Prince Durn sat on the raised cushion behind a folding desk littered with papers written in the ugly gnomish tongue; he hated the language. It lacked seven of the ogre letters and was generally unusable. Durn had no idea how it had become the common language of Litone. His tent was dim and smoky, even with the flaps raised to let in fresh air; his desk was of troll make, and it didn’t have proper space for his lower two arms. All and all, it put him in a foul mood. What put him in an even fouler mood, however, was the Elf that sat across from him, his silver skin reflecting the smoky candlelight and his short hair exposing his long-pointed ears; he sat on his shins, without any signs of discomfort.

  The worst part of the Elf’s visit, however, was the infant he held in his arms. The girl—the Orc—had been a curse on the noble Ogre race since they had destroyed her unsparing kingdom and his far too many greats to mention grandfather and killed her ((WITCH)) of a mother. Gawain should’ve thrown her into the fire the moment that she was born.

  He had been flirting with death long before he died or, perhaps, he was trying to make Death pay an exorbitant dowry. That didn’t matter now, as Durn was well on his way to the kingship. No sane ogre would truly believe that the reincarnated whelp in the elf’s arms had any true claim to the throne. Once Durn took Filadonta, he would be welcomed home with open arms and a crown on his brow.

  Aren Eithidien and archaic traditions were the only things standing in his way. What had Gawain been thinking? Had the blood loss driven him mad? Declaring an elf regent. Annoyingly, said Elf was currently speaking to him, and had the right to do so.

  “Where was the rest of the army exactly, Durn?” Aren asked.

  “Ah. Well.” Durn began, “The horses were struggling in the mud, the wagons stalled, our pace was significantly slower than anticipated, the princess’s contingent was on foot, and one thing led to another…”

  Aren fixed him with an icy look that Alison copied expertly. “I see, and how was it that none of the front runners noticed a dungeon directly in the center of the only viable path through the Inth?”

  “Well.” Durn said again, wringing his hands, “We haven’t been able to send out as many scouts since the rains made the terrain dangerous to travel alone… It might’ve broken the surface since then… and well, superstition.”

  Aren stared at him pensively. Internally, Durn was seething. Every. Infernal. The thrice-cursed elf he’d met had been like this—self-righteous, calculating, and indifferent. Perhaps if they were drunk, they would be less of a pain to be around. Durn didn’t notice that Aren was sweating so heavily that his silver skin glittered in the candlelight.

  Durn forced out a good-natured chuckle. “Ah, well, of course you would not be aware, my good sir. Once my people won a great battle in the valley, razing a sinful city filled with fortunetellers and soothsayers, I suppose it would be like what… what was it, Solenmore? Solmoor? Yes, Solmoor, I think, would be to the Elves. Of course, the Ogre kind would not stand for such an offense against The One and the ((SYSTEM)) to stand, so survivors were hunted down and dealt with.”

  Aren’s eyes flickered between two indecipherable emotions as Alice let out a soft cry of protest. “And the superstition?”

  “Well, supposedly the Queen, or whatever they called her, I don’t think it was Queen, of this city was a ((WITCH))-“

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Alice interrupted Durn by crying. Aren shifted her to his other arm and gently shushed her. She fussed for a moment before quieting back down. Durn cleared his throat.

  “As I was saying this… Queen was powerful enough to inflict a species-wide ((CURSE)) on the ogre people.” Durn said

  Aren couldn’t hide his expression of shock. “Pardon me?”

  “Yes, I know.” Durn said, “They say that she made a bargain with the Second or the Fey.”

  Alice fussed, and Aren comforted her.

  “It's not a complicated ((CURSE)); an Orcish child is born to an Ogre family at the moment of death as the previous one. It alternates, male and female; all the males are named Theodore, and the females are named Alison. Some hold beliefs that passing through the valley will bring the curse upon their bloodline, and since neither child has survived past the age of ten…”

  Aren’s jaw clenched ever so slightly. “I see, and how would this cause the princess to be left completely undefended except for two beastkin and myself, forced to face off against a probable ((CATACOMB)), half-starved and desperate for a kill?”

  “Ah well…” Durn said once again, a cruel smile that he failed to hide on his lips. “It appears that the majority of the soldiers assigned to the royal contingent decided that trespassing on that specific ruin with one of the ((CURSE)) children in hand would be a very bad idea indeed and have fled.”

  …It appears.” Aren said after a moment. “That I agree with them.”

  “You… do?” Durn said, subtly tapping the fingers on this third hand against his leg.

  “Yes, the valley is completely unfit for the transportation of a large force. Vegetation is thick there; there was evidence of flash floods, and that isn’t even mentioning the dungeon.” Aren said,

  “The Dungeon isn’t a threat.” Durn promised. “We can dispatch a few soldiers with some dungeon experience and have them take it out.”

  “I doubt that.” Aren said, but Durn ignored him and continued on.

  “Besides, to avoid the valley would be to go on a much more indirect path; it would extend travel time by a week or more, and we don’t have enough food to spare, and a week longer could lose us the siege we are supposed to be reinforcing.” Durn said,

  “The Dwarves could hole up under Filadonta for a century, Durn.” Aren said,

  Internally, Durn was fuming that the Elf dared to address him so familiarly, but outwardly he forced a smile. “There is only so much air to breathe in a cave.”

  “The Dwarves have dungeons as well; they can refresh the air.” Aren said, “None of that will matter if our forces are crippled by a dungeon.”

  “Dungeons don’t attack armies, Eithidien.” Durn laughed.

  Aren frowned, but then his voice hardened. “It felt strange; when I was inside it, it felt like I was a child caught sneaking into a place I wasn’t supposed to be. It's mind felt wrong. I’ve been having strange dreams about fire and glowing lights. The army should not provoke whatever that thing pretending to be a dungeon is.”

  “I cannot in good conscience allow the war to be jeopardized because you had a bad feeling, Aren.” Durn said with mock compassion,

  “I may have dropped my ((READER)) class, but I still have its ((SKILLS)). Durn, something is wrong about that place. It felt too old.” Aren said,

  “I’m afraid there is nothing I can do,” Durn said. “You could tell the army that you want them to possibly starve on the way to Filadonta to avoid a newborn dungeon yourself, but I fear for my head if I was to do such a thing—you know, even royalty doesn’t appear safe these days.”

  Aren clenched his jaw, and Alice tugged on his sleeve; he looked down at her. “Very well. I must take my leave.” He said so before standing up and sweeping his way out of the tent.

  Durn growled once he was sure that Aren couldn’t hear him. He blew out the candles in front of him and stood up slowly, his joints creaking in a way that they shouldn’t for his age. He closed the flaps of the tent and groaned before laying down on cot, letting his legs and arms finally uncramp. His two left arms fell over the side of the bed. After a moment, he felt something wrap around the wrist of his upper arm.

  The ogre stiffened before he realized what it was. He pushed himself back up and lifted his arm to eye level. A wooden cobra made of glossy oak was wrapped around his arm. It was small, barely a foot in length, and it was carved like a children’s toy, with joints in the tail so that it could slither in an ‘’ S’-like pattern. It had two jade eyes that stared at him as its jointed mouth hung open.

  “I do not like the sound of another dungeon, princeling.” The cobra said,

  “Barely an infant, I had the valley scouted out two weeks ago; it can’t be older than that.” Durn said,

  “I do not like this.” The cobra hissed, its mouth flapping open and closed in a mockery of words as its carved tongue stayed absolutely still. “My liege does not like this.”

  “It isn’t anything to worry about,” Durn said. “Aren was just trying to delay the army, probably to curry favor with the RNL.”

  “Kill them.” The cobra said, “If it is nothing to worry about, then kill them.”

  “I was already planning on it, m’lord.” Durn said,

  “You’re worthless at planning, Durn.” The cobra said, “But as long as you keep your end of the bargain, you will be a worthless king as well.”

  The snake went inert, and Durn sighed in relief; the ((SPEAKER)) must’ve moved his consciousness to another cobra. He wasn’t sure how many of them there were in total, even just in his camp, but it was a small price to pay for the blessing of Exchange.