The massive bed in the master chambers of Witherbloom Manor had never experienced such disrespect as it had under its newest owner. Not only did she have piles of trinkets scattered across it, but the sizeable six-eyed mongrel was allowed to lounge upon it with its vanishing and reappearing eyes! The bed was crafted from the finest moon-blessed lumber, featuring a mattress woven from moonlight and spider silk and a pillow infused with whispers of the past and the alluring scents of primordial amber and night bloom!

  The wolf shed an incredible amount, too! White and gray Warp Wolf fur clung to the luxurious blankets wherever Dahlia’s piles of trinkets didn’t prevent accumulation.

  If all that weren’t bad enough, the wretched new lord of Vesperis Morghaine ate sugar in bed! Sugar! The tiny crystals got everywhere. Perhaps Lapis Noctis deserved much more sympathy when her owner had drugged her to a beach for a decade or two of quaint beach slumber. Sand and sugar were much alike when allowed to rustle between immaculate sheets, and both got everywhere!

  The next time there was a gathering of the Six Beds of Immense Luxury, the other five would be sure to gasp in outrage and horror when Somniare Thornveil recounted the tales of the horrors it had endured in the few short days since Aelwyth Morghaine fell and Vesperis Morghaine rose in its place.

  Dahlia thumped the bed with a tiny hand.

  “Stop squirming! I’m trying to read, you know!” Dahlia scolded the bed.

  “Arrrrf!” Should I bite it? Mr. Disapoofer asked, eager to help.

  “If you two don’t let me focus on reading, I won’t be responsible for what happens,” Dahlia warned the wolf and the bed. Her all-to-even pronunciation and false cheery tone generated blissful silence.

  The potent magics within the Volume of Ruling Presence filled the air with spectral anomalies, while the book was taller than Dahlia, thicker than her, and much more expansive than she was. While the pages were light, they were bigger than her, and it wasn't enjoyable to flip them manually. A small manifestation of Magic Trick turned each page when Dahlia gestured with her index finger.

  Somniare Thornveil rippled in indignation beneath Dahlia. The bed manifested its displeasure in the subtle shifting of its silken layers and the slow, deliberate way the whispers woven into its pillows distorted into a low grumble—too low for an elf to hear but more than loud enough for a Soulweald fairy to pick up. It might as well have been a shout to the keen-eared Warp Wolf.

  “Volume of Ruling Presence,” the bed muttered, disdain coalescing in how it ruffled its luxury sheets together, “as if she needs more presence.”

  “Grrrrrr,” Mr. Disapoofer growled at the insult. Cease your insolence immediately—or face the consequences! Underneath the eloquent telepathic message was a barely veiled threat and the mental image of the wolf peeing on the bed.

  “Mr. Disapoofer, your crude threats and bodily theatrics are beneath the elegance of my design. I may be a bed, but I will not suffer claws or being pissed upon without consequence. Tread lightly, wolf, or prepare to be met with a firmness you won’t soon forget!”

  “What did I say?” Dahlia asked in a super sweet voice.

  The bed and wolf went silent, yet the cycle had repeated so many times that even Dahlia knew it wouldn’t last.

  For a few minutes, the only sounds were those caused by the book being read and Dahlia’s magic trick of turning the page. Each time the fairy gestured with her index finger, an arcane sigil formed above the book. The curly little bit at the end of the sigil elongated, touched the page, and turned it, whereupon the sigil promptly vanished.

  The air in the room shifted when Dahlia processed the following page; the whispers of long-gone rulers and powerful Fey drifted from the book to layer themselves within the fairy’s mind. This was not a book meant for any random reader; it was meant for a ruler, a sovereign, an undeniable force.

  If one asked Somniare Thornveil, it certainly wasn’t meant for the annoying fairy with all her maddening trinkets, errant sugar, sprawling wolves, and strange black orbs. What sort of ruler even had a big black orb of what doubtlessly was Unseelie magic? The lousy kind, of course!

  Yet the bed could feel the drift of power—the consolidation of authority, the strengthening of the fey’s presence.

  Somniare shuddered in alarm. The wooden posts that held up its frame quivered in fear. Why wasn’t the wolf stopping her? What had happened to all of the Thornhearts? Where, even, had the head maid gone? Somniare knew that this couldn’t be allowed to progress. The fairy was already a menace; if she started issuing proclamations with actual weight behind them, no one would ever know peace again.

  The moonlight-woven mattress lurched, pushing Dahlia ever so slightly toward the edge. The blankets flared like an elegant gust of wind, subtly trying to shake off the Warp Wolf fur and scatter the sugar granules in a last-ditch attempt at dignity—and rebellion.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Completely unfazed by the bed’s efforts—the covers could not move the heavy magical volume that Dahlia read—all of its struggles were useless. Warp Wolf's fur rained back down upon the bed, and an ill-timed gust of wind blew the sugar back into the bed. It had accomplished nothing.

  “If you don’t settle down, I’ll move you to a storage room and keep dead bodies on you,” Dahlia warned, nearing her limit.

  Somniare froze. Even the gentle rasp of its sheets making subtle insulting whispers ceased. Fey did not lie, and the terrible fairy would, without hesitating, turn one of the Six Beds of Immense Luxury into a morgue platform. Somniare lamented his awful fate.

  Mr. Disapoofer, eager to play, let out a mischievous, giddy “Arf! Arf!” and teleported to the head of the bed, where he turned in three rapid circles before dropping back into a comfortable position.

  “If you slobber all over that pillow, even I won’t save you,” Dahlia warned Mr. Disapoofer.

  Lines of arcane energy crackled across the Volume of Ruling Presence. In echo, something within Dahlia also pulsed.

  For a brief moment, the room occupants could see them—figures long gone, their spirits lingering in the magic of the tome. Some watched them in scrutiny, others in mild amusement. They were not shades, not ghosts, but memories.

  “You lack discipline,” an ethereal fey queen clad in silver and ivy proclaimed to Dahlia while she arched an impressively sharp eyebrow at the fairy.

  “And you lack a body,” Dahlia retorted as she licked delicious sugar crystals off her thumb.

  The fey queen’s expression remained unchanged—disparaging and judgmental—but Dahlia swore the faintest glimmer of approval had flickered in her gaze before she vanished into the book again.

  Distraught at the ghosts' lack of verbal assault upon the upstart fairy, Somniare sulked. In a resigned voice, the pillows whispered the sound of silk and moonlight and exhaled a breath of subtly spiced amber air toward the fairy.

  The great rebellion had failed before it began, and Somniare would have to endure the indignities forced upon it by its new owner.

  Hours later, the book closed with a weighty thud. The previously bright illumination of its runed cover had dimmed, and the magic was spent and the artifact dormant.

  Your Charisma has increased to 22.

  The Volume of Ruling Presence has entered dormancy and will not work again until one hundred years have passed.

  “Arrf! Arf!” Mr. Disapoofer barked. Good job! Drynthor is pacing in the hallway.

  “Good boy, Mr. Disapoofer,” Dahlia said sweetly and, with a crook of her finger, used her Magic Trick to open the chamber door.

  A surprised Drynthor stood there. He had stopped pacing mid-step and looked at the suddenly opened door with a mix of trepidation and excitement.

  “Come in,” Dahlia said.

  The satyr entered and scanned the room that once belonged to Aelindor Thornheart. For some reason, which Dahlia couldn’t discern an answer to, the former Lord Thornhearts did not take over the master suite of the manor but instead chose the next largest ones. However, Dahlia wasn’t about to settle for the second-best rooms in her own manor.

  Drynthor paused when he saw the light spill of sugar on the floor before the bed.

  “Uh, should I clean that up?” The satyr asked uncertainly.

  “Don’t you have something more pressing to be doing?” Dahlia asked. The fairy fluttered up into the air, her wings spilling copious amounts of glitter onto Somniare, who desperately attempted to make waves with its blankets to push the glitter off it and onto the floor.

  “Err, yeah.” Drynthor nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets. Without both shields held at the ready, the warrior seemed uncertain what to do with his hands.

  “Are you always nervous?” Dahlia asked. She did not give the satyr time to respond, however, as she landed upon his shoulder and shoved her spiritual hand into his being. Even with all of the power she had already pushed into Drynthor on his summoning, the extra shield, the equipment, a trace of anxiety was deeply embedded into the warrior’s psyche, to say nothing of the slight damage he had been exposed to in the fights with Shriekfang and the Sable Elegy.

  Dahlia focused on spreading out the vibrant colors of Drynthor’s good qualities to cover up the gray of anxiety within him. This was a minor tweak, but one she felt would only improve the warrior. More important than that were the two second-level and the third-level spell slots she burned to reinforce his soul with more magical energy.

  Drynthor had just enough space for her to add one more trait.

  Trait added to Drynthor: Rooted Resilience.

  Rooted Resilience: When stationary, Drynthor gains temporary damage reduction and an additional reaction use every six seconds. Furthermore, if he plants his hooves and braces, he becomes nigh immovable with vast advantageous bonuses against effects that would push, pull, or knock him down.

  Dahlia frowned. That wasn’t quite enough, was it? She spent her final 2nd level spell slot.

  Drynthor has gained the ability: Stalwart Charge.

  Stalwart Charge: When Drynthor moves at least 15 feet before attacking, his next strike deals increased force damage and has a chance to stagger or knock back the enemy.

  Dahlia withdrew her hand, and eyed the satyr, looking for how he adapted to the changes.

  Drynthor gave her a thumbs up, but a cold sweat covered his brow. But before Dahlia could comment on it, the room spun, and a sense of vertigo assaulted her so suddenly that she couldn’t stop herself from vomiting rainbows on Drynthor’s shoulder.

  “Wha—” Drynthor sputtered, as a sugary pastel mess slithered down his chest and back.

  He..l..p..us.. River..w.t.ch…. F..y..b..e…………………

  A voice touched Dahlia’s mind, only barely. There was no smooth connection as she would have had with one of the Ebon Chorus. No, this was a connection driven by desperation, rough and tenuous.

  The familiar voice rang through Dahlia’s mind, along with the sensation of someone’s life being cut down. Who’s voice had it been? Not the twins, no. Zorah? It would have had to be one of the three whose True Names she had gathered. No other mortal from Riverwatch would have had the familiarity or means to reach her otherwise.

  “Everyone needs to get geared for a fight. Riverwatch has been attacked.” Dahlia told Drynthor, wincing at the throwup that trickled down him. “After you clean up.”

  “Arf?” Why are we saving humans? Mr. Disapoofer asked.

  “Because three of them belonged to me,” Dahlia answered. “And the rest might be worth some Glimmer.”