Father Tilden stood at the podium, every face in the room fixed on him.

  And he knew it.

  The man’s charisma and madness blended so perfectly it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Most of the people here were terrified — I could see it in their stiff shoulders and clenched hands — but his outrageous display was doing exactly what he intended.

  It was comforting them.

  Grandpa Prosic had told me many stories about him. Father Tilden might look like an elderly priest, but in that armor, not a single person in that room doubted him.

  I noticed Jupiter inching away, trying to give Father Tilden space to command the room.

  But Bruno had other ideas.

  He reached out and pulled the young lieutenant to the front for everyone to see. I smiled as Jupiter tensed, clearly unsure what to do. Bruno slung an arm around his shoulders and leaned over his head like a bird peering through a window.

  The movement was so ridiculous I heard scattered giggles.

  “We have the youngest lieutenant in the history of the Red Post with us!” Bruno boomed.

  Jupiter straightened instantly, putting on a brave face.

  “He’s aspiring to be a paladin,” Bruno continued, “and with his youth and my expertise, we will hopefully vanquish that beast once and for all!”

  He slapped Jupiter’s pauldron so hard a metallic clang rang through the chamber.

  “NOW!” Bruno shouted, grinning widely. “This is what I want all you marks to do tonight.”

  He paused for dramatic effect.

  “I want you to eat. And then go to bed.”

  A few uneasy laughs drifted through the room.

  “We have rooms galore down the hall,” he said, gesturing. “Arrangements for those who want to stay together, those who want to stay alone. Or you can stay out here and, you know…” He let the phrase hang in the air far too long. “…hang out.”

  That earned a ripple of awkward chuckles.

  “But,” he added, suddenly firm, “I request you stay here. You may not leave this residence until I, or Lieutenant Nouns, opens those doors. Simple as that!”

  Without warning, he grabbed Jupiter by the collar and started dragging him toward the doors we’d entered through. Jupiter stumbled along, trying to keep his footing.

  It was so absurd my eyes widened. It looked like something out of one of those silly illustrated papers.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “I assure you,” Bruno called over his shoulder, “you will all be safe!”

  He pushed Jupiter through the doorway and turned back to shut the doors.

  “All will be fine,” he said, leaning his head around the edge of the closing doors.

  “Everything will be totally fine!”

  SLAM.

  The doors shut.

  The room fell silent.

  People glanced at one another, unsure whether to laugh or panic.

  Then the doors cracked open again, just enough for Father Tilden’s head to pop back in. He scanned the room carefully, eyes darting, as if checking we were all still there.

  Then he slammed them shut again.

  A lock latched from the other side.

  For a long moment, no one spoke.

  Then, slowly, conversations resumed. People drifted toward the banquet tables, filling plates. Others began making their way down the corridor toward the rooms.

  I was about to speak to Grandpa Prosic, but he was already deep in conversation with someone else.

  The man looked to be in his twenties. He wore chain armor, which felt strangely out of place compared to everyone else here. His facial hair wasn’t well kept, but there was a hardness to him — a life already lived on rough roads. A pendant hung around his neck: the mark of a paladin.

  Grandpa Prosic had one too, though he usually kept his hidden beneath his clothes.

  This man wore his proudly. His back was straight, his posture alert. His eyes swept the room often, always watching.

  Beside him, seated by the brazier, was another man — a Thu’nul.

  I had only met a few Thu’nul in my life. Half-fiends, half-human… though I had been told other combinations existed. His skin was a deep red, his eyes gold like polished coins. His horns curved back at a slight angle, growing just behind his ears.

  He was dressed far too well for the occasion.

  Multiple rings adorned his fingers. His jerkin was clearly custom-made, cut to show more skin than necessary, and his leather trousers looked almost intentionally too tight. He was very handsome.

  And he knew it.

  A cheeky smile rested on his face as he tapped his finger to the soft music drifting from one of the rooms down the hall. He looked like a man searching for amusement in a place that offered none.

  I tried a few times to catch Grandpa Prosic’s attention, but the paladin was deeply interested in the city’s lore — Prosic’s favorite subject.

  So I looked around the room instead.

  Only two others remained nearby.

  One was a dragonkin, towering over the food table — at least eight feet tall. People used different names for his kind: dragonkin, dragonborn, progeny of dragons. Many of them stayed in this humanoid form for centuries before ascending to their true draconic shape, and some considered it insulting to be called anything lesser.

  He was one of the Great Blacks.

  Onyx scales covered him from head to talon. A black cloak draped over his shoulders, almost identical in color to his scales. He kept piling food onto his plate and devouring it instantly, as if he had an endless stomach.

  He caught me staring. His jaws were full of food, but he still managed a friendly wave before returning to his meal — and to eavesdropping on Prosic’s conversation.

  The last person stood near the edge of the room.

  A Red Postman — or at least, I thought he had once been.

  He was older, maybe a little older than my father. His mustache was unkempt, his face shadowed with stubble he had forgotten to shave. His uniform was worn and tattered, and the “RP” embroidery had been ripped away.

  He looked tired. Or worried.

  Maybe both.

  He remained standing, as if unsure whether it would be rude to sit near the brazier.

  Then I saw him rub his hand.

  And I saw it.

  The Mark of Tar’Tesh.

  Just like mine.

  My eyes flew to the others.

  The dragonkin had one. The Thu’nul had one. The paladin. Even Grandpa Prosic.

  They all bore the mark.

  Tears filled my eyes as the truth settled in.

  I was scared. I was away from my parents. I was surrounded by strangers.

  And I felt completely alone.

  A small whimper slipped from my lips as I clutched my Dream Squirrel tighter.

  It wasn’t Grandpa Prosic who noticed.

  It was the Thu’nul.

  “Are you alright, little one?” he asked softly