Chapter 5
The first person asked Dorian the question before breakfast.
This was unfair.
Dorian had not yet finished his tea, had not yet fully come to terms with the previous day's ravine incident, and had certainly not prepared himself emotionally for interrogation.
"Sir Dorian," the innkeeper said carefully, setting down a plate of eggs. "Is it true?"
Dorian squinted up at him. "Is what true?"
The innkeeper leaned closer. "About the chicken."
Dorian sighed.
"That depends," he said, reaching for his fork, "on what you've heard."
The innkeeper lowered his voice. "That it follows you."
Dorian paused mid-bite.
"...It walks," he said cautiously.
The innkeeper nodded slowly. "That's what they said."
Dorian took a bite of egg. "Who is 'they'?"
"Everyone."
Dorian choked.
He coughed violently, thumping his chest as the innkeeper rushed forward.
"Water! Water!"
"I'm fine," Dorian wheezed. "Just... surprised by consensus."
The innkeeper waited patiently.
Dorian swallowed. "No. The chicken does not follow me."
The innkeeper relaxed slightly. "Ah."
"It merely," Dorian continued, "appears in places I happen to be."
The innkeeper stiffened again.
"...That's worse."
Dorian sighed. "Please stop asking me that."
He paid for breakfast and left.
The second person asked him the question on the street.
This one was a guard.
"Sir," the guard said respectfully, snapping to attention, "permission to ask?"
Dorian raised a finger. "Before you do—"
"—is the chicken dangerous?"
Dorian closed his eyes.
"...Define dangerous," he said.
The guard frowned. "It cracked stone."
"Yes."
"And flickered the lights."
"Also yes."
"And people say it judges them."
Dorian opened his eyes. "That's not dangerous. That's social."
The guard hesitated. "So... we don't arrest it?"
"No."
The guard nodded solemnly. "Understood."
He leaned closer. "But... if it did attack—"
"It hasn't."
"But if it did—"
Dorian smiled thinly. "Please stop asking me that."
The guard saluted and hurried off, already whispering to another guard.
Dorian rolled his shoulders and continued walking.
The third person asked him the question at the market.
This one did not ask politely.
"YOU BROUGHT A CURSE INTO THIS CITY," a woman shouted, pointing at him with a carrot.
Dorian blinked. "I did not."
"My cousin says it watches her from the rooftops."
Dorian frowned. "The chicken does not fly."
"That's what worries me!"
Several people murmured agreement.
Dorian raised his hands. "Alright. Let's all take a breath."
The woman stepped closer. "Is it true you bound it?"
"No."
"Summoned it?"
"No."
"Angered something else?"
"...Possibly," Dorian admitted.
The crowd gasped.
"That was hypothetical," he added quickly.
The woman narrowed her eyes. "You're hiding something."
Dorian smiled pleasantly. "I hide many things."
That did not help.
A merchant chimed in. "My brother says it followed you from the ravine."
"I was walking away from the ravine," Dorian said.
"Yes," the merchant agreed. "That's how following works."
Dorian rubbed his face. "Please stop asking me that."
He fled the market under the cover of mild panic.
The fourth person asked him the question at the guild hall.
This one was a clerk.
She didn't even look up from her desk.
"Sir Dorian," she said flatly, "should we update the hazard board?"
Dorian paused. "About which hazard?"
She slid a form toward him.
It read:
NEW ENTRY REQUEST
Description: Chicken (possibly sentient)
Risk Level: Unclear
Notes: Appears when Sir Dorian is present
Dorian stared.
"...No," he said.
The clerk nodded. "Thought so."
She slid another form forward.
FOLLOW-UP
Is the chicken a guild asset?
Dorian blinked. "Absolutely not."
She nodded again. "Thought so."
She slid a third form.
EMERGENCY PROTOCOL
If chicken approaches altar, evacuate?
Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why would it approach the altar?"
The clerk shrugged. "Patterns."
Dorian lowered his hand slowly.
"Please," he said quietly, "stop asking me that."
The clerk paused. Then, softly: "Sir... does it like you?"
Dorian looked up.
"...No," he said firmly.
Behind him, a cluck echoed.
Dorian did not turn around.
By midday, Dorian had been asked the question seventeen times.
He knew this because he started counting.
The seventeenth time was by a child.
Children were the worst.
"Sir Dorian," the child said, tugging on his cape, "are you the chicken's dad?"
Dorian froze.
"...No," he said.
The child tilted his head. "Then why does it come when you're sad?"
Dorian stared down at him.
"I am not sad," Dorian said carefully.
The child shrugged. "My mom says grown-ups lie about that."
Dorian opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"...Please stop asking me that," he said gently.
The child smiled. "Okay!"
He ran off immediately to ask someone else.
Dorian exhaled.
He leaned against a wall, staring up at the sky, which was unhelpfully blue and calm.
He had faced monsters.
He had faced generals.
He had faced Rowan Valebright's disappointment.
This—this endless, repetitive question—was something else entirely.
He straightened as footsteps approached.
A scholar.
Of course it was.
"Sir Dorian," the scholar said breathlessly, "I believe I've cracked it."
Dorian's soul tried to leave his body.
"I don't want to know," he said.
"It's an echo," the scholar continued excitedly. "A narrative anchor! A symbolic manifestation of unresolved—"
Dorian held up a hand. "Stop."
The scholar blinked.
"If you finish that sentence," Dorian said calmly, "I will assign you to goat duty."
The scholar paled. "Understood."
Dorian nodded. "Good."
The scholar hesitated. "...So it's not an echo?"
Dorian stared.
"...Please," he said. "Stop asking me that."
He turned and walked away.
That afternoon, Dorian attempted to rest.
This was ambitious.
He sat in a chair in a quiet corner of the guild hall, feet up, eyes closed, doing his best impression of a man unbothered by rumors, poultry, and institutional collapse.
He almost succeeded.
"Sir Dorian," a voice said softly.
Dorian did not open his eyes. "If this is about the chicken—"
"—it's in your chair."
Dorian's eyes snapped open.
The chicken sat on the arm of the chair.
Comfortably.
Like it had always belonged there.
They stared at one another.
"...You are," Dorian said slowly, "making this worse."
The chicken clucked.
Dorian sighed and leaned back.
"Fine," he muttered. "Ask your question."
The chicken tilted its head.
Dorian waited.
"...Exactly," he said. "Please stop asking me that."
The chicken blinked.
Outside, somewhere in the city, someone shouted:
"HEY—IS IT TRUE—"
Dorian groaned.
This was going to be a long honeymoon.
By evening, Dorian had stopped pretending the question would end.
It followed him now.
Not the chicken—the question.
It clung to him like a damp cloak, appearing wherever he went, spoken in different voices, with different intentions, but always meaning the same thing.
What is the chicken?
Why is it here?
What did you do?
Dorian took refuge in the one place he believed, foolishly, might offer sanctuary.
The bathhouse.
Steam rose thick and comforting, scented with herbs and faintly medicinal oils. The stone floors were warm. The water lapped gently in its basins.
Dorian sighed as he lowered himself into the pool, muscles finally beginning to loosen.
Peace.
"Sir Dorian?"
He froze.
Slowly, he turned his head.
A bath attendant stood at the edge of the pool, towel folded neatly over one arm.
"...Yes," Dorian said.
The attendant hesitated. "I don't mean to pry."
Dorian closed his eyes.
"...But."
"But," the attendant continued, "some of the other patrons were wondering—"
Dorian inhaled sharply.
"—if the chicken is connected to your aura."
Dorian opened his eyes.
"My what?"
"Well," the attendant said apologetically, "they say you feel... different lately."
Dorian stared.
"...Please," he said quietly, "stop asking me that."
The attendant bowed deeply. "Of course, sir."
He turned to leave.
Paused.
"...Hypothetically," he added, "if it were connected—"
Dorian stood up so fast the water sloshed over the edge.
"OUT," he said, pointing at the door. "NOW."
The attendant fled.
Dorian sank back into the water, staring at the ceiling.
"I am a hero," he muttered. "I have faced dragons."
The water rippled.
From the edge of the pool, a familiar cluck sounded.
Dorian slowly turned his head.
The chicken stood on the tiles, feathers immaculate, watching him soak.
"...You cannot be serious," Dorian said.
The chicken blinked.
"You followed me here?"
The chicken clucked.
Dorian stared at it, incredulous.
"This is a bathhouse."
The chicken tilted its head.
"...You don't even bathe."
The chicken took one step forward.
The steam shifted subtly around it.
Dorian raised a hand. "No."
The chicken stopped.
Dorian exhaled slowly.
"Good," he said. "Boundaries."
He leaned back again, eyes closed.
"I don't know what you want," he said quietly. "And I don't know why everyone thinks I do."
The chicken made no sound.
For a moment—just a moment—there was quiet.
Dorian felt something settle in his chest, heavy and unwelcome.
It wasn't fear.
It was exhaustion.
When he opened his eyes again, the chicken was gone.
The steam felt colder.
The next morning, Dorian awoke to shouting.
This, unfortunately, felt normal.
He rolled out of bed, pulled on his armor, and stepped outside just in time to see a crowd forming near the guild hall.
"Please," he heard someone cry. "Just tell us!"
Dorian sighed.
He approached the crowd, recognizing familiar faces—merchants, guards, clerks, scholars. Even the baker was there again, arms folded like a personal vendetta.
Dorian raised his hands.
"Alright," he said. "One at a time."
The baker stepped forward immediately. "What does it want?"
"I don't know."
A guard shouted, "Is it dangerous?"
"I don't think so."
A scholar demanded, "Is it ancient?"
"Possibly."
A child asked, "Is it lonely?"
Dorian hesitated.
"...Maybe."
The crowd murmured.
The baker narrowed her eyes. "You're guessing."
"Yes," Dorian said simply. "Because I don't know."
Silence fell.
This was new.
Dorian straightened, heart pounding.
"I don't know where it came from," he continued. "I don't know why it's here. I don't know why it chose me."
He gestured helplessly. "I didn't summon it. I didn't bind it. I didn't break anything important enough to deserve it."
A laugh rippled through the crowd—nervous, uncertain.
Dorian pressed on.
"I know I make mistakes," he said. "I know I cause damage. I know I complicate things."
Several people nodded.
"But if you're asking me because you think I'm hiding answers," Dorian said firmly, "I'm not."
He took a breath.
"If you're asking because you're scared," he added, softer now, "then so am I."
The crowd stilled.
Dorian spread his hands.
"And if you're asking because you think I have control—"
A cluck echoed from above.
Every head tilted upward.
The chicken stood on the guild hall roof, perfectly balanced, framed by the morning sun.
Dorian looked up at it.
"...Then you haven't been paying attention."
The chicken ruffled its feathers.
The crowd exhaled.
Someone laughed.
Someone else groaned.
The baker muttered, "Of course."
Dorian smiled faintly.
"Look," he said. "You can keep asking me questions."
Several people nodded eagerly.
"But I'm going to keep giving you the same answer."
He raised his voice slightly.
"I don't know."
The chicken clucked once.
The sound echoed oddly—like agreement.
Dorian pointed at it.
"See?" he said. "Even it agrees."
The tension broke.
People laughed—real laughter this time.
A guard shook his head. "This city..."
A merchant sighed. "We've survived worse."
The baker muttered, "Barely."
As the crowd began to disperse, Dorian felt the weight lift—just a little.
He turned toward the guild hall doors.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
"Sir Dorian," the clerk said softly.
"Yes?"
"...Should we add a note to the records?"
Dorian paused.
"...What kind of note?"
She held up a ledger, pen poised.
Dorian considered.
"Write this," he said.
Status Update:
Question unresolved.
Subject calm.
Sir Dorian remains uninformed.
The clerk smiled faintly and wrote it down.
Dorian nodded and stepped inside.
The chicken hopped down from the roof and followed him.
Dorian glanced back.
"...You're really committed to this," he said.
The chicken clucked.
Dorian sighed, but there was a hint of fondness now.
"Well," he said, pushing the doors open, "ask me again tomorrow."
The chicken blinked.
Dorian smirked.
"Please stop asking me that."