They looked around the cellar. It was very dark—as cellars tend to be.

  Narro got up slowly, muttering, “Why is it always rose bushes? Never soft, springy moss.”

  By the time he finished his complaint, Reralt had already lit two torches. With heroic enthusiasm, obviously.

  The room was mostly empty—stone walls, a dirt floor, a small staircase leading outside. In the far left corner: a hallway. At the end of the hallway: another staircase, winding upward into the tower.

  “I wonder who built this tower,” Narro mused, eyeing the smooth stonework. The masonry was too perfect, too seamless—he’d never seen its like.

  “Probably grew here,” Reralt replied with suspicion, staring down the hallway like it owed him money.

  “Grew?” Narro was afraid to ask, but he was slowly learning to filter actual helpful Reralt-thoughts from the nonsense. The process, however, remained mind-bogglingly painful.

  “Yes.” Reralt tossed a torch down the hallway.

  It was immediately greeted with a soft fzzzt. Darts.

  Traps.

  “Wizard towers aren’t built,” Reralt explained. “They’re grown. The wizard puts a brick in the ground and, after a long while, a tower sprouts.”

  He looked over his shoulder at Narro, who was still trying to file this into any usable part of his brain.

  He nodded slowly. Very slowly.

  ***

  A sound came from the stairs.

  It began like the screech of a sparrow who’d eaten the wrong kind of caterpillar—and quickly got louder.

  “AAAAAAAHHHH!!!”

  With a reflex that could only be described as miraculous—and a level of luck Narro would never, ever write songs about—Reralt caught the black-clad, mid-air ninja gnome by the neck.

  “Surrender, tall people!” the gnome squeaked. “Your doom is at hand!”

  Both Narro and Reralt burst out laughing.

  Gnomum, dangling like an angry sock puppet, hated them even more. A feat previously thought mathematically impossible.

  Reralt glanced down the trap-littered hallway.

  Then at the gnome in his hand.

  And then—

  A miracle.

  He had an idea.

  And not even a bad one—Gnomum’s opinion not considered, of course.

  ***

  “This is a disgrace to all of Gnomedom!” Gnomum squeaked.

  The two tallmen had tied her to the end of a long stick and were now tapping their way down the hallway, inch by cautious inch—using her as a living trap detector.

  “This is excellent,” Narro muttered.

  He really should’ve known better by now. Complimenting Reralt only ever improved the number of ideas, never the quality.

  “Gnome on a stick,” Reralt declared proudly.

  Click.

  Another volley of pebble-sized doom smacked into Gnomum from every angle.

  She sounded like an angry tambourine full of chipmunks.

  Gnomes were tough creatures. Almost impervious to poison—mostly by tradition—and their beards functioned as a kind of natural chainmail.

  She’d live.

  Unfortunately, her opinion of tallfolk was not improving.

  Not even slightly.

  “I will get you for this!” Gnomum yelled.

  “You can only kill us once,” Reralt replied, genuinely puzzled. “So do these few traps really matter that much?”

  Gnomum went quiet. She had never thought of it that way.

  “Well... I could use an even deadlier poison,” she said, quite pleased with her own cleverness.

  “To kill us even harder?” Reralt offered, nodding at the brilliance of it.

  Click.

  A large trapdoor opened just before the stairs leading up. Gnomum dangled half-in, legs kicking wildly.

  Then came the sound.

  A high-pitched, furious shriek:

  “Screw yooooouuuu!”

  The stick snapped. She vanished into the hole.

  A moment later: splash.

  Like someone had dropped a rock into a river. Or a gnome into a minor sewer.

  “Thank you for the trap-seeking!” Reralt called after her, ever the gentleman.

  They might have heard a string of vulgarities echoing back.

  But then again—could’ve been the wind.

  ***

  They entered the first level of the tower.

  Reralt burst in first, sword drawn, chest puffed, and voice full of righteous thunder.

  “Be afraid, evil! Be very afraid!”

  Narro, distracted, didn’t look up from his notes.

  Reralt froze, stepped back outside, gently closed the door—

  —then kicked it open again with a heroic flourish.

  This time, Narro nodded solemnly and made scribbling motions.

  It was just a stairway. Leading up.

  Completely coated in dense strands of white, silk-like substance.

  The kind that shimmered slightly when you looked at it wrong.

  Reralt eyed the stairs with great reluctance.

  “No, you cannot get a piggyback ride,” Narro said flatly, before the question was even voiced.

  Reralt frowned. He didn’t like stairs.

  Something about saving his knees for heroic acts.

  Also—lazy.

  While climbing the stairs, Narro heard a voice.

  Soft. Distant.

  It drifted into his mind like mist under a door.

  “What a lovely daughter you have,” it said.

  Warm at first. Almost friendly.

  “Your wife is such a sweetheart.”

  “Well… thank you,” Narro thought back, cautiously polite.

  “Shame she has to live in this world,” the voice murmured—just a bit sharper now. A bit closer.

  “Wouldn’t it be nice if she could live somewhere free of danger?”

  Narro frowned. It was strange.

  But he couldn’t really disagree.

  “Perhaps you can help,” it continued.

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  “You could help make it safer for them.”

  “Of course,” Narro thought.

  The words came slowly, like sinking into a cursed pillow—cozy, but wrong.

  And with that—

  he let the voice in.

  “Then get a sword,” the voice whispered.

  “A beer-brewing beast is nearby with questionable herbs.”

  Narro blinked. The voice was no longer whispering.

  “You can kill it. Make it safer.”

  It wasn’t just a suggestion anymore.

  It was the only thought in his head.

  He nodded, eyes distant.

  “Kill the beast,” he whispered.

  ***

  They stepped into the top chamber.

  It was quiet.

  Soft light spilled in through a tall arched window.

  And in front of it sat a young woman in a rocking chair, white hair flowing behind her—so long it trailed through the door, down the entire staircase.

  Reralt nodded approvingly.

  Then glanced at Narro.

  “The shampooing on this one,” he muttered, impressed.

  “Must take an entire castle of serving wenches.”

  Narro didn’t respond.

  “Kill the baboon. Quickly,” the voice commanded.

  Narro agreed eagerly, as if the urge had always been there—just buried.

  He raised his lute—gripped in both hands—ready to swing.

  Reralt frowned.

  “Narro… not now.”

  Too late. Narro charged.

  Reralt sighed.

  And punched him.

  One clean strike.

  Narro dropped instantly, landing face-first in the woman’s hair—soft and plush like a cloud made of spider silk.

  Beats a rose bush, was his final thought before the concussion pulled him under.

  ***

  “Would you like to be a hero?”

  The voice crept softly into Reralt’s mind.

  “De doo doo doo,” Reralt thought cheerfully. “Gonna make pancakes later, I think.”

  “What? No. A real hero. Killing great evil?”

  “With blueberries,” Reralt thought. “Narro can find some blueberries probably. Always wastes them in that yuck-gurt.”

  “Hellooo?”

  “Wow, look at the freak with the hair.”

  Out loud, Reralt muttered, “The shampooing on this one… must take an entire castle of serving wenches.”

  No response from Narro.

  “Strange,” Reralt thought. “That was an excellent joke.”

  He watched Narro raise his lute like a club.

  “Well it wasn’t that bad,” he added. “Bit of an overreaction.”

  Then, with a shrug:

  “Narro…not now”

  “A sparring lesson it is. Strange timing… but okay.”

  ***

  The woman eyed Reralt with a strange, unreadable look.

  She said nothing.

  “Hello? Freak woman?” Reralt said, gesturing broadly. “Reralt is here to save you.”

  Her eyes widened. Panic flickered across her face. She looked around—searching for escape.

  No hope.

  Meow?

  Reralt’s head snapped toward the sound.

  He drew his sword, ready to slay this new demon.

  To protect the helpless, awe-struck woman behind him.

  Meow?

  There—entangled in the ocean of white hair—sat a tiny kitten.

  Black as the deepest night. Stuck.

  “Kill it now,” the voice whispered, suddenly panicked. “Do not cut the hair—”

  “Don’t worry, little void,” Reralt said softly, raising his sword. “I’ll get you out.”

  With two—maybe three—large, enthusiastic slashes, Reralt hacked the hair in front of the kitten.

  Then behind it.

  The kitten was free.

  He lifted it gently.

  It looked up at him with one red eye, one pitch-black.

  Then purred. Softly.

  And pressed its tiny head against Reralt’s cheekbones.

  “Yes,” Reralt nodded. “Marvelous, aren’t they?”

  Then—

  A shriek.

  Behind him, the woman aged in an instant.

  Her skin withered. Her posture twisted. Her eyes blazed with anger. With malice.

  She raised a hand toward him, fingers curled like claws.

  “Ha! Evil! I knew it,” Reralt said, still speaking to the kitten.

  Meow, it answered.

  Reralt would later swear—swear—it said it very appealingly, while politely raising one paw toward the woman.

  He kicked her.

  She flew backwards out of the tower window, trailing hair like torn silk behind her.

  Reralt turned, scooped up Narro with his free arm, and marched out of the tower.

  “I will call you... The Void,” he declared to the kitten.

  “You are the blackest, darkest one I’ve ever laid eyes upon.”

  ***

  Narro woke to the smell of pancakes.

  Reralt was cooking them over a small fire, humming off-key and tossing in a generous handful of blueberries.

  “Hey—my blueberries,” Narro groaned, rubbing his head.

  Another bruise.

  If this kept up, Mary wouldn’t recognize him by the end of the week.

  “You said it was okay,” Reralt replied cheerfully.

  Narro wasn’t sure if he actually said it or if Reralt believed he said it.

  Functionally, it made no difference.

  He’d be eating yogurt without fruit tomorrow.

  Next to the tower, an ancient mummified woman lay crumpled like discarded parchment.

  “What… happened?” Narro asked slowly.

  Reralt pointed at the notebook beside him.

  “Don’t worry, my friend—I made notes.”

  He offered a very proud thumbs-up.

  “Pancake?”

  Meow came a soft sound from behind him.

  Narro leapt to his feet.

  “Reralt, what is that evil thing?” he shouted, pointing at the shadowy swirl of movement.

  “Cute, isn’t it?” Reralt beamed. “I call it The Void.”

  The small black kitten sat licking its paw.

  Moments ago, it had devoured a beetle that wandered too close.

  “It’s mimicking my ferocious nature,” Reralt added proudly.

  “Looks evil,” Narro muttered.

  He wasn’t confused—just resigned.

  He knew he had no say in the matter.

  “Not evil. Just very black,” Reralt said, mouth full of pancake.

  “Don’t be pigment-prejudiced. It has feelings”

  Narro sighed.

  He took a pancake.

  He petted The Void.

  “…It is very soft,” he admitted.

  ***

  The Ballad of the Void That Meows

  (as performed by Narro and Reralt with vocal accompaniment by The Void)

  We climbed a tower made of hair,

  A witch was waiting in her lair.

  She smiled too wide, too smooth, too fair—

  Meow.

  A voice crept in, it twisted deep,

  It whispered promises I’d keep.

  Then softly stirred the thoughts I sleep—

  Meow.

  Reralt, immune through brains of stone,

  Declared the beast was not alone.

  He freed the fluff with righteous tone—

  Meow.

  The kitten stared with mismatched eyes,

  One spoke in truths, the other lies.

  It claimed my soul with zero guise—

  Meow.

  The witch turned old and tried to flee,

  He kicked her through the balcony.

  The kitten watched with quiet glee—

  Meow.

  It purred upon his oiled-up face,

  Declared itself the heir to grace.

  Then hunted bugs with lethal pace—

  Meow.

  “I’ll name you Void,” our hero said,

  “Dark as my foes, and twice as dread.”

  It licked his nose and raised its head—

  Meow.

  Now Narro pets it every day,

  And tries to keep his fears at bay.

  It sleeps atop his face to say—

  Meow.

  A creature whose silence echoes louder than swords.

  Respects no plan.