It began, as all legendary disasters do, with someone yelling, "I've got a plan!"
The someone in question was Rikkar—ex-thief, part-time cook, full-time nuisance—who insisted the city could be defended from the coming army with honey, fire, and a really angry goose named Scraps.
"No army expects a goose," Rikkar said with confidence.
Kael rubbed his temples. "Rikkar, the Scourge of Kharuk rides with ten thousand soldiers. He eats cities. He has chariots carved from bone. He's probably allergic to honey and enjoys roast goose."
"Then we hit him where it hurts: his assumptions."
Despite the absurdity, morale in the half-built city had never been higher. Laughter echoed off the new walls as Scraps—who did, in fact, bite—became a mascot of resistance.
Yulda, watching Kael dodge the goose during morning drills, cackled. "You lead warriors, bricklayers, and a bird that hates your face. Truly, you are the chosen king."
Kael smirked. "Better to be pecked by Scraps than stabbed by a warlord."
Meanwhile, plans for real defense were underway. Traps in the canyons, archers hidden in trees, and fire pits rigged with pitch. The city's strange mix of exiles and misfits had started to form something like unity—held together by shared defiance and an oddly charismatic poultry.
At the evening feast, Rikkar stood atop a barrel and made his toast:
"To Kael—founder of our stone beds, breaker of tyrants, and duck-dodger of destiny!"
"It's a goose!" someone shouted.
"Fine! To Kael, Lord of Honks!"
Kael raised his mug, grinning. "If we survive this, I'm exiling you first."
Cheers erupted. Beneath the laughter, there was tension. The storm was coming. But if they were to die, they would do it with full bellies, smart mouths, and maybe, just maybe, a goose with vengeance in his eyes.
And far to the east, the Scourge of Kharuk laughed when he heard the rumor: that a kingdom defended by madmen and a goose was daring to stand.
He did not yet know that the real weapon was the man at the center of the joke.