Carly had one rule for the party, and it wasn’t the dress code.

“No cake,” she told Nicky, tapping the planning sheet with a pen. “He hates it. He eats one polite bite and stares at the wall for an hour like it betrayed him.”

“Then what do we serve?”

Carly slid a menu across the table. At the top, in bold: CHICKEN. Underneath, smaller: ALL OF IT. FOR DESSERT.

Nicky read it twice. “Zero gems?”

“Zero gems. The Castle kitchen’s handling it.”

“The Castle kitchen has been dead since seventeen eighty-eight.”

“Someone slid a note under my door. It said I can help. It smelled incredible.”

Nicky considered this for a long moment, wrote future problem in the margin, and moved on.

The Wings

Sunfire Castle on Halloween eve was three hundred candles, a draft that moved on its own, and a ballroom full of masked idiots humming behind the double doors. Carly adjusted her silver mask in the foyer and watched the front steps.

Icarus walked in at nine sharp, in a long black coat, a plain mask, and the polite expression of a man who had been promised a quiet dinner. Strapped to his back were two enormous gold wings, crooked, glued, and already dripping hot wax onto the marble.

“Bb,” he said. “You said quiet.”

“It’s quiet.”

“I can hear a hundred people screaming through that door.”

“It’s quiet in the sense that I haven’t told them to start yet.”

He looked down at the wax pooling around his boots. Then up at the sign over the door, carved in stone, glowing in the candlelight: SUNFIRE CASTLE.

“Bb,” he said slowly. “Did anybody check the name of this place against my name?”

“We checked everything.”

“Did you check that?”

“…We checked nothing,” said Nicky, from behind a sparkly angel halo.

The ballroom doors burst open and the crowd poured in around him. Joey led the charge in a gold lamé jumpsuit and a mirror-ball mask, followed by DD in a feathered domino mask and a bathrobe that nobody questioned. Joe trailed behind them, wearing a cardboard cutout of a shocked face and carrying a plate he’d apparently been guarding since the parking lot.

“Icky!” Joey shouted, grabbing him in a headlock hug. “My second favorite man in this state!”

“Who’s the first?”

“I’m looking at him in the mirror.”

“You’re wearing the mirror.”

“I contain the mirror.”

Behind them, Thunder stood against the wall, in no costume at all, as she had since sometime on Tuesday. Nicky waved. “Hi, Thunder.”

Thunder said nothing.

“Great,” said Nicky. “Love that for us.”

The Table

At the far end of the ballroom, under a chandelier that kept leaning slightly closer to the food, stood the dessert table.

It was a monument.

A tower of drumsticks, glazed in honey until they glowed like gold bars. Buttermilk fried chicken donuts dusted with maple sugar. Nashville hot chicken sundaes with a tiny paper umbrella. A trifle built from layers of waffle, fried thigh, and whipped honey butter. Crème brûlée topped with a single shard of crispy chicken skin, like a shattered little crown. Wings arranged in a flower. And, at the very end, a chicken-fried ice cream that nobody wanted to ask about.

Icarus stood in front of it for a long time. His mask hid his face. His wings dripped.

“Bb,” he said, in a very quiet voice.

“Happy birthday.”

“Where’s the cake?”

“There is no cake.”

“Is this…”

“All of it.”

“All dessert?”

“Yes.”

He turned. His shoulders were shaking.

“Is he crying?” whispered LiXx, drifting up in a moth-eaten opera cloak, a wine glass the size of a vase balanced in one hand.

“He’s moved,” said Carly.

“Breast or thigh?” LiXx asked him, deadpan.

“Thigh,” said Icarus, still staring.

A rooster crowed from somewhere inside the walls.

Everyone froze.

“Was that a rooster?” said Nicky.

“We don’t have a rooster.”

“He’s a thigh man,” said Carly, and the rooster crowed again, louder.

“Oh my god,” said LiXx, with the delight of a woman who had just found a new toy. “It’s reacting.”

“I’m a leg man,” said Mugi, arriving in a pirate hat and the cheerful flush of someone who’d found the punch early.

COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO.

“Stop saying things,” said Nicky.

“It’s a chicken conversation,” said Mugi.

“Every conversation in this Castle is going to be a chicken conversation,” said Kis, sliding in beside them in a ragged vampire cape and vending-machine fangs. “I’m going to make so much money off this.”

At the end of the table, a figure in a hot-spring robe and a crown of steaming towels stood perfectly still with her arms folded, glaring at the display like a general inspecting a surrendered fort.

“YuYu,” said Carly carefully. “You okay?”

“There’s no duck.”

“It’s a chicken party.”

“I’m aware.” YuYu lifted a silver dome from a tray hidden behind the donuts. Underneath sat a whole roast duck, glossy and perfect, with a tiny paper hat on its head. “I brought one anyway. For emotional support.”

“It’s a lot of duck.”

“It’s the right amount of duck.”

Behind her, a very large shadow filled the doorway. Mew had arrived in all black, no costume, carrying a laminated photo of himself on a stick, grinning drunk with a wine glass. He stopped when he saw the duck, then looked at YuYu, then back at the duck.

“I’m bringing roast duck,” he said, in the low voice of a man declaring war.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Your city. Roast duck.”

“I’ll bring two.”

“There’s already a duck on the table,” said Nicky.

“That’s dessert,” said YuYu, without turning. “This is a threat.”

“Is this a thing?” whispered Joe, from three feet away.

“It’s the thing,” said Kis. “It means somebody’s city is about to be on fire. Don’t get in the middle.”

Masks

By ten, nobody knew who anybody was.

That was the point of a masquerade. It was also the reason Joe had spent forty minutes trying to give the best drumstick on the table to a tall figure in a feathered mask at the edge of the dance floor, whom he’d decided was, with absolutely no evidence, LiXx.

“I saved you the crispiest one,” said Joe, bowing slightly.

The figure turned. It was Mew.

Mew looked at the drumstick. He looked at Joe. He accepted it with grave dignity and took a bite.

“…Thanks,” said Mew.

“You’re welcome,” said Joe, still not understanding.

Across the room, LiXx watched the entire exchange from behind her wine glass. She did not say a word. She finished the glass.

“You’re enjoying this,” said Kis.

“Tremendously.”

“You’re not going to tell him?”

“I’m going to let him find out.”

At the buffet, DD had his sleeves rolled up and a squeeze bottle of barbecue sauce in each hand. He was painting on a long white platter with the focus of a man defusing a bomb. A stick figure took shape: tall, winged, holding a drumstick like a scepter. Underneath, in cheerful sauce-script: ICKY. In the corner, drawn with a flourish and an obviously guilty smile, a tiny, unmistakable, anatomically ambitious detail.

COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOO.

“DD,” said Nicky, approaching with her clipboard.

“It’s art.”

“It’s on a plate.”

“It’s garnish.”

“The rooster has opinions.”

“The rooster is a critic.”

“I’m confiscating it.”

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever made.”

“I know. That’s why I’m confiscating it.”

Midnight

At midnight, the candles bent sideways. A smell of rosemary and old butter swept across the ballroom, rich and warm and slightly haunted. The rooster, by now hoarse, let out a final, cracked cluck.

From the kitchen doorway, a figure stepped out. He was tall, translucent, in an apron so white it glowed, wearing a chef’s hat that scraped the ceiling. His mustache was waxed to two terrifying points. In one hand he carried a ladle. In the other, a very small ghostly egg.

“Bonsoir,” he announced. “I am Chef Armand Poulet. I died in this kitchen in seventeen eighty-eight, in a dispute over thyme.”

Nobody said anything.

“For two hundred and thirty-eight years,” he said, “nobody has ordered my chicken. Then, on Tuesday, I find a note under a door. Chicken, all of it, for a man who deserves it.” His voice cracked. “I have been cooking since.”

“That was you,” said Carly.

“It was me.”

“The honey drumsticks?”

“Moi.”

“The thing with the ice cream?”

“We don’t speak of the ice cream.”

A faint scraping sound came from the end of the table. Nobody looked. The chicken-fried ice cream had, in fact, moved four inches to the left.

Icarus stepped forward, wax dripping. “Chef,” he said, with the solemnity of a man addressing a head of state. “It is the greatest honor of my life.”

The chef pressed a hand to his heart.

“But,” he said, and the room stiffened. “I do not serve my finest dish to a man who does not know how he is loved. That is the rule of my kitchen. Toasts. Short. Honest. About the guest of honor, and only the guest of honor. Then the bird.”

“What bird?” asked DD.

“Le Poulet de Minuit,” whispered the chef. “The midnight chicken.”

The Toasts

Nicky went first, because Nicky always went first. She stood up very straight in her halo, clipboard clasped to her chest, and addressed the room like a courtroom.

“I send a lot of reminders,” she said. “Everyone’s muted me. Some of you have blocked me. Icky is the only person who has ever read one of my messages and replied, ‘Thank you, Nicky.’ Every. Single. Time.” Her voice wobbled. “I have saved them. I have a folder.” She raised her glass. “To the only man who’s ever made me feel heard.”

“I muted you once,” said Mugi.

“I know, Mugi.”

“It was an accident.”

“It was Tuesday.”

Joey climbed onto a chair, which became a table, which became a minor structural concern. “My best friend’s husband!” he bellowed. “The only man who’s put up with a lifetime of Hoey and CarlyWhore and never once asked us to stop! Icky, you’re a saint! You’re a martyr! You’re the most patient man in Winterbane and also you have incredible hair!”

“I’m wearing a mask,” said Icarus.

“It’s implied.”

The table gave a sad, wooden groan. Joey looked down. The table looked up. Then, with great ceremony, the entire thing folded in half, and Joey landed in a heap on a tray of buffalo wings.

A long silence.

“Seasoned,” said Joey, from the floor, with dignity.

The rooster crowed.

Kis was up next, one fang hanging loose. “Icky, you call me a menace,” she said, “and then you never leave me in charge of anything. That’s the smartest decision you’ve ever made. I love you, I fear you, and I’m never telling Carly where I hid the vodka.” She tilted her head toward Carly, grinning. “Dragon Lady, you’ll have to tolerate it.”

“I’ll survive,” said Carly.

LiXx rose with the grace of a woman who had never been rushed in her life. She looked at Icarus for a long, appraising moment, then lifted her goblet.

“I don’t share my wine,” she said.

“True,” said Carly.

“With anyone.”

“Also true.”

“But.” LiXx took a tiny thimble out of her cloak, a real one, silver, no larger than a thumb, and filled it halfway from her own glass. She handed it to Icarus. “You’re the only man I know who’s never once asked for a sip. Not once. I’ve been waiting for it for years. Do you know how rare that is? I don’t trust people who don’t want my wine. I’m very suspicious of you.” She stepped back. “That thimble is the biggest gesture I’ve got. Don’t make it weird.”

Icarus drank it like a sacrament.

Mugi bounded to the front next, one hand on his hat, the other waving a drumstick. “Okay,” he said, “so I used to be in SKY.”

“We remember,” said Nicky.

“And when I left, nobody made it weird. Not even a little. Icarus just shook my hand, said ‘Good luck, they’re lucky to have you,’ and let me walk out the door with a mild case of the feelings.” He sniffed. “That was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. I’m gonna cry about it in the hallway later. For now: happy birthday, you glorious wax-dripping bastard.“

“I’ll allow it,” said Icarus.

Joe stepped up, cardboard face and all, clearing his throat. “I watched a video about toasts,” he said. “It said to start with a joke, then say something heartfelt, then end on a callback. So.” He took a breath. “Icky, you don’t follow a single piece of advice I give you.”

“That’s true.”

“And I respect that. Because you were right every time.” A beat. “Callback: the video was wrong.”

The chef sobbed. “Magnifique.“

YuYu was the next to rise, ladle in hand. She walked slowly across the ballroom and stood in front of Icarus with the gravity of a woman about to deliver a verdict.

“Chicken,” she said, “is for people who can’t commit to duck.”

Gasps.

“You told me once that my duck was the best thing you’d ever eaten,” she said. “And then you went and ordered chicken. Do you know what that did to me?” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I’ve never recovered. I’ve been wounded.”

“It was a good duck,” said Icarus.

“It was a perfect duck. And you still chose the bird.” She lifted the paper-hatted roast duck off its platter and handed it to him with both hands. “But you’re the only person who can insult my cooking and make me feel appreciated. Happy birthday. That’s a duck. It’s yours.”

Icarus took the duck. He looked at Mew. Mew looked at the duck.

“I’m bringing roast duck,” Mew told YuYu.

“I’ll bring two.”

Mew stepped forward, finally, at Carly’s gentle nudge. He cleared his throat. The room fell quiet. Mew was not a man who gave speeches.

“Happy birthday,” he said. “Don’t die.”

That was the speech. Four words. Nobody moved. Then somebody started clapping, and then everybody was clapping, and Mew shook his head in something like horror and sat back down, mortified.

Then came the one nobody expected.

420Dude climbed onto the stage, in a black hoodie and sunglasses he hadn’t removed since the invitation went out, holding a small, crumpled sheet of paper. He didn’t say a word for several long seconds. Then he lowered the shades.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and fellow alliance warriors,” he began. “Today we gather not merely to celebrate a birthday, but to bear witness to the continued existence of a living legend.”

“Oh no,” said Nicky, delighted.

“A man so powerful, so majestic, so unreasonably attractive in the group chat that the very servers tremble when he logs in. I speak, of course, of Icarus. Also known as Zaddy. Also known as ‘Why is he still online at 3 a.m.?’”

“He’s not wrong,” said Carly.

“Behold the man who flew too close to the sun, and then decided the sun wasn’t high enough, so he built a bigger alliance and flew even closer just to assert dominance. While lesser players fall from the sky, Icarus simply adjusts his wax wings, opens the chat, and types ‘gg’ like a god who has already won.”

Icarus lifted a hand. Wax splattered the floor.

“To the man, the myth, the reason we still play this game.” 420Dude raised a glass. “Happy birthday, you magnificent flying disaster. We love you. Now go eat something before it gets cold.”

The ballroom lost its mind.

The chef wept openly into his ladle.

Thunder came last.

She had said nothing all night. She stood against the wall, arms folded, exactly where she’d been since the first guest arrived. Slowly, she pushed off from the stone. She crossed the ballroom without a sound.

Every conversation died. The chandeliers held still.

She stopped in front of Icarus. She looked at him for a long, long time.

“You’re late,” she said.

Icarus glanced at his wrist. “Bb, I’m early.”

“Not for this,” said Thunder. “I’ve kept your chair warm.”

Silence.

Then, from somewhere deep in the crowd, someone sobbed. It might have been Joe. It might have been Mugi. It might have been the ghost.

Thunder returned to her wall. She did not say another word.

Carly went last.

She didn’t stand on anything. She didn’t raise a glass. She just walked up to her husband in her silver mask and took his hand, dripping wax and all. Her voice was low and tired and a little cracked.

“I married a man who shows up,” she said. “Every crisis. Every disaster. Every 3 a.m. I’ve ever spent staring at the ceiling saying ‘it’s fine’ when it very much was not. He’s never once let me panic alone. He’s never once said ‘I told you so,’ even when he definitely had.” She squeezed his hand. “I still don’t know what he’s doing online at three in the morning. I’ve decided it’s holy. Happy birthday, bb. I made you dessert. It’s chicken. You’re welcome.”

Icarus pulled her into a kiss. The whole ballroom made a noise like a kettle.

Le Poulet de Minuit

The chef bowed, a shimmering silver tear sliding down his cheek. “It is time,” he said.

He snapped his fingers. The kitchen doors swung open, and out floated a great silver platter, borne through the air by nothing at all. On it sat a whole roasted chicken, burnished mahogany, steaming, glistening, a sprig of rosemary in its cavity and a single lit candle stuck gently into its breast.

Nobody spoke.

“It’s beautiful,” whispered Mugi.

“It’s ethereal,” whispered LiXx, who had stopped drinking.

“It’s plump,” whispered Joey, now sitting in the wreckage of the table with a wing in each hand, and was immediately shushed by six people.

COCK-A-DOODLE—

“Not now,” said everyone.

Icarus stepped forward. His wings brushed the platter. A fat golden drop of wax slid off a feather and landed directly on the chicken’s skin.

“That’s not on the menu,” said Nicky faintly.

“It’s seasoning,” said Icarus.

He took a knife. He carved. He lifted a single piece to his mouth.

The room watched.

He chewed. He swallowed. For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then, very slowly, Icarus took off his mask.

“This is the best chicken I have ever eaten,” he said.

The chef collapsed. Not dramatically. Just gently, in a heap of rosemary smoke, his hat trembling, his hands over his face. “Mon dieu,” he sobbed. “After two hundred and thirty-eight years.”

“Chef,” said Icarus, setting down his fork. “It’s perfect.”

“I can rest now.”

“You can stay,” said Carly. “We have a lot of birthdays.”

The chef looked up. A slow, tearful grin spread beneath the waxed mustache. “I would like that very much,” he whispered. “But first, may I ask a small favor?”

“Anything.”

“Would someone please tell the rooster to stop.”

From the rafters came a very small, very tired cluck.

“I think he’s done,” said LiXx.

“Cock,” said the rooster, apparently by accident, and the entire ballroom lost it.

Epilogue: The Chat

By three a.m., the Castle had settled into its usual state of enchanted decay. The candles had melted to nubs. Mugi was asleep in a booth with a drumstick in his hand like a tiny sword. DD had been caught adding a second detail to his masterpiece and was being quietly escorted out by Nicky. Joey lay across three chairs, still sparkling and smelling faintly of buffalo sauce. Mew and YuYu were seated at opposite ends of a long table with an entire roast duck between them, glaring over it like chess players. Kis was asleep on the staircase in her vampire cape, one fang on the floor.

LiXx sat beside Joe, who had finally put down his plate. “That was Mew, you know,” she said.

Joe stared at her. “What was?”

“The drumstick.”

A long pause.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Joe.

“He said thanks.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It was a good drumstick.”

Joe laid his head on the table. LiXx patted it once, almost kindly.

Icarus stood on the balcony, in his drooping wings, leaning against the rail with his wife.

“Happy birthday, bb.”

“Best one yet.”

“You say that every year.”

“I mean it every year.”

She leaned into his shoulder. Wax dripped down the side of her mask. She decided to allow it.

At 3:07 a.m., the alliance chat lit up.

ICARUS: gg

NICKY: gg

LIXX: gg

JOEY: GG MY BEAUTIFUL MAN

420DUDE: gg. you magnificent flying disaster

CARLY: gg bb

At 3:08, a single new message appeared, from a user who had not spoken in six hours, who had said exactly seven words all night, and who had, apparently, been waiting for the perfect moment.

THUNDER: Hello.