🐾 The Council Of Pedantic Owls by Sarina Valentino at Inkitt

Prologue: The Rise of the DOCs

The Aethelgard Chronicles

Book Three: The Council of Pedantic Owls

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Prologue: The Rise of the DOCs

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Part 1: The Bureaucratic Spire

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The Bureaucratic Spire rose from the heart of Crownhaven like a monument to everything that was wrong with the world.

It was not a beautiful building. It was not an inspiring building. It was a building that had been designed by creatures who had never seen the sun, who had forgotten what joy felt like, who believed that order was the only thing that mattered—and that order could only be achieved through endless paperwork.

The Spire was tall, impossibly tall, its top lost in the clouds. Its windows were narrow and dark, its walls covered in grime and the accumulated dust of centuries. Forms had been known to flutter from its windows like snow, drifting down to the streets below. The creatures of Crownhaven had learned to dodge them.

At the base of the Spire, a line stretched around the block. Creatures from every corner of Aethelgard stood in it, their faces blank with despair. They clutched papers in their paws—applications, appeals, requests for permits that would never be granted. They had been standing there for hours, days, sometimes weeks.

And at the top of the Spire, in a chamber filled with dust and forgotten dreams, the Discontented Owl Collective held their meetings.

They were owls, all of them—ancient creatures with feathers that had once been white but were now gray with age and indifference. They perched on high-backed chairs that had been designed to make anyone sitting in them feel small. They blinked slowly, their eyes half-closed, as if they had seen everything and found it all wanting.

"Order," said Archivist Cornelius, the head of the Collective. He tapped a stack of papers on the table. "We must have order."

The other owls nodded slowly, their eyes blinking in unison.

"The kingdom is in chaos," said Scribe Penelope, her voice dry as old parchment. "The broken law has been fixed, yes. But the creatures still do not follow proper procedure."

"Chaos is a problem," Cornelius agreed. "Chaos leads to... emotions. And emotions lead to... forms."

The owls shuddered.

"We must," said Keeper Barnaby, the head of the Lost Archives, "increase the paperwork."

The owls nodded again.

"More forms," they said in unison. "More committees. More meetings. More stamps."

Cornelius tapped his papers again. "The kingdom must learn. Order is the foundation of civilization. Paperwork is the foundation of order. We are the guardians of paperwork. Therefore, we are the guardians of civilization."

"Therefore," the other owls echoed, "we are the guardians of civilization."

And so, the DOCs continued their work, adding layer upon layer of bureaucracy to the kingdom. They did not know—they did not care—that their forms were crushing the spirits of the creatures below. They did not know—they did not care—that their committees were strangling the life out of Aethelgard.

They only knew that order must be maintained.

And they would maintain it, no matter the cost.

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Part 2: The System Grows

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The Discontented Owl Collective had not always been the masters of Aethelgard's bureaucracy.

There had been a time, long ago, when the kingdom had been managed by creatures who understood the needs of the people. They had been fair. They had been efficient. They had been... reasonable.

But those creatures had been replaced. One by one, they had been pushed out, their positions filled by owls who believed that order was everything, that paperwork was the foundation of civilization, that the only thing that mattered was following procedure.

It had happened slowly, over decades. A form added here. A committee created there. A new rule that required a new form that required a new committee that required a new rule.

The creatures of Aethelgard had not noticed at first. They had been too busy dealing with the chaos of the broken law, the darkness that threatened to consume everything, the battles that had to be fought. But once the darkness was defeated, once the law was fixed, once the kingdom was at peace, they began to notice.

They noticed that everything required paperwork. That every simple task had become a labyrinth of forms and stamps and signatures. That the bureaucrats who were supposed to serve them had become their masters.

And they noticed that the owls did not care.

Archivist Cornelius sat in his high-backed chair, his eyes half-closed, his beak slightly open. He was the oldest of the owls, his feathers tinged with the gray of centuries. He had been the head of the Collective for longer than anyone could remember—long enough that even he had forgotten when he had taken the position.

"The kingdom is in chaos," he said again, his voice dry as dust. "The creatures are not following procedure."

Scribe Penelope nodded slowly, her quill scratching across a parchment. "I have received reports. A merchant in the Grand Market attempted to sell goods without a permit."

"Without a permit?" Cornelius's eyes opened wider. "Impossible."

"Possible," Penelope said. "And regrettable."

Keeper Barnaby shuffled through a stack of papers, his feathers ruffled. "I have found the permit. It was filed six months ago, but it was mis-filed in the Lost Archives."

Cornelius blinked. "Mis-filed?"

Barnaby nodded. "It is in the Lost Archives. It has been there for six months."

"Then the merchant is in violation," Cornelius said. "He must be punished."

"He was punished," Penelope said. "He was fined. He was also required to fill out a new permit, which was filed correctly."

Cornelius nodded slowly. "Good. And the new permit?"

"Also in the Lost Archives," Barnaby said.

The owls were silent for a moment.

"This is a problem," Cornelius said finally. "A serious problem."

"We need more forms," Penelope said.

"We need more committees," Barnaby said.

"We need more stamps," Cornelius said.

The owls nodded in unison.

"Order," Cornelius said. "We must have order."

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The forms proliferated. The committees multiplied. The stamps grew heavier.

The creatures of Aethelgard did not rebel. They were too tired, too beaten down, too worn out by the endless cycle of paperwork. They filled out the forms. They attended the committees. They waited in the endless lines.

But they remembered a time when things had been simpler. A time when the broken law had been the greatest problem they faced. A time when a knight could be covered in pudding without having to fill out a form about it.

And they remembered the badger who had saved them.

Barclay Thornwallow had been a hero. He had defeated the darkness, navigated the Labyrinth, faced the shadow and the storm. He had brought peace to the kingdom. He had brought hope.

But even he could not defeat the DOCs.

Not yet.

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Part 3: The Lost Archives

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Deep beneath the Bureaucratic Spire, in a place that even the owls had forgotten existed, lay the Lost Archives.

It was a vast, sprawling labyrinth of shelves and filing cabinets, stretching into darkness. The air was thick with dust and the smell of old parchment, of ink that had long since dried, of words that had been written and never read. The shelves were crammed with documents—forms, permits, applications, appeals—that had been filed and forgotten, mis-filed and never found, buried and never unearthed.

Keeper Barnaby was the only one who knew the truth about the Lost Archives. He had been the keeper for centuries, long enough that he had forgotten his own name, long enough that he had become part of the archives himself. He shuffled through the aisles, his feathers gray with dust, his eyes half-closed, his mind lost in the endless maze of paperwork.

He had been searching for a document for the past three weeks. He could not remember what the document was, or why he was searching for it, but he knew that it was important. He had been searching for it for so long that he had forgotten what it looked like, what it said, what it meant.

But he knew that it was important.

"The document," he muttered to himself. "The document must be found."

He shuffled through another aisle, his claws scraping against the stone floor. The shelves stretched above him, piled high with papers. He reached out and pulled a document from a shelf, squinting at it in the dim light.

"No," he said, tossing it aside. "Not this one."

He pulled another document. "Not this one either."

He pulled another. "Not—"

He stopped.

This document was different. It was older than the others, its parchment yellowed with age. The ink was faded, the words barely legible. But Barnaby could read them. He had been reading documents for centuries. He could read anything.

He squinted at the words, his eyes widening.

"This," he whispered. "This is it."

The document was a decree—an ancient decree, signed by the first guardians of Aethelgard. It spoke of the founding of the DOCs, of their purpose, of their power. It spoke of the forms and the committees and the stamps. It spoke of the order that had to be maintained.

But it also spoke of something else. Something that had been forgotten, buried, lost.

It spoke of a secret.

Barnaby read the words again, his heart pounding. The secret was there, hidden in the ancient text, waiting to be discovered. It was a secret that could change everything—a secret that the DOCs had been hiding for centuries.

He clutched the document to his chest, his eyes wide.

"I must tell the others," he whispered. "I must tell them what I have found."

But even as he spoke the words, he knew that he could not. The DOCs did not want the secret to be found. They had buried it for a reason. They would do anything to keep it buried.

And Barnaby was just a keeper, shuffling through the aisles, forgotten by the world.

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Part 4: The Secret Revealed

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Barnaby clutched the ancient document to his chest, his heart pounding with a rhythm he had not felt in centuries. The parchment was brittle, its edges crumbling, but the words were still legible—faded but legible, written in a hand that had long since turned to dust.

He shuffled back through the aisles of the Lost Archives, his claws scraping against the stone floor. The shelves stretched above him, piled high with forgotten documents, each one a testament to the madness of the DOCs. But none of them were as important as this one. None of them held the secret that could change everything.

He reached the end of the aisle and stopped. A massive door loomed before him, its surface covered in ancient runes. It was the door to the Chamber of Secrets—a place that even the DOCs had forgotten existed. Barnaby had found it centuries ago, in the earliest days of his tenure, and he had kept it hidden ever since.

He pressed his claw against the runes, and the door swung open with a groan. The chamber beyond was small and dark, lit only by a single candle that flickered on a stone table. The walls were lined with shelves, each one filled with documents that had been deemed too dangerous to keep in the main archives.

Barnaby shuffled to the table and laid the document down. He smoothed out its edges, his claws trembling.

"This is it," he whispered. "This is what I have been searching for."

But it also spoke of something else.

The DOCs had been created not just to manage paperwork, but to control the flow of information. They had been given the power to decide what the creatures of Aethelgard could know, what they could believe, what they could hope for. They had been the gatekeepers of truth—and they had used their power to bury the truth, to hide it beneath mountains of paperwork.

The document revealed a secret that had been hidden for centuries: the Source Code had not been the only thing that was broken. The kingdom itself had been broken, its foundations cracked, its heart wounded. And the DOCs had known about it. They had known about it for centuries, and they had done nothing.

Barnaby read the words again, his heart heavy.

"The kingdom is dying," he whispered. "It has been dying for centuries. And the DOCs have been hiding it."

He looked up at the flickering candle, his eyes filled with tears.

"I must tell someone," he said. "I must tell the badger."

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But even as he spoke the words, Barnaby knew that he could not. The DOCs did not want the secret to be found. They had buried it for a reason. They would do anything to keep it buried—even if it meant destroying anyone who tried to uncover it.

Barnaby was just a keeper, shuffling through the aisles, forgotten by the world. He was old, tired, and afraid. He had spent centuries hiding from the truth, and now that he had found it, he did not know what to do.

But he knew that he had to do something.

He folded the document carefully, tucking it into his robes. Then he shuffled back through the aisles, his claws scraping against the stone floor. The Lost Archives stretched around him, dark and endless, filled with the ghosts of forgotten words.

He would find the badger. He would tell him the truth. And together, they would save the kingdom—or die trying.

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Part 5: The Messenger

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Barnaby emerged from the Lost Archives into the dim light of the Bureaucratic Spire's lower levels.

The corridors here were narrow and winding, their walls lined with filing cabinets that stretched to the ceiling. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and dust, of ink and desperation. The only sounds were the scratching of quills and the distant thump of stamps.

Barnaby shuffled through the corridors, his claws scraping against the stone floor. His robes were heavy with the weight of the ancient document, his mind clouded with the knowledge of what he had discovered. He had been searching for this secret for centuries, and now that he had found it, he did not know what to do with it.

He passed by a group of clerks, their heads bent over their desks, their quills scratching across endless forms. They did not look up as he passed. They did not see him. They were lost in their own world, a world of paperwork and procedure, of order and obedience.

Barnaby continued on, his heart pounding. He had to find the badger. He had to tell him the truth. But he did not know where the badger was, or how to reach him. The badger was a hero, a leader, a creature of action. He was not trapped in the endless maze of the Spire.

But Barnaby was.

He reached the end of the corridor and stopped. A massive door loomed before him, its surface covered in ancient runes. It was the door to the Council Chamber—the place where the DOCs held their meetings.

Barnaby hesitated. He could hear voices on the other side of the door—the voices of the owls, their tones dry and indifferent, discussing matters of procedure and order.

He pressed his ear against the door, his heart pounding.

"The kingdom is in chaos," Archivist Cornelius was saying. "The creatures are not following procedure."

"Procedure must be followed," Scribe Penelope agreed. "Procedure is the foundation of order."

"Order is the foundation of civilization," Keeper Barnaby said, echoing the words he had heard a thousand times before.

He realized what he was doing and stopped, his eyes wide. He had been standing there, pressing his ear against the door, listening to the owls discuss the very things he had spent centuries trying to escape.

He took a step back, his claws scraping against the stone floor.

"I must find the badger," he whispered. "I must tell him the truth."

He turned and shuffled away, his robes heavy with the weight of the ancient document.

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Barnaby reached the main entrance of the Spire and stepped out into the daylight.

The world outside was bright and chaotic, filled with the sounds of creatures going about their daily lives. Merchants haggled over prices, children ran through the streets, and the smell of fresh bread drifted from a nearby bakery.

Barnaby blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light. He had not been outside the Spire in decades. He had forgotten what the world looked like, what it felt like, what it smelled like.

But he had not forgotten his purpose. He had to find the badger.

He shuffled through the streets, his claws scraping against the cobblestones. Creatures stared at him as he passed, their eyes wide with curiosity. He was a strange sight—an ancient owl in dusty robes, clutching a faded document to his chest.

"Excuse me," he said, stopping a passing squirrel. "Do you know where I can find Barclay Thornwallow?"

The squirrel blinked. "Barclay Thornwallow? The hero?"

"Yes," Barnaby said. "The hero."

The squirrel pointed down the street. "He's at the palace. He's always at the palace."

Barnaby nodded his thanks and shuffled on, his heart pounding. He was getting closer. He was going to find the badger. He was going to tell him the truth.

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Part 6: The Badger's Response

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The palace gates loomed before Barnaby, tall and imposing, their iron bars gleaming in the afternoon light. Guards stood at attention on either side, their eyes scanning the crowd with practiced vigilance. They were badgers, like the hero they served—strong, loyal, and fiercely protective of their king.

Barnaby shuffled forward, his claws scraping against the cobblestones. His robes were dusty, his feathers ruffled, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination. He clutched the ancient document to his chest, its edges crumbling, its secrets burning a hole in his heart.

"Halt," one of the guards said, stepping forward. "State your business."

Barnaby blinked, his mind reeling. He had not spoken to anyone outside the Spire in decades. He had forgotten how to interact with the world beyond the walls of paperwork and procedure.

"I—I need to see Barclay Thornwallow," he stammered. "It's urgent. It's about the DOCs. It's about the secret."

The guard exchanged a glance with his partner. "Barclay Thornwallow is a busy creature. He doesn't have time for every owl who—"

"It's about the kingdom!" Barnaby interrupted, his voice rising. "The kingdom is dying! The DOCs have been hiding it for centuries! I have proof!"

The guards stared at him, their expressions shifting from suspicion to concern.

"Wait here," the first guard said. "I'll fetch him."

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Barclay Thornwallow stood on the palace balcony, looking out over the city. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. The streets below were quiet, the creatures of Aethelgard settling in for the evening. It was peaceful. It was ordinary. It was everything he had ever wanted.

But he could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.

"Friend Badger," Glorb said softly from his customary spot on Barclay's shoulder. "You're thinking very loudly. Very loudly and very intensely."

Barclay smiled despite himself. "I'm sorry, Glorb. I can't help it."

"Thinking about what, Friend Badger?"

Barclay was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I'm thinking about the kingdom, Glorb. About the DOCs. About the way they've been running things."

Glorb was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You don't trust them, do you, Friend Badger?"

Barclay shook his head. "No, Glorb. I don't. They've been hiding something. I can feel it."

Flicker appeared on the balcony behind them, her arms crossed. "You're not the only one. I've been hearing rumors. Whispers from the market. Creatures are unhappy. The paperwork is getting worse."

Barclay nodded. "I know. And I think it's time we did something about it."

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A guard appeared at the balcony door. "Sir Barclay? There's an owl here to see you. He says it's urgent. He says it's about the DOCs."

Barclay turned, his eyes narrowing. "An owl?"

"Yes, sir. He says he has proof of something. Something the DOCs have been hiding."

Barclay exchanged a glance with Flicker. "Bring him in."

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Barnaby shuffled into the room, his claws scraping against the stone floor. He was a pathetic sight—an ancient owl in dusty robes, clutching a faded document to his chest. His eyes were wide, his feathers ruffled, his entire body trembling with exhaustion and fear.

"Sir Barclay," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I have found something. Something the DOCs have been hiding for centuries."

Barclay stepped forward, his expression grave. "What is it?"

Barnaby held out the document, his claws trembling. "This. It's a decree—an ancient decree, signed by the first guardians of Aethelgard. It reveals the truth about the DOCs. About what they've been hiding."

Barclay took the document, his eyes scanning the faded words. His expression shifted from curiosity to concern to horror.

"Barclay?" Flicker asked. "What does it say?"

Barclay looked up, his eyes wide. "The kingdom is dying," he said. "It has been dying for centuries. And the DOCs have been hiding it."

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Part 7: The Truth Unveiled

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The room fell silent.

Barclay stared at the document, his eyes scanning the faded words again and again. The parchment was brittle, its edges crumbling, but the words were still legible—faded but legible, written in a hand that had long since turned to dust.

"The kingdom is dying," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "It has been dying for centuries. And the DOCs have been hiding it."

Flicker stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. "What do you mean, 'the kingdom is dying'? The kingdom is fine. We saved it. We fixed the broken law. We—"

"We fixed the symptoms," Barnaby interrupted, his voice trembling. "But we did not fix the cause."

Barclay looked up, his eyes meeting the ancient owl's. "What cause?"

Barnaby took a shaky breath. "The kingdom is built on magic. The Source Code, the Labyrinth, the Heart of the Kingdom—they are all connected. They are all part of the same system. And that system is failing."

"How do you know?" Glorb asked, his voice soft but steady.

Barnaby gestured to the document. "It's all there. The first guardians knew. They knew that the kingdom was built on unstable ground. They knew that the magic would eventually fade, that the Source Code would weaken, that the Labyrinth would lose its power. They tried to find a solution, but they couldn't. So they hid the truth. They buried it beneath mountains of paperwork, hoping that no one would ever find it."

Barclay felt a chill run down his spine. "And the DOCs?"

"The DOCs were created to keep the secret," Barnaby said. "They were given the power to control the flow of information, to decide what the creatures of Aethelgard could know and what they couldn't. They have been hiding the truth for centuries, burying it deeper and deeper."

Flicker's voice was sharp. "Why? Why would they hide something like that?"

Barnaby's eyes were filled with sadness. "Because they are afraid. They are afraid of what will happen if the creatures learn the truth. They are afraid of the panic, the chaos, the collapse of everything they have built. They believe that ignorance is safety, that order is the only thing that matters."

Barclay was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "But the kingdom is dying. And if we don't do something, it will die."

Barnaby nodded slowly. "Yes. That is why I came to you. You are the only one who can help. You are the only one who can stop them."

Barclay looked at his friends. Flicker was grim, her hand on her weapon. Glorb was glowing steadily, his tiny face filled with determination.

"Then we'll stop them," Barclay said. "We'll find the truth. We'll save the kingdom."

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Flicker stepped forward, her eyes blazing. "How? How do we fight something like this? How do we fight the DOCs?"

Barclay was silent for a moment. Then he said, "We do what we've always done. We stand together. We believe in each other. We refuse to give up."

Glorb glowed brighter. "Together, Friend Badger. Forever."

Barnaby shuffled forward, his claws scraping against the stone floor. "I can help you. I know the Spire. I know its secrets. I know the DOCs and their weaknesses."

Barclay nodded. "Then you'll be our guide."

Barnaby bowed his head. "I will do whatever I can to help. I have spent centuries hiding from the truth. It is time to face it."

Barclay looked at the ancient document in his paws. The words were faded, the ink smudged, but the message was clear. The kingdom was dying. The DOCs were hiding the truth. And they were the only ones who could save it.

"Then let's go," he said. "Let's find the truth. Let's save the kingdom."

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The group gathered in the palace courtyard, their faces grim but determined.

Barnaby stood at the front, his ancient eyes fixed on the Bureaucratic Spire in the distance. It loomed over the city, dark and imposing, its windows like hollow eyes staring down at them.

"The Spire is vast," Barnaby said. "It has hundreds of floors, each one filled with paperwork and committees. The DOCs are everywhere. They control everything."

Barclay nodded. "Then we'll start at the bottom. We'll work our way up."

Barnaby shook his head. "The bottom is where the Lost Archives are. The truth is at the top. The Council Chamber. That's where the DOCs hold their meetings. That's where the final secret is hidden."

Barclay looked at the Spire. It was so tall that its top was lost in the clouds.

"Then we'll go to the top," he said. "We'll find the truth. We'll save the kingdom."

Glorb floated before him, his glow bright and steady. "Together, Friend Badger. Forever."

Barclay smiled. "Yes, Glorb. Forever."

He turned to the others. "Let's go. Let's find the truth. Let's save the kingdom."

And they set off toward the Bureaucratic Spire.

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[End of Prologue]

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What's Next?

Chapter 1: The Bureaucratic Spire

Barclay, Flicker, Glorb, and Barnaby enter the Bureaucratic Spire. They must navigate its endless floors, avoid the watchful eyes of the DOCs, and find the truth hidden at the top. But the Spire is designed to trap, confuse, and overwhelm—and the DOCs are always watching.

Coming Soon! 🦡✨🦊📜🦉