Think, Salas, think. Where would be the best place to hide?

Salas had participated in treasure hunts before, and had, at one other time, been subjected to the role of the ‘treasure.’ At that time, fishermen and mollusc divers had spent weeks collecting oysters from the clutches of the nearby beaches—Salas had his fill of the shellfish for days. 

When the moment had come for the game to commence, Salas had been hiding, his body powdered with white ash so his skin matched the paleness of the palace surroundings, and posing languorously among the infamous Susconian statues. An incandescent trail of pearls had been placed along the cracks of the marble floors to mark a path to him. When treasure hunters had approached, Salas had uncurled, showing that he was not, as it seemed, a statue or a decorative fixture. Then, with the path traced and a winner named, the champion had been allowed to keep their newfound pearls, as well as granted the task of pulling a string of pearls from Salas’ bottom. One would think such a clandestine event would be done in private, but instead, the champion had eased the string out of Salas right there in front of the court. Delighted, the hall had been thick with jeers, encouragement, and various instructions for the unknown man who’d had one hand wrapped in the white beads, and the other on Salas’ ass.

The memory was overstimulating, drawing up a scramble of emotions that Salas wasn’t sure how to place in their abundance. It was beyond his capability to decipher such a perplexing reaction. So, when those feelings were roused, he normally simply brushed them away as he would pesky mosquitos on a humid day and carried on. No second thoughts spared. This was something he knew how to accomplish, and well.

What he did focus on was the memory of the circumstance. There had been a good amount of planning for the treasure hunt: the placement of the path of pearls, a string of them oiled and pushed inside of him. There was no meticulousness present now. At least, as far as Salas was aware. Then again, perhaps his ignorance had been a premeditated decision by a faceless game-maker who would forever and always know more than Salas; his confusion a new source of mirth for everyone, save him. 

Salas raced through the corridors on a chariot of memories that carried him down a familiar path. He moved quickly, as he worried he would not be properly hidden before he was found. He learned where his feet were taking him halfway through the journey. The garden room. No one would think to look there immediately. Plus, it was a pretty setting, with overgrown yellow elders pushing in through the windows. Residential, Jovack had said. 

Thinking of the man dimmed Salas’ excitement momentarily. The strange urgency Jovack had displayed further weighed on Salas’ mind, leaving him more than a bit irritated that there was no one to provide answers to his questions. Everyone was socializing elsewhere. All but Salas. Was this Jovack’s idea of a joke? Had he sent Salas away to tease him?

Frowning, Salas still gave the foreign statesman the benefit of the doubt and pushed into his old room. It was deathly quiet inside, carrying none of the congenial energy that came with rooms well-resided in. It had probably been over a year since Salas had placed a single foot in it. It was neat, lightly decorated, and hauntingly still.

Salas walked over to the window, spotting a vivid red against the stone. A ruby-bright snake, as thick as a thumb, was making its way across the sill, coming in from the garden.

Salas smiled seeing it, moving to pet the creature that did not react to his touch. 

“Why are you here?” Salas murmured to the garden snake. “Have you come to warn me of the poor choice in hiding-spot?”

The snake slithered out the window and vanished.

Salas went over to the bed, tracing his hands over the furniture, allowing recollections of the room to distract him from his doubts. He arranged himself carefully on the white sheets, spreading his skirt-wrap around him in a blooming flower-like fashion, attempting to look delicate and desirable for whomever would eventually stumble their way through the threshold, most likely drunk and breathless, to find him.

Minutes passed by.

Against his better judgement, Salas found himself constantly changing positions, mainly in an attempt to take weight off his rear, where the plug still dug in.

When his legs had gone numb, the sky was blackened and Salas was restless.

Since most of his other senses were useless for perception, he kept his ears trained on the faint sounds from the window. He couldn’t hear the hum of voices or lyres, but every once in a while, there was laughter thick enough to carry to him. 

He sighed, fidgeting with the rings on his fingers and hoping for the time to pass swiftly. Perhaps he should have spoken to Eldron before—

Just then, Salas heard a shrill tone that carried clearly to him from some far, distant point. A scream. Laughter, perhaps? No, a scream.

Is this another game?

Salas sat completely motionless, concentrating on the disruption. The single scream grew into multiple awful cries. Salas had never heard anything like it before. High-pitched and nearly gurgly. The people were terrified of something. Why?

Salas shot up from the bed and raced to the window. With the layout of the architecture, he could just see a bit of the palace entrance, past a corner. Through arches, there was sporadic movement as people, as small as fingernails, raced about. A light flickered as a torch was either rearranged or tipped over. From this distance, he could not make sense of the shapes of any bodily gestures, but he understood that the people’s movements were distressed. The screaming continued, scattered but growing in volume as the party became overwhelmed by whatever horrors they were enduring.

Salas noticed swollen shadows that towered over the smaller human figures. There was something there. Beings larger than the company of the party, and the obvious cause of the terror, moved about in fitful, darting motions. Even from the great distance, Salas understood the power behind those movements. Each dart ended a scream. A cry for help cut in half. 

Salas was stricken, the spirit of fear creating an icy grip on the self-government of his muscles. All he could do was stare out the window, breathing hard, the screams lessening as they were made, unnaturally, to stop. 

What was happening? Why was no one stopping the shadows? His breath came faster and faster until he was choking on it. Only when he heard the roar of the Emperor—an epic cry that had commenced battles in earlier years—ceased as though blown out by wind, did he move.

His eyes flew around the room, all thoughts of the festivities and the game forgotten. Hiding himself was his new goal. With the simple, slim furnishings, there was no place to effectively conceal. Whoever had come to the palace would be coming for Salas as well, surely. And then Salas would scream, too.

He threw himself under the bed just as he heard the pound of footsteps approach from somewhere down the hallway, leading to the garden room. He was trembling as he tucked his skirt under him, hiding it from view, as the door flew open.

Salas didn’t dare to move, not even to clamp a hand over his own mouth to tighten down his unsteady breathing. He was lying flat, though he was just daring enough to turn his head towards the entrance of the room, cringing as his hair crunched with the movement of his neck. With the thin space beneath the bed, as well as swelled vases blocking sight of the threshold, he couldn’t see the intruder.

That was, until a figure took a step further into the room.

There was only one, and it moved with heavy steps as it paced inside, almost hesitantly. Its breaths were growls in the still air, too loud and deep, crackling like low thunder. Its foot, when it came into view, was not that of a human’s. Instead, it was clawed and furred, something completely ‘other.’ As it drew further in, Salas could hear the small spark as tips of the claws met the stone-tiled floor, creating an awful, scraping sound that had his skin tightening to goose-flesh.

For a moment, given the inhumanity of the intruders, Salas believed the source of the chaos could have been from a pack of feral dogs or wolves. But the feet were too big, the intentions too careful. That, and there were only two walking limbs, not four.

The intruders were not humans or wolves. Nor were they something that could be stopped.

Salas’ mind raced with recollections of the old tales he’d been told one hundred times before until they had become just that: merely myth. The legend of the Emperor’s greatest accomplishment featured heroes and monsters not quite so different from the fairy tales he preferred, and their unreality was much the same. They certainly weren’t a genuine fear that Salas had ever thought to pay more to mind than a passing nod.

Yet today, the monsters from those tales were here and ready to destroy everything.

For the intruders, and the ones no-doubt massacring the Kingdom of Suscon, were beasts from the North: the beasts of Diagor. 

The North had come for their revenge.

The figure moved about the room slowly, its movements jerky as it seemed to be looking for something. It grunted as it worked, reacting to the far off-screams as its brethren continued to terrorize. Easily distracted, it was, eventually tipping over a vase. A careless being.

The screams were dimming, now. Salas knew what was happening, but he was not ready to breathe thought into the reality, unwilling to admit it. A single tear slid down his cheek. 

The beast was sniffing the air, disgruntled by something, and all Salas wanted to do was shut his eyes and have the thing disappear, along with its troop, and restart the entire day without its threat.

Salas’ ability to stay silent was life or death, and he held himself as though posed over fine ice, the smallest breath powerful enough to crack the crisp sheet. The beast in the room continued to move nonsensically, obviously unaware of Salas’ existence. Eventually, it left.

Salas continued to hold himself rigid. That was, until, a shriek echoed through a nearby corridor, too close, too loud, and too real. The sound of growls and metal blades ended the cry, but drew a broken sob from him, wrenched unexpectedly from the depths.

He slapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes widening, but distinctly aware that he’d made a vicious mistake.

A furious snarl echoed behind the door, and then beasts were in the room. Salas could not count how many. There were two, maybe three. From his limited vision, it was just an angry blur of dark fur.

And then pain ignited on his scalp as he was pulled, roughly, by the hair as one of the beasts dragged him out of his hiding spot.