Duchess Dander's Adventure to Save the Kingdom of Cheezburgia – Chapter Three

When the clamor of decision quieted, Duchess Dander and Sir Pawdfoot needed no further council. The river’s cry for help carried all the authority they required. “To the village,” Dander declared, chin lifted, bow snug at her back - her voice steady as the forest wind. Pawdfoot barked an eager agreement, armor clinking like distant bells. Wheezy, still panting and wiping his brow, fell into step beside them. They cast one last glance toward the bridge.

There, between fractured planks and curling shadow, Roxy Nightshade flashed like moonlight on steel. The raccoon’s blades sang as she danced away from the wraith’s snapping maw, dodging tendrils of purple darkness. She spared them a single grin - half challenge, half apology - and then turned back to the fight. “I’ve got this,” she rasped. “Go. Tell the king.” With that, she leapt into the fray again, a streak of shadow and silver too swift to rein in.

So they ran. Brave as they were, Dander and Pawdfoot arrived at Wheezy’s village to find chaos unrolled like a broken scroll: thatched roofs smoked, market stalls lay overturned, and villagers - badgers, tabbies, and sparrows alike - scrambled with baskets and bundles. Shapes of ink and cold light skittered across lanes, feline silhouettes of malice that hissed and reached with ghostly claws.

Sir Pawdfoot moved first. With a cry that was more comfort than command, he planted his shield and formed a bulwark between the fleeing and the fright. His sword arced in broad, protective sweeps - more heart than finesse - but each swing carried an honest, warming courage that steadied the frightened. Duchess Dander took the high ground, one arrow after another whispering from her bow. Her shots were quick, true as a sovereign decree; they singed the edges of the shadow-beasts and drove them back into the alleys they had come from.

The battle might have turned on stubbornness alone if Wheezy hadn’t tumbled into view - muzzle foaming, robes singed, staff cracking in one trembling paw. He set his scroll upon the cobbles, unfurled it with a hand that shook, and let magic pour from the written words. Sparks leapt; a ring of shimmering glyphs rose and folded like a net around Pawdfoot and Dander, absorbing the dark strikes. Wheezy’s wheeze turned to a determined wheeze as he hissed arcane syllables, and one by one the shadow-cats shrieked and unraveled, their purple tentacles sputtering into harmless motes.

When the last wisp had been routed, the village let out a single breath it had been holding for too long. A child who had been clinging to a basket dropped it and threw his arms around Pawdfoot’s leg. An old baker pressed a trembling loaf into Wheezy’s paws with watery thanks. Duchess Dander lowered her bow and allowed herself the briefest smile of relief - quiet, fierce, and proud.

Wheezy’s eyes, wide with the horror of what he had seen, hardened into resolve. “I cannot stay,” he gasped. “Not while those things crawl from the cracks. I must come with you - if you’ll have me.” There was no pomp in his plea, only the raw plea of one who had watched home burn and wanted to ensure no other home would.

They accepted without pomp. With bandages applied, water shared, and the village pulsing back to cautious life, the trio - archer, knight, and wizard - set off toward the capital. On their road they passed fields quilted with late wildflowers and a lonely tollhouse whose keeper needed a rescued cart; they crossed bright meadows where Pawdfoot taught Wheezy the proper way to polish a shield (with an embarrassingly solemn ceremony), and they threaded through foggy hollows where Dander’s arrows guided them past hidden snares. At night they traded tales by embers - Dander's quiet courage, Pawdfoot’s gentle jokes, Wheezy’s ridiculous rhymes - and by dawn they were companions stitched together by shared danger.

At last the towers of the Cat Capital rose into view, a sunlit crown above a bustle of markets, wide roads, and flags fluttering lazily in the breeze. The castle of King Meowrick the Magnificent watched from its perch like a benevolent giant, its banners bright, its courtyard heavy with the hum of a feast in progress. Tables were laden; laughter rolled down from high windows; the palace kitchens worked as if nothing in the world might ever be amiss.

They did not announce themselves with trumpets. They marched straight through the market, past astonished merchants and spilled baskets, and into the echoing marble hall. Servants paused with platters; a minstrel’s tune faltered. King Meowrick, mid-morsel, blinked at the sight of orange fur at his threshold and the shining of armor and scroll.

For a heartbeat - for the span of a heartbeat - everyone waited.

Then duty pressed forward like the tide. Duchess Dander straightened, bow at her back and pendant warm at her neck, and prepared to speak for the shadows that had already crept through the realm.

Now, noble readers, how should she stand before the king?

Make the choices for the last chapter - how will the story end?

Make the major choice in our Facebook hall:
👍 React Like if Duchess Dander should go all in - bold, loud, and unashamed - declaring the danger and demanding immediate action.
❤️ React Heart if she should enter with apology and humility - appealing to King Meowrick’s authority and emotions first.

Make the minor choice in our Instagram courtyard:
💬 Comment “Sir Pawdfoot” if you want the knight to speak up, recounting the battle and using his experience to bolster the duchess’s plea.
💬 Comment “Wheezy the Wizard” if you want the wizard to tell the tale of his village’s ruin - first-hand evidence of the immediacy of the threat.

Cast your votes - your choices will shape the next chapter of Cheezburgia’s fate - the last chapter of the story!