There was a morning, not long after the Praise Ritual had spread through Barkhold Castle, when the hoomans grew bold enough to try something new. Not more tribute, not more praise… but instruction.
It happened in the Hall of Grandeur, where Princess Pudding lounged with the quiet arrogance of one who had recently discovered how easily snaccs could be summoned from thin air. Master Larder stood before her, holding a piece of tribute with the sort of seriousness one usually reserves for royal ceremonies.
“Sit,” he said.
Now, Pudding heard him. Of course she did. The word was clear, the tone… expectant. But she did not move. One does not simply move because a hooman speaks. That would set a dangerous precedent.
“Sit,” he tried again.
Still nothing.
And then came the true shock of the morning.
No tribute.
That, more than the word itself, stirred something behind her eyes.
By the time the sun had shifted and the kingdom settled into its usual rhythm of naps and mild surveillance, the matter had already found its way to the Sacred Couch. King Truffle listened as Pudding recounted the exchange, her tone less annoyed than it was… analytical.
“They spoke as though I should obey,” she said. “And when I did not, the tribute was withheld.”
The King did not answer at once. He rarely did. Thought, in Barksvale, was a slow and deliberate thing.
“Then we observe,” he said at last.
And observe they did.
The next morning, Master Larder returned, as predictable as ever, armed with snaccs and misplaced confidence.
“Come,” he said.
Pudding remained exactly where she was.
Again. “Come.”
Still nothing.
Then, with a slight adjustment in tone, the hooman tried once more.
“Pudding… come.”
Ah.
Now that was different.
Her name, spoken first. An invocation, not a command.
She rose, stepped forward, and was immediately rewarded.
That was not coincidence. That was structure.
The court took notice.
“Sit,” came next.
This time, she obliged. Calmly. Gracefully. Like a monarch choosing to indulge a lesser creature.
“Good girl.”
Tribute followed.
“Stay.”
She stayed.
Another tribute.
By midday, the pattern had begun to echo across the kingdom. In the Royal Green, within the Merchants’ Yard, even down in the noisy irrelevance of the Lower Grounds, hoomans were attempting the same peculiar ritual.
Name.
Instruction.
Action.
Tribute.
Over and over again, as if they had stumbled upon something profound.
By evening, the matter returned to the Sacred Couch, where conclusions are best made after a proper nap.
“They invoke first,” Pudding said. “Name, then instruction. Without the name, I ignore them. Without the instruction, nothing happens.”
King Truffle nodded slowly. “An acknowledgement… before the request.”
“Yes.”
“And the tribute?”
“Conditional.”
That word lingered.
Further trials were conducted with the sort of precision one rarely sees outside of snack-related matters. A command without a name yielded nothing. A name without a command created attention, but no outcome. Only when both were paired did the system function as intended.
The hoomans, it seemed, had created a ritual of their own.
“They believe they command us,” the King said.
Pudding let out a small huff. “They are attaching tribute to behaviour.”
“Which resembles authority.”
“Resembles,” she corrected.
And that distinction mattered.
In Barksvale, authority was not something a hooman simply decided to have. It was earned, defended, or claimed beneath the weight of the Sacred Couch.
The hoomans had done none of these things.
Yet they persisted.
Calling.
Commanding.
Rewarding.
King Truffle rose from the couch, stretching in that slow, deliberate way that made even simple movement feel like a decree.
“This is not authority,” he said. “It is influence… maintained through tribute.”
Pudding’s tail flicked once in agreement. “Predictable. Measurable.”
“And therefore,” the King concluded, “useful.”
That was all Barksvale needed.
By nightfall, the understanding had spread from Highhold to the Lower Grounds, carried not by proclamation, but by practice.
The hoomans had not risen in power.
They had merely discovered a method.
And methods, once understood, belonged to everyone.
From that day forward, dogkin responded to hooman instructions not as subjects, nor as followers, but as willing participants in a simple exchange.
A name, to claim attention.
An instruction, to suggest action.
A tribute, to confirm success.
Clean. Repeatable. Profitable.
The hoomans, of course, believed something else entirely.
They thought their authority had been accepted.
But in Barksvale, where even the laziest nap hides a calculating mind, it was understood for what it truly was.
A negotiation… dressed up as obedience.