it, but he hurled himself anyway, arms outstretched.

  Reralt staggered, shaking off the impact, blinking his way back from blind fury.

  “Reralt!” Mary screamed. Her hair writhed into snakes, her body twisting, scaled, otherworldly. “Catch Syril!”

  Reralt’s reflexes — catlike, or so he always claimed — kicked in.

  He fumbled for the straps of her tiny straightjacket. There were four.

  He caught the first — but it slipped through his fingers.

  The second — solid grip! Then snap — the leather tore.

  The third — yes! He had it!

  The fourth — both hands clamped down, triumphant.

  “Reralt to the rescue!” he boasted, already half-posing over the Well.

  Then he looked.

  The jacket dangled empty in his hands.

  Below, Syril’s little nose bobbed in the dark water. One last bubble rose, fat and trembling.

  It popped.

  The chamber fell silent.

  Even the goose didn’t dare…

  ***

  Reralt stared at the jacket.

  Disbelief got the better of him. Without thinking, he thrusted both arms deep into the well.

  It began to bubble. First one large bubble. Then another. Soon dozens, all bursting to release a strange green smoke.

  The smoke coiled upward, thick and acrid, replacing the smell of “cave” with something far worse: the stink of burned hair and flesh cooking.

  “Ahhhhhh!” Reralt screamed as pain ripped through him. His arms blistered, skin hissing, but he didn’t move. Didn’t even think of moving.

  Syril had only been in there for seconds. He should still be able to reach her.

  “It is my fault,” he sobbed — a silver-haired gorilla hunched over the pit, eyes red, tears streaming. Green blisters bubbled across his nose, his face melting under the fumes.

  Reralt was crying.

  Narro stepped forward, ready to plunge his hands into the black, oily well beside Reralt’s.

  One second before he touched it—Mary’s boot slammed into his chest.

  The dropkick sent him sprawling. He hit the ground, dragging Reralt with him.

  Reralt gasped, staring at his arms. Most of the skin was gone. Bare muscles twitched in the open air. Not a drop of blood.

  “God-beings only,” Mary hissed. “You’d die instantly.”

  She glanced at Narro. Blew him a kiss.

  “Find the Hat!” she hesitated,

  “I’ll be back” she added.

  And with that, she dove into the well.

  Leaving behind a crumpled Reralt, a dazed Narro, and one very unconscious Devin.

  ***

  It took time before they caught their breath.

  Reralt slumped against the well wall, arms flayed and useless. No tears now. Just silence. Un-Reralt silence.

  Narro checked on Devin. The old man groaned back to life.

  “You idiot!” Devin shouted at Reralt. “Why did you bull-rush me?!”

  Reralt said nothing.

  “That poor girl…” Devin muttered, shaking his head.

  “Mary dove after her,” Narro replied. “She’s a gorgon.”

  Devin put his hands on his face, relieved he did not kill the little girl.

  Then looked at Reralt shook his old head.

  “So you did it yourself, in the end you did it yourself.” he said. standing tall again. with a priest voice.

  “Now you have to fulfill your destiny, Reralt. Find the Hat. Save your godchild.”

  Reralt didn’t look, didn’t flinch, didn’t say a word.

  He just sat there with half dried tears on his cheek.

  ***

  Quiet as a mouse. Silent as a cat.

  Cluckthulhu crept into the cave.

  Her prey was still here. The stoned adversary, invisible to her senses, did not seem to be there. But food—food was coming.

  For maximum effect, she scouted the cavern. Two steps left. Three forward. Perfect.

  She took a deep breath.

  “HONK!”

  Narro froze. Devin scrambled to flee.

  And then—

  “AAHHHH!”

  Reralt launched himself at the goose. Silver hair flying, eyes blazing, he tackled Cluckthulhu head-on and slammed her into the wall.

  By the neck he hauled her close, screaming into her confused beak:

  “Not now! I have to find the Hat!”

  The goose blinked. She hadn’t expected this.

  “Come on, Narro.” Reralt’s new-found agency pushed him toward the exit.

  They left.

  Behind them, Cluckthulhu and Devin stared at one another, equally baffled.

  “Honk,” she finally offered.

  Devin nodded. It summed things up.

  “What. The. Honk.”

  ***

  A rhyme to keep children in bed.

  Sit you round, O girls and boys, in a circle neat and small.

  Sit back to back, eyes outward set — Cluckthulhu hunts you all.

  Her wattle firm, her beak so strong, with teeth too many to recall.

  Her beady eyes will find you fast, before you even know.

  Run for your life, her wrath is great, her nibbling is your woe.

  Hear her honk, that dreadful sound — straight into your soul it goes.

  Cluckthulhu stalked the open fields where farmers reaped their grain.

  She honked once loud, and when she left, no farmers did remain.

  For hunger and for honking both, she feasts on flesh and pain.

  She roams the realm in search of prey, to find a foe most bold.

  No hero yet has struck her down, though many tales are told.

  Even mighty Reralt failed — and Narro’s song grew cold.