The bonfire jumped and blazed brighter causing Padric’s eyes to pulse in pain. The goblins squealed with rapture, but Padric could not hear them over the growing roar of the fire. It licked higher into the night sky, red flames towering over a core of white heat. Padric squinted, but would not turn away, for a terrible truth lay within the flames. It was not wood that fueled it, no logs, nor limbs, nor kindling. The life of the fire was unnatural and impossible, for at its core sat a figure. It moved, uncurled itself and stood, stepping from the infernal cradle. It was a goblin, naked and hunched, his sagging flesh unmarred by soot or burn. Filthy tangled locks of hair dripped from his scalp, hanging almost to the ground, covering him like a foul cloak. He spoke, his voice a mushy croak.

“Smoke,” he said slowly, the smile on his face growing from a sour grin to a wet, toothy display of pleasure. “And Fire.”

“SMOKE!” the goblins screamed, “AND FIRE!”

E IGHT

EIGHT

The feather inched across the stone floor but the hunter remained still, green eyes held wide, watching. Only the tail moved; swishes of anticipation behind furry haunches bunched up and ready to pounce. Napper darted, but Pocket was ready and jerked on the string at the last moment, sending the feather flying across the floor. Seeing his prey escape, Napper redoubled his efforts and made a mad dash, but the feather reached the tower wall first and Pocket reeled it up. Napper was forced to check his speed before colliding with the stonework and performed the awkward yet agile sideways bounce that is known only to cats. Pocket sat on the first landing of the tower stairs and looked down at the expectant face of his best friend, full of whiskers and wide-eyed wonder. He lowered the string back down and laughed aloud as Napper tried to stand on his hind feet to swat at the feather with his front paws.

It felt good to laugh.

The castle and all within it had been infected with a depressing solemnity since the tourney. The Roost was not the most cheerful place in the brightest of summers, but the past few days had caused it to feel less a fortress and more a tomb. The servants had never been pleasant to him, but he would often catch them smiling and jesting with one another when they did not know he was around, but of late every face was grim. They passed each other without a word or a nod, going about their chores in silence, ignoring the presence of their fellow servants as they had once ignored him. It had been a lonely way to live. Pocket missed it.