Steppo had been itching to leave the stuffy gathering ever since he arrived, bearing both surprised and disappointed looks from elderly courtiers and lordlings, who had assumed he would take part in the demeaning festivities that celebrated an oppressive regime, along with its spineless bootlickers. The raised terrace where assorted seating arrangements had been laid out in a hurry was a far cry from the extravagant field tents and pavilions set up during the time of the previous king, naturally equipped with an eternally fresh supply of elaborate dishes and nubile servants to keep the nobles entertained while the less fortunate hunters scrabbled for meaningless awards no one could have cared less about. The monetary value of the prizes was significant only in the eyes of those who couldn't afford their living expenses and would most likely not be enough to cover the cost of even one dress worn by Jurhem's favorite concubine - who, now that Steppo really thought about it, used to be the current king's own mother.

It seemed that the son was now reaping the consequences of his father's recklessness and couldn't afford to splurge as much. The hard wooden stools some of the rickety courtiers had been forced to settle on gave them sufficient reason to mutter their discontent and shift uncomfortably every few seconds, even while their beloved monarch was giving his rallying speech to the sorry bunch who would be actually competing in the hunt. Most of them were retainers, guards, or servants working in some capacity for the gathered lords, and naturally equipped in the ever-practical frills of glorified butlers, with barely a sturdy pair of field boots, raincoat, or decent-looking weapon in sight. On such occasions, practicality was inversely proportional to fashionable appeal, and so the better a man was dressed, the lower the chance of actually making a kill, unless some of his own servants would be helping him out on the course.

Studying the so-called hunters forced Steppo to remember the days when he too had foolishly dreamed of serving his god, king, and country all the while being showered with glory, his name sung at feasts as the greatest warrior the nation had ever seen. He would have held Victor's cup at this very event, joined the Heavenly Guard, and found his ballad-inspiring death on some distant battlefield, while fighting for Kassinem's dominion over the region, or, why not, the whole world.

Fortunately - both for his own health and that of the kingdom - Steppo had organically retreated from the horrors perpetuated by his own class and taken refuge in empowering the people who he believed constituted the country's salvation. He couldn't change the fact that he'd been born heir to a noble house, but it was up to him to decide what course to set for himself, and whether he wanted to be remembered as a monarchist enabler, or a freedom fighter.

"Wouldn't my precious son and heir find it more comfortable to sit down as these proceedings unfold?"

Steppo turned to regard his father, blinking painfully against the morning light that had just started streaming over the hunting lodge's sloped roof. Fighting against tearing up, he thought he could make out a row of ghostly faces plastered against the windows on the first floor, carefully studying the events below. However, he couldn't afford to analyze them since that would have meant temporarily blinding himself.

"I thank you for the offer, father, but I find that I am well situated to enjoy His Majesty's speech from my current vantage point."

"You might be," replied Sebek sourly, "yet my colleagues whose seats are placed at an unfortunate angle are currently finding their own views obstructed by your own imposing figure. Would you therefore be so kind as to find a more suitable position?"

Steppo's eyes widened and he found himself willingly obliging and stepping away even while marveling at how his elderly father had made out the exact nature of the others' complaints, whereas Steppo himself had only registered incomprehensive murmurs.

Still, it was for the best. Under the guise of solicitude, he could now await the perfect moment to slip away entirely and start his own expedition, with infinitely more capable troops. He carefully made his way among the maze of tables of various sizes and chairs of debatable aesthetic appeal until he reached the edge of the terrace and could assess the entire scene.

All in all, a paltry two dozen nobles had bothered to show up today. Most of them were high-ranking officials, ministers or influential courtiers, and if he stretched the limits of his memory, he might have just been able to name the majority of them. They were all currently staring out gloomily at the scrawny back of King Eker, who had insisted on giving a rallying speech himself, addressing the hunters now standing before him.

Except that something wasn't quite right. The hunters' facial expressions looked even more displeased than usual, and the constant whispering of the nobles had gradually died down. Adding to this was the ridiculous number of menacing goons that creep Hanadan Jebril had brought along, who were lining the opposite edge of the platform. If Steppo were to move away now, he feared the creaking of the floorboards would attract everyone's attention and all his preparation would come to naught. He therefore rallied the dregs of his patience and forced himself to pay attention to some of the king's words, even if only to pass the time until the others grew distracted again.

It just so happened that the first words he latched onto brought him up short as well, and he actually found himself genuinely paying attention.

"...questions about the chickens," said the king, pausing to mop his forehead. He went on in an increasingly shaky voice, no doubt picking up on the crowd's sinking spirits. "I didn't want to spoil the surprise, but it really shouldn't come as one. You must all be perfectly aware of the excesses my father indulged in, and I am sorry to say that the previously well-balanced ecosystem of the Tzeru estate has also fallen victim to those ill-advised policies. Hunting has been carried out thoughtlessly to the point where the gamekeepers warned that several species had gone extinct. They were not exaggerating. The wildlife conservation act has therefore been one of my priorities ever since I ascended the throne, and while I still lack the authority to make it official, I will do what I can to minimize further damage. Therefore, it gives me great joy to announce that today's proceedings will be slightly different."

He paused, clearing his throat and scanning the silent crowd of hunters. The footmen, retainers, and servants also watched him attentively, though Steppo noticed their resigned weariness, as if they'd just been confronted with an onslaught of strange requests before the hunt had even properly begun.

"For one," continued the king, "you will be working in teams of two, three, or whichever number you see fit. Mind you, this is not obligatory, but rather highly advisable, given the nature of the contest. You might consider it a highly technical challenge, meant to test and improve your speed, accuracy, strategy, and communication. And of course, it all ties back to the chickens."

Steppo frowned, the urgency to slip away momentarily forgotten. Was the idiot talking about himself, metaphorically? Or were there actual chickens roaming around the estate?

"Willing farmers have provided us with their most difficult specimens, known for their speed, cunning and sometimes even aggressive behavior. So keep in mind, even though they are no ivory panthers or terracotta dragons, they are more than capable of inflicting serious injuries upon unsuspecting victims. Each bird has a color-coded ribbon and talisman around its neck, put in place by our incredible team of retainers here at the Tzeru estate. I would like to take this opportunity to thank them for their dedicated service and award them, along with a heartfelt round of applause from all of us, a bonus directly from the royal treasury."

The pathetic sound of his lone clapping stretched uncomfortably for a few interminable seconds before the nobles and hunters began to join him hesitantly. At the same time, the cluster of Jebril's armed goons parted as if at some unspoken signal, revealing a small iron chest glinting suggestively in the morning sun.

"Thank you once again for your unfailingly loyal service," continued the king. "I don't believe we could ever do you true monetary justice, but we have tried our best, as I'm sure you do every single day."

Steppo blinked in disbelief at this uncharacteristic display of empathy from a person whose very genetic heritage should make him susceptible to vices of every sort - though if this chicken business were actually true, the new king would have to be filed into his very own category of stupid.

"For the rest of you, I'm sure you are eager to get on with today's exciting hunt, so allow me to briefly explain the points system: a red talisman is worth one point, and a yellow one is three. Needless to say, the team with the most points - not chickens! - wins. If you are able to bring in the chicken as well as its talisman, you will receive double the points of the talisman's original value. Don't worry if you didn't bring anything to write all of this down, each team will be given an explanatory leaflet at the beginning of the hunt. Please keep in mind that strategy is key, so you should consider matching the hunters' particular skills to the desired course of action. Will you aim to gather as many of the docile red chickens, or will you risk hunting the more elusive yellow ones? It's entirely up to you. Now, you've all got half an hour until we sound the horn and the hunt officially begins, so please take this time to form a team, negotiate, strategize, and most importantly, pick a team name. You will not be awarded points for originality, but we do suggest choosing ones your descendants will be proud of when they tell tales of your heroic deeds."

Unsurprisingly, outraged murmurs had begun to brew among the stricken hunters. Steppo winced in sympathy, unable to imagine how he might have handled the embarrassment. The king had made a valid point about the previous monarch's reckless policies, as well as the impact on wildlife, but as Steppo saw it, the people of Kassinem took precedence and their needs had been disregarded and dismissed for too long. He also couldn't see how unleashing a bunch of chickens in a forest was going to help balance out the ecosystem, but it would not be an issue he would lose sleep over any time soon.

"And as for the final rule," said the king loudly, "it goes like this: if you are here competing in the name of a particular house, you are not allowed to form a team with members of that same estate. Cooperation and communication are the keywords here, since we are all winners at the end of the day. Thank you, and I wish you the best of luck!"

What Steppo strongly suspected the hunters and their masters were wishing for now was a sane person running the country for a change. As far as Steppo was concerned, that power should never rest entirely with one individual, and if the councils weren't filled with corrupt leeches, they might have reigned in the malicious impulses of Kassi's never-ending parade of mad monarchs.

"Chickens," he scoffed as he stepped off the platform, no longer concerned that someone might pay him undue attention. The king's final rule had somehow managed to ruffle more feathers - metaphorical ones for now - than all of the rest. Did he actually expect long-time opposing factions to put their deep-seated hatred and squabbles aside?

No, he didn't just expect it, he demanded it. Steppo had to wonder whether the young fool actually wanted to enrage everyone and get deposed as soon as possible. The Pies of Liberty wouldn't even get to have a say in the inevitable revolution, since it would all become a frenzied battle to see who could take him down first. If the nobles hadn't been plotting it before, they were certain to do so now.

"And I can't blame them," he muttered.

As he skirted the back of the hunting lodge in search of the trail leading to the second clearing, he caught sight of two footmen beating a few ceremonial garments covered in feathers while partially concealed behind an abnormally large elderberry shrub.

"Can't really complain," said the older one, pausing to straighten his back while wincing at a popping joint. "His father had stranger requests."

"I was only recently transferred, but I've heard the legends."

"My friend, the one about the pythons and the honey hot tub is not a legend, but a recurring nightmare for all of us. Now, picture this..."

Steppo quickened his pace, willing to let this whole madness behind him while the silence of the forest embraced him once again. The footpath was so narrow that he had to concentrate on following it, his senses sharpened in an instinctive search for any approaching predators. He didn't know whether his imagination or sense of irony were playing tricks on him, but he could swear that he'd heard a couple of suggestive clucks.

Should he have brought a weapon? Were chickens intelligent enough to band together and conduct surprise attacks? His own knowledge of domestic fowl behavior was sorely lacking, but he probably had more cause to worry if the Tzeru gamekeepers had missed some actual predators in their census. If he came face to face with an ivory panther now, somehow managed to slay it without being offed in the process and brought the bloody evidence back to the others, he still wouldn't be winning any prizes, given that chickens were the name of the game now.

"Bloody chickens," he muttered.

"Speaker, we've got a problem."

Steppo whirled around suddenly, but his efforts were impeded by a stubborn hand that had just shot out of the shrubbery, refusing to let go of his sleeve until both men lost their footing and tumbled into the undergrowth. Steppo rolled over painfully across a low scree and came to a halt at the base of a gnarly oak. He blinked wearily at the distant pinpricks of light beyond the tree's crown until a somewhat blurry, but clearly worried visage came into view.

"Speaker?"

Steppo grunted as he struggled to a sitting position.

"What's wrong, Mercer? Shouldn't you be at the assembly point?"

"Not one of us made it to the assembly point," replied the young man. "The other guys beat us to it."

Steppo frowned, thoughts of childish monarchs and crusty nobles fading away while he picked up on Mercer's barely restrained urgency. He was almost afraid to make further inquiries.

"What other guys?" he asked nonetheless.