“Sorry to disturb,” Deglan muttered at the dog. Panic simply lay her head back down. He turned and left the room, though with no roof it hardly qualified. He used the doorway, though there were half a dozen other holes in the three remaining walls just as large. Coltrane stood at the edge of the ruins, his back to Deglan, looking off at Castle Gaunt. Over a mile in the distance, the great fortress was nothing but a jagged black hole in the purple-hued curtain of stars.

“Might be better if you didn’t look at it,” Deglan told the Forge Born. “I don’t fancy trying to stop you if you start marching that way.”

“Over eight centuries,” Coltrane tolled, “since last I was there.”

A bad taste filled Deglan’s mouth. “Home sweet home.”

“You mock me,” Coltrane replied in a voice devoid of pride.

“Your kind was always a mockery,” Deglan returned, enjoying the barb far more than was warranted.

“They were as they were made,” Curdle stated, stepping out of the darkness.

He came to stand beside Deglan. The hobgoblin looked out across the black expanse of fields towards the object of the Forge Born’s temptation.

“Such a dreadful, impressive sight,” he said with quiet regret.

“The exact qualities I wanted for my tombstone,” Deglan said dryly.

Curdle hummed a laugh, then reached into his robe, producing a small flask. He pulled the cork free and offered it to Deglan.

“Root whiskey?” Deglan said after sniffing the contents.

“The best in Toad Holm,” Curdle said wistfully.

Deglan took a pull, enjoying the smooth heat spreading down his throat and into his chest. He passed the flask back with a nod of gratitude, not trusting his voice. Curdle took a sip, looking down at the flask and nodding appreciably as he swallowed.

Deglan cleared his throat. “What was the occasion?”

Curdle shrugged. “Might be the only funeral we get.”

Deglan nodded darkly, glancing around at the sprawl of depressing ruins surrounding them.

All that was left of the Kings’ Stables.