"Are you... waiting for your cat to wake up?"

  "Yes."

  "Cat?"

  "Correct, cat."

  "Waiting for it to wake?"

  "Indeed."

  After several exchanges, Eileen finally deciphered Adam's disjointed words. Her discreet glance around revealed no feline presence. What could a knight possibly mean by waiting for a sleeping cat?

  "Is this coded speech?" Eileen maintained a diplomatic smile, leaning slightly toward her adjutant Abros.

  "In northern slang," Abros pondered, "'cat' metaphorizes infidelity. But his current usage confounds me."

  "Is he implying our Salted Haven visit involves immoral deeds?"

  "Possibly, though... far-fetched."

  As Horsal urged his warhorse forward, Eileen raised a restraining hand.

  Tilting her chin with practiced grace, she addressed Adam: "Sir Knight, urgent matters require passage. Would you kindly clear the road? You may await your cat roadside."

  "Clear?" Adam's sidelong glance swept the eight-meter-wide avenue. Dusk had emptied the stalls, leaving both sides utterly deserted.

  "Objections?"

  "No objections." Adam's tone wavered. "The road's width suffices. Why demand my movement?"

  "Such insolence—" Horsal's hand flew to his sword hilt, again checked by Eileen.

  "Then we'll pass around you." Guiding her steed forward, Eileen watched soldiers part ranks.

  At closest proximity, her peripheral vision captured Adam's motionless trance—as though their entire retinue were spectral. Knights, squires, and servants flowed past the statue-like figure.

  Only after the procession's tail had passed did Eileen glance back.

  "Merely an eccentric," Abros exhaled.

  "Proceed."

  As the company advanced toward the castle, Adam remained rooted at the crossroads, his armor absorbing twilight's crimson hues.

  Time dripped through the hourglass.

  The sun plunged below the horizon, stars embroidering the firmament.

  City streets lay abandoned—a corpulent tabby yawned on a balcony, while the black cat snored within Adam's breastplate. Stray dogs brawled over offal in an alley mouth.

  Adam remained petrified at the crossroads, his armored silhouette cutting the moonlit cobblestones.

  "Oh? Night's embrace?"

  The black cat's voice triggered Adam's sudden collapse, metallic plates clattering like shattered porcelain.

  "You finally stir! What now?"

  "What now..." The feline's mumbled words slurred with drowsiness.

  "Our agenda! Pledge to a liege, chapel visits!"

  "At this ungodly hour? Lords sleep."

  "Do lords require sleep?"

  "All mortals do—save liches."

  "Fine. What do knights—ah, I mean knights—do sleepless nights?"

  "Must you seek occupation?"

  "You claimed anonymity here! My inaugural knightly night demands engagement!"

  "Taverns. Knights guzzle ale there."

  "Splendid! To the tavern!"

  Adam spurred his skeletal steed through deserted lanes, enthusiasm undimmed.

  "Why must humans waste hours sleeping?"

  "Ask your necromantic creators."

  "My point being—convert them all to undead. Eternal wakefulness! Boundless lifespan! Would they not praise me?"

  "They'd flay you alive."

  "Why?"

  The black cat didn't want to speak anymore, didn't want to say anything at all. It felt more exhausted than if it had been tending to children.

  ……

  Starlit night embraced the torch-illumined castle.

  Rows of guards clutching halberds patrolled ceaselessly.

  Fire basins crackled, their flames licking roughly hewn stone walls where mortar lines glared stark.

  Copper candelabras cast wavering light upon crimson carpets and gossamer drapes. The meticulously arranged chamber held a long table bearing modest dishes and a colossal white loaf—a celestial contrast to last night's inn.

  Eileen sat solitary in evening finery. A serving maid presented broth with bowed reverence.

  "Will Uncle Caspar not sup with me?" Eileen's voice cut the silence, eyes fixed on untouched porcelain.

  "Urgent affairs detain His Lordship," replied the rodent-faced steward in black robes.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Oh? When might he receive me? Dawn's first light?"

  "This humble servant cannot presume to know."

  Pause.

  "Dismissed."

  The steward's obsequious bow preceded his exit.

  "You too." Eileen's gaze shifted to the broth-bearer.

  Hórsal's menacing glare accompanied his "after you" gesture.

  The maid's trembling curtsy preceded her ladle's transfer to a knight. As she retreated, the steward's lingering gaze at the threshold spoke volumes before he vanished with his charge.

  Hórsal's gauntlet slammed the oaken portal shut.

  Five armored figures remained: Eileen, Hórsal, Abros, and three sworn blades.

  "Caspar's urgency proves feigned," Abros murmured.

  "Snare?" Hórsal growled.

  "Likely."

  Eileen's lips thinned. "His neutrality dooms us. We strike tonight."

  "Should he refuse dawn audience—"

  "—we storm before matins."

  Five armored fists clanged against breastplates. "By your will!"

  ……

  As Eileen struggled helplessly in the castle, Adam, our lich knight, arrived at a tavern separated from the fortress by only a moat and two streets.

  The tavern buzzed with lively music from accordions, flutes, and drums under dim red firelight. The bartender worked with a polite smile, shirtless men drank heartily from their mugs, courtesans flirted in patrons’ laps, and vendors gambled wildly in corners. A bard sang crude songs in one corner, sprinkling in vulgar jokes that made the crowd roar with laughter.

  The small tavern was packed with all sorts of people, loud and chaotic.

  Adam stared in disbelief. Despite being 150 years old, he’d never witnessed such a scene.

  “Why do they all look so happy?”

  “They’re drunk.”

  “Drunk? From that water they’re drinking? Some kind of potion?”

  “That’s alcohol. It’s common in the human world. You really have no basic knowledge.”

  “Is ignorance unusual for me? So they come here just to drink this?” Adam casually picked up a mug from a nearby table, examined it, then put it back. The act drew sharp glares.

  This lich clearly lacked any sense of subtlety.

  “Maybe… perhaps… possibly.”

  “What should I do now?”

  “Find a seat.”

  Adam copied others and sat at an empty table. The bartender across the counter raised an eyebrow.

  “Then what?”

  “Order ale and a fish.”

  “Why a fish?”

  “Because I want to eat!”

  “Gods… Must I teach you everything? See that bartender in black? Raise your hand and say, ‘One ale, one fish.’ Hurry up—I’m starving!”

  Adam obediently raised his hand. “One ale, one fish.”

  The bartender nodded silently and turned to prepare the fish.

  Adam sat rigidly, observing the revelry with vacant curiosity. Though untouched by alcohol's sway, the crowd's mirth inexplicably lifted his non-existent spirits.

  Gradually, he noticed patrons stealing glances his way—furtive stares masked as accidental eye contact.

  The ale and fish arrived.

  "Toss the fish inside! Into the armor! Now!"

  "Oh." Seizing a moment of inattention, Adam tilted his helmet, shielding the visor's opening with his gauntlet as he dumped the entire fish into his breastplate. The black cat commenced feasting.

  Their disjointed conversation unfolded:

  "These harmonics please me. Unfamiliar."

  "Music, you dolt. Never heard melodies?"

  "Depths lacked such. That scarlet-clad female's purpose?"

  "Dancing. No terpsichorean arts underground?"

  "None."

  "Query: does lichdom satisfy? Eternal existence sans music, banquets, carnal delights... What meaning sustains you?"

  "Brutus claims our purpose: pursuing arcane truths."

  "Ha! Does 'truth' sate hunger?"

  "Theoretically... no."

  Across the tavern, a red-haired youth in studded leathers rose, clutching a wooden tankard. His ale-slurred steps carried him toward Adam's table.

  His leather-clad companions—burly men adorned with blades—observed from a distance.

  "Greetings. I'm Parth of the Red Scorpions. May I occupy this space?" Parth inquired.

  "Per...haps permissible," Adam stammered.

  "Permissible?" Grinning, Parth slammed his tankard down, boots thudding onto the table as he reclined. "Stranger in strange lands, eh? Your purpose here?"

  "I am knight." Adam's metallic timbre echoed.

  "Evident from your panoply. Yet no heraldry? Visor sealed sans sigil?" Parth's smirk widened.

  The black cat infiltrated Adam's helm, peering through visor slits. "Minimize discourse. Risk exposure," it hissed before retreating to gnaw fishbones.

  Adam's ocular lenses remained fixed on Parth, silent as a gargoyle.

  "Does my visage offend, Sir Knight?"

  "Designation? Title?"

  "You've not sipped ale. Devoured a fish whole—bones included?"

  "Local brew disagrees?"

  "Truth be told—" Parth leaned forward, ale-damp sleeves staining the table "—a knight errant sans crest might suit our needs. The Scorpions require a vanguard. Compensation commensurate with... particular talents."

  His monologue hung unanswered. Adam's stillness amplified tavern clamor.

  "Damnation." Parth deposited a silver coin. "Ale's on me. Seek us at 48 Ram Street... should madness interest you."

  "Touched in the head, that one," he muttered, vanishing into the throng.

  Only after Parth left did the black cat creep into Adam's helmet. "Why absolute silence?"

  "You instructed minimal speech."

  "Minimal, not mute! Are my words so cryptic?"

  "Shall I address him now?"

  "Too late. Would breed suspicion. But heed his counsel—income precedes securing a liege. Frankly, no lord would oathbound a lich."

  "Income?"

  "Currency. That silver coin he left covers your meal. Your coffers lie emptier than a beggar's grave."

  Adam lifted the tarnished coin, firelight revealing its fingernail-sized form: tarnished silver imprinted with a blurred monarch's visage.

  "This... purchases necessities?"

  "Indeed. Surface-dwellers trade thus. While you shun sustenance, feline labor demands compensation. Mercenary work suits your... peculiarities. No origin queries, though perils may..."

  "Acquiring 'income' suffices?"

  "Unless alternatives exist—"

  Before the cat finished, Adam rose with metallic clangor, striding toward the gambling den.

  "Madness!"

  "A swifter revenue stream."

  He slammed the coin onto dice-stained oak. Gamblers' eyes narrowed like unsheathed blades.

  ……

  Meanwhile, upon the hill where Adam once planned his fortress, twin opalescent glows materialized.

  The fading radiance revealed celestial beings: alabaster wings spanning three meters, metallic hair cascading like liquid mercury, statuesque flesh glittering with stardust, armor surpassing mortal craftsmanship. Their eyes bore twin pupils beneath golden halos—a male and female angel.

  The male glanced at the crumbled fortress ruins. "A lich journeys south."

  "Shall we report this?"

  "A fledgling corpse-mage. We will eradicate it."

  His form dissolved into light particles. The female angel scanned the surroundings before similarly vanishing, leaving only drifting feathers in the night breeze.