Ch. 52 – Man’s Best Friend

Rhys sank deeper into the plush leather sofa, but no matter how he adjusted his posture, he couldn’t seem to get comfortable. The leather was supple, high-grade, and obviously cost a fortune—a detail Arthur had made sure to point out within thirty seconds of Rhys stepping into the room. Yet, sitting in the heart of his neighbor’s house after walking across the street with Dione felt like sitting on a bed of nails.

They were currently stationed in the rear of the property, down in Arthur’s sprawling, lavishly finished basement retreat—a space Arthur proudly referred to as his “man cave,” or more grandly, “The Round Table.”

When Arthur had first uttered the nickname, Rhys’s mental opinion of the former hero’s intelligence took an immediate, unceremonious dip. The Round Table? Rhys had thought, glancing around at the distinctly rectangular room that lacked both a circular aesthetic and an actual central table. It sounded like the cheesy, try-hard moniker of a middle-aged guy trying too hard to hold onto his youth.

However, Arthur quickly followed up by explaining that the room was named in honor of “The Round Table,” the elite, strike-force unit of holy knights he had commanded back during his golden operational years. Hearing the genuine reverence in the older man’s tone, Rhys felt a brief flicker of respect. His opinion shifted back up. The guy had a legacy; he had led men into the breach.

Then Arthur kept talking.

He leaned back in his heavy recliner, swirling a glass of amber whiskey, and sighed with a thick, nostalgic weight. “Ah, man... those were the days. Real combat, real authority. Things were so much better back then before the government got all uptight and started suffocating us with red tape.”

In an instant, Rhys’s opinion of Arthur’s intelligence took a crushing, vertical nose-dive, plunging so far into the subterranean depths that it was utterly beyond recovery.

Rhys had spent over a decade in the hero game, fighting alongside the highest-tier leagues on Earth and across the galaxy. He knew exactly what old-school heroes meant when they bitched about the modern regulations. “Back then” was an era of unchecked vigilantism, where collateral damage was brushed under the rug, power was abused with zero accountability, and the line separating a celebrated “hero” from a brutal, megalomaniacal villain was paper-thin. The modern legal framework, strict as it was, existed for a reason: to keep super-powered egos from treating the mortal world like their personal playground. Listening to Arthur pine for the “good old days” of unregulated force told Rhys everything he ever needed to know about the man’s character.

Rhys swept a quiet, tactical gaze across the room. It was an absolute monument to self-aggrandizement. A massive eighty-inch television dominated one wall, flanked by an expensive slate pool table, custom armor racks displaying polished steel greaves, and glowing trophy cases crammed with medals, battle-worn sigils, and framed newspaper clippings from Arthur’s prime. The whole space practically screamed of a man desperately clinging to past glory while his present life quietly decayed around him.

Determined to execute his cover story and get the hell out of this basement, Rhys leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. Dione was standing quietly near the basement stairs, hovering like a anxious ghost. Rhys cleared his throat, fixing Arthur with a calm, friendly expression.

“Anyway, Arthur,” Rhys began, his tone smooth and neighborly, “the main reason I walked over with Dione just now is because—”

“You know, Rhys,” Arthur abruptly interrupted, completely overriding him without a second thought, his eyes fixated on the floor, “it really is amazing when you think about it. Dogs. They truly are man’s best friend.”

Rhys blinked, caught entirely off-guard by the sudden, bizarre pivot. He swallowed his frustration, forcing a tight, polite nod. “Uh... yeah. Yeah, they are.”

Arthur leaned back, staring blankly at the ceiling as if slipping into a deep, heroic reverie. “I had a war-hound back when I led the Round Table,” Arthur said softly, his booming voice dropping into a quiet, solemn register. “Trained him up myself. Raised him from a pup to wear armored barding and walk right alongside my knights. That beast saw more blood and survived more meat-grinder battles than half the men under my command.”

Arthur paused, taking a long sip of his whiskey before continuing.

“One night... deep in the northern badlands... my unit got separated during an ambushed retreat. It was just me and my hound, stranded in the pitch dark. I was completely spent, Rhys. My aura was drained, my armor was shattered, and I couldn’t even lift my broadsword. And then... a whole pack of shadow-beasts caught our scent.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the glass so hard the ice rattled inside. “I was a dead man. But that damn dog... he didn’t hesitate. Drained as we were, he stepped up in front of me. Snarled at a horde of monsters five times his size. He bought me enough time to drag myself into a ravine before they tore him apart. He sacrificed himself so I could survive.”

For a fleeting second, Rhys could have sworn he saw a single, genuine tear glint in the corner of Arthur’s eye. But before Rhys could process the sudden vulnerability, Arthur roughly wiped his face with the back of his massive, calloused hand, clearing his throat loudly to chase the moment away.

“Ah, whatever,” Arthur grunted, his gruff demeanor snapping right back into place. He gestured casually toward the corner of the room. “Now I’m stuck with this little dumb mutt.”

Rhys followed his gesture. Sitting on a plush dog bed in the corner was a tiny, bug-eyed pug. The creature was snoring softly, its tongue hanging awkwardly out the side of its smushed face, tail wagging in a slow, rhythmic circle as it looked up at Rhys with utter, brainless contentment.

Looking at the tiny, flat-faced creature, Rhys had to silently admit to himself: Yeah. That is an undeniably dumb-looking dog.

“Yeah, he’s... he’s a cute dog, man,” Rhys said, offering a tight, polite smile.

Inside, however, a sudden, uncomfortable knot tightened in Rhys’s stomach. A wave of heavy, uninvited guilt washed over him, making his chest feel tight.

Why am I so pressed to lie to this man right now? Rhys thought bitterly, his conscience clawing at his ribs. I’m sitting in his own house, on his couch, actively calculating how to deceive him to cover up the fact that I’ve been sleeping with his wife.

Before Rhys could reconcile the wave of self-loathing rising in his chest, his breath caught in his throat.

Arthur’s posture had shifted. The loud, rambling, overconfident persona dropped just a fraction, replaced by something far colder, far sharper.

“My old war-hound had a nose that could track a demon through a blizzard,” Arthur said softly, his voice echoing dangerously in the quiet basement. “And this little mutt right here? He might not be able to fight shadow-beasts... but he’s got a damn good nose, too.”

Arthur slowly reached into the deep pocket of his heavy leather jacket.

He pulled out a crumpled piece of dark fabric and lifted it into the air between them, letting it hang in the space separating the two men.

Rhys’s heart slammed against his ribs like a sledgehammer, his blood running straight to ice.

It was his shirt. The distinct, custom-fitted fabric he wore all the time—held firmly in the hand of the man whose home he had invaded.