Morning came fast in Fort Blackthorn.
Too fast, in Darin's opinion.
He had been in the middle of a dream, something about riding Steve through a field of talking pastries (the pastries had been singing his name)—when the blare of a horn yanked him back into reality.
He groaned, rolled over, and was immediately hit in the face by a pillow.
Followed by a small, shadowy cat foot.
"Grumble," Darin muttered, voice hoarse, "I swear if that was on purpose—"
Grumble, of course, offered no apology. He merely yawned and resumed his perch atop Darin's chest like he owned the place.
Steve, meanwhile, was wagging his tail at the door like a dragon war machine eager for breakfast and bloodshed.
Darin blinked blearily. "What time is it?"
A knock came at the door, followed by the dry, unsympathetic voice of the Sorceress. "Time to train."
Darin let out a groan that could have withered crops. "Can I not?"
"No."
"But I'm the overlord," he tried weakly.
