Chapter 2: "Is It Still Murder If They're Ducks in Robes?"
We need to talk about duck royalty.
Not ducks who act like royalty.
Not people who resemble ducks.
No—these are actual ducks. In robes. With tiny crowns.
And they're currently debating whether or not I've committed an international war crime by drawing a sword from a stump without submitting a "Relic Relocation Form." In triplicate.
> "The Council of Feathers finds the accused suspiciously... soggy," says the Head Duck Judge, whose name I later learn is Lord Quackthazar the Third.
I'm kneeling in a courtroom shaped like a pond. Arcanos is at my side, utterly unhelpful, humming the "Law & Order" theme in my head.
> "They're ducks, Arcanos," I hiss. "Ducks."
> "Yes, and unlike you, they passed the bar. Probably laid it themselves."
I would protest harder, but every time I speak, one of the duck guards honks and waves a feathered spear at me.
This is fine. Everything's fine. Just another day in a magical hellscape.
---
Flashback to 20 minutes earlier:
After pulling Arcanos from the stump and getting falsely worshipped by a man who fainted mid-prophecy, I made the grave mistake of walking toward a nearby village. I figured someone could help. Maybe give me food. Or pants.
Instead, the ground opened up. A spiral of enchanted feathers whirled around me. A teleportation sigil activated under my feet.
> "This is highly irregular," Arcanos muttered. "Even I don't know duck-law teleportation magic. This might be extradimensional poultry sorcery."
I didn't respond. I was too busy screaming.
---
Flash forward to present:
> "Do you deny you are the Chosen Bladebearer of the Old World?!" Quackthazar quacks.
> "I DENY UNDERSTANDING ANY OF THOSE WORDS."
Arcanos sighs. "We're gonna need a lawyer. Or at least a wizard with loose morals and flexible definitions of the word 'legal.'"
Cue a flash of light and a puff of glitter.
A wizard appears in the middle of the courtroom, his beard caught in his belt and hat clearly stolen from a costume store.
> "BEHOLD! I am Zorbin the Ever-Spinning, Master of Slight Confusion and Questionable Ethics!"
> "Oh gods," I mutter. "We are so screwed."
Then the back doors slam open.
In waddles Trebor, the sentient tree, wearing fake glasses and dragging a briefcase made of bark.
> "I object to this entire proceeding on grounds of existential plant trauma!" he groans.
> "You're not even my lawyer!" I yell.
> "I am now. I forged a license while you were unconscious."
The ducks begin quacking in legalese. Zorbin is juggling scrolls and accidentally lights one on fire. Trebor is attempting to cross-examine a fern.
Everything is spiraling.
> "I demand a recess!" I shout.
> "Denied!" Quackthazar slams his gavel, which is actually just a rock with googly eyes glued on.
I look at Arcanos.
> "Okay. Enough. You know what?" I stand up slowly. "I've had it. With the squirrels. With the sword sass. With the teleportation feathers. AND. WITH. THESE. DAMN. DUCKS."
A deadly silence falls.
> "You wouldn't dare," whispers one of the duck clerks.
> "Oh, I would," I growl. "Roast duck is now on the menu."
Trebor gasps. Zorbin begins slow clapping.
Arcanos hums the opening chords to a battle anthem.
> "Finally," he mutters. "A proper declaration of war."
Chaos explodes as duck guards leap into action, spells start flying, and somewhere in the distance, Barkthar the Squirrel squeaks, "He lives!"
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End of Chapter 2 (feathers incoming).