The forge still glowed.
Clucksworth stood in its warmth, iron boots heavy on the stone floor. His legs ached — not from fatigue, but from transformation. Nails pulsed beneath his seams. Every step was a reminder: he had chosen pain. He had chosen purpose.
Cedric had prepared for this.
The journal lay open beside the anvil, its pages stained with soot and memory. Maps were tucked between the entries — hand-drawn routes, coded symbols, names of people who owed Cedric favors or feared his wrath.
Clucksworth traced a path with his cotton fingers. It led north, through the Hollow Pines, to a place marked only with a stitched symbol: a needle piercing a crown.
He didn't know what it meant.
But he would find out.
He packed the essentials — thread, wax, spare nails, a flask of oil. He strapped Cedric's satchel to his back and sheathed his rapier. The blade hummed faintly, sensing movement. Outside, the wind stirred.
His plush horse waited, stitched from pillows and dreams, its button eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Clucksworth approached, but did not mount. Not yet. He needed to walk first. To prove the boots were more than decoration.
He stepped into the ash.
The forest loomed ahead — twisted trees, whispering leaves, shadows that moved when they shouldn't. The path was narrow, but the map was clear.
He walked.
Each step groaned. Each nail shifted. But he did not falter.
The wind carried voices — distant, cruel, familiar. Demon laughter. Mocking. Waiting.
Clucksworth did not flinch.
He was stitched.
He was armed.
He was walking.
And somewhere beyond the Hollow Pines, someone waited — someone who knew Cedric, who knew the thread that stitched Clucksworth's soul.
He would find them.
He would learn.
And when the demons returned, they would not find a chicken.
They would find a knight.