Chapter 15: "Clucksworth, Mortax, and the Royal Tax Trap"
The scroll Lyria gave us lit itself on fire after two minutes. Luckily, it burned in a very specific pattern... leading to a glowing footpath made entirely of suspicious daisies.
> "Well," Petunia said cheerfully, "if the flowers are glowing, it must be safe!"
> "That's what you said before the licorice trap," I muttered.
> "That was delicious," Grubnuk added with a grin.
So we followed the path. Through fields. Over tiny magical bridges. Around a chicken playing a lute.
And that's where we met Wilfred.
Wilfred was a lanky man with overalls, a monocle, and a perpetual squint like reality personally offended him. But more importantly? He had Sir Clucksworth.
A chicken in full chainmail. With a tiny lance. And a tiny saddle.
> "Halt!" Wilfred called. "You tread on royal clucking ground."
Sir Clucksworth flapped once in noble approval.
> "...Are we being mugged by a poultry knight?" Arcanos whispered.
> "I think this is diplomacy," I replied.
Turns out, Wilfred was once a royal messenger, now retired and slightly enchanted. He spoke of a grand event—The Fair of Mortax, happening just two towns over.
> "Mortax the Mercurial hosts it every five years," he explained. "And he's summoned all travelers who have angered the fates."
> "We qualify," Arcanos, Petunia, Grubnuk, and I all said at once.
So off we went.
To Mortax.
The fairgrounds were chaos incarnate. Screaming sunflowers, a booth selling bottled regrets, and a mime who knew your childhood secrets.
Mortax himself? Oh, he's a dragon.
Not just any dragon, mind you. A bureaucratic dragon. With golden scales, reading glasses perched on his snout, and a robe made of mood rings that shifted based on local tax laws. His voice? Like thunder wrapped in taffy—but with the subtle menace of an audit letter.
> "You must go to Prince Dandelion the Third, ruler of Grasswhistle Hold," he boomed. "He hath taxed the land itself—and now the grass is suing everyone."
> "...That sounds fake," I said.
> "SO IS MONEY," Mortax roared, throwing glitter.
And just like that, we were sent to settle a feud between the terrain and a prince who apparently wore velvet socks and fought duels over tea temperature.
> "Do we at least get a map?" Petunia asked.
> "No," Mortax replied.
> "Directions?"
> "Certainly not."
> "A snack?"
> "Take a regret jar."
We left with a quest. A tax issue. A knightly chicken. And a growing sense that none of this was going to get us closer to safety.
But hey. Adventure.
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End of Chapter 15 (Where chickens are noble, taxes are magical, and the grass holds grudges.)