Ezekiel opened his eyes to a battlefield made entirely of screaming goats and dairy-based war crimes.
He had one question:
"Where the hell did we sleep last night?"
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Welcome to the Kingdom of Hornstead
The Goatfolk, officially titled the Caprici Dominion of Unified Headbutts and Spiritual Milk, were one of the many subraces on EXrczate that had decided democracy was too soft and instead organized themselves by a hierarchy of horn density and upper-body rage.
There were twelve ruling families, all of them currently engaged in a civil war over a sacred artifact known only as The Golden Cheese.
No one could agree what it did.
Some claimed it sang. Others said it summoned rain. One faction believed it was just a wheel of cheddar blessed with god-tier PR.
Void sat on a rock at the hilltop, sipping existential tea and watching it unfold like it was cable television.
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How It Started: A Simple Disagreement
Four weeks ago, Duke Headlong of the Western Bleat claimed The Golden Cheese whispered to him during a storm.
"It told me, 'Only you are worthy of the Melted Way.'"
Naturally, the other families accused him of mold-induced hallucination and declared war. The northern tribes, the Shavedhorns, launched a full siege using catapults loaded with fermented cheese bombs, which upon impact caused temporary blindness and eternal embarrassment.
Ezekiel, unfortunately, was caught in the middle.
He'd been declared the Goat Chosen by accident after tripping over a ceremonial bell and surviving.
"They called me the Hornless Herald," he whispered to Frederick. "I don't even know what I'm heralding."
"Regret," Frederick replied, adjusting his armor. "Probably regret."
⸻
Void's Utter Lack of Help
Ezekiel turned to Void, perched calmly on a throne of broken ceremonial spoons, currently engraving something onto a rock with what looked like pure sarcasm made solid.
"Aren't you going to stop this?"
Void glanced over.
"Are they threatening the Heart beneath the continent?"
"No, they're just… throwing cheese and chanting about destiny!"
"Then they'll be fine."
Ezekiel paused.
"…You just want to see what happens, don't you."
Void didn't answer. He was sketching a new robe pattern titled:
"Wrath, but Make It Draped."
⸻
Frederick's Tactical Invention (That Shouldn't Have Worked)
Realizing that Ezekiel was now technically royalty to one side of the Goat Civil War, Frederick decided to do what any father would in a moment of chaos: invent an incredibly dangerous peace device.
He unveiled it with pride:
The Harmony Horn Mk. I – a magical amplifier that played chords so dissonant, they made anyone nearby too confused to keep fighting.
"What does it do?" Ezekiel asked.
"It sounds like regret in surround sound."
When activated, it released a tone so deeply unsettling that two generals on opposite sides stopped mid-charge to hug and cry about their fathers.
"I think it's working," Frederick said.
"I think I'm hallucinating sound," Ezekiel said.
"Good. That's the point."
⸻
The War Ends, Somehow
In a ceremony that involved three holy bleats, a synchronized fainting ritual, and an interpretive hoof dance, the Goat Tribes agreed to a ceasefire under one condition:
"The Hornless Herald," i.e., Ezekiel, must lead the Feast of Soft Cheeses.
Ezekiel did his best. He choked on a brie slice, cried in front of a blessed cow statue, and passed out in a wheelbarrow full of camembert.
The Goatfolk declared it the most authentic ceremony in centuries.
⸻
Void, Reflecting From Afar
As night fell and the goats returned to their mountains to plot the next inevitable conflict over dairy metaphors, Void sat under a broken war banner.
"This continent is louder than I remember," he murmured.
"Are we done with the goat thing?" Frederick asked.
"For now," Void replied. "But the Heart below has started pulsing again."
"Because of us?"
"Because of him." He glanced at Ezekiel, currently being paraded through the streets on a golden cheese cart, clearly unconscious.
⸻
There was something building beneath EXrczate. Something remembering.
The Heart was no longer asleep.
It was watching.
——
Interlude – From the Silk-Stained Thrones of Gargathia
POV: Supreme Threadkeeper Yessandra the Iron-Tailored
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In the Kingdom of Gargathia, law and fashion were the same thing. A decree wasn't valid unless it was embroidered, monogrammed, and color-coded according to the emotional intention behind it.
Courtroom robes had pockets for arguments.
Prisoners were sentenced by hem length.
Taxes were collected in the form of "seasonal wardrobe updates."
Supreme Threadkeeper Yessandra sat at the Round Loom Table, flanked by 17 other High Wardrobes, each stitched into their seat cushions with ceremonial thread.
She sipped her steaming fabric broth, made from boiled robes worn by ancestors during pivotal fashion trials.
"This meeting is now in session," she announced, adjusting her sacred shoulder pads of moral clarity. "Let us address the latest heresies against Proper Dressing."
A silence, reverent and terrified, fell over the chamber.
⸻
On the Agenda:
1. Underwear Color Rebellion
The orange-black war was still raging in the streets. Last week, a monastery burned down after a nun was caught wearing lavender undergarments during a funeral. Yessandra declared a state of stylistic emergency.
2. The Rise of Cloakless Youth
A fringe group of rebellious teens calling themselves "The Skin-Believers" had started going cloakless in public. One of them wore pants with visible ankles. Society was on the brink.
3. The Prophecy of the Folded One
A seer had spoken: "One shall walk the earth in clothes unburdened by intention. And through this heretic, clarity shall be revealed."
Yessandra had a vision of Void. She didn't know his name—only that he was smooth, terrifying, and casually symmetrical. It made her toes curl in fear and fashion envy.
4. The forbidden dance known as "Wiggling"
Recently imported from the west, the act of "wiggling"—a rhythmic, unsanctioned body motion—was sweeping through taverns. Yessandra banned it, then learned her nephew had mastered it. She has since written him out of the family embroidery tree.
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Private Thoughts from the Throne of Fabricated Sanity
Yessandra gazed out the palace's lace-trimmed window.
"We are not a kingdom. We are a metaphor stitched too tightly. Our seams are unraveling."
Her hand trembled slightly. Not from age. From fear.
Not of war. But of fashion entropy.
"If the Folded One returns…" she whispered, clutching her silken prayer beads, "…we may all be seen. Un-ironed."
⸻
In a Closet Below the Palace
A rat wearing a turtleneck was giving a sermon to six other rats in thimbles.
They had begun to worship Void's silhouette.
They called him The Ironed Absence.