The landing plaza spreads out in front of the grand pavilion like a ceremonial wound cut into the city—vast, symmetrical, impossibly clean. Polished stone catches the light and reflects it upward, forcing the eye to look where it’s meant to look. Red and white banners hang in disciplined lines from towering spires, their fabric heavy, immaculate, unmoving even in the faint breeze. Each bears the same symbol: a black sword laid over a red crying eye, perfectly symmetrical, perfectly centered. No flourish. No variation. Just repetition.
Order made visible.
The pavilion itself rises at the far end of the plaza, a cathedral in all but name. Its scale is deliberate, its angles sharp enough to feel judgmental. This place wasn’t chosen because it was beautiful. It was chosen because it was effective. Any king stepping out the transport circle here would feel small before they ever felt welcomed.
Intimidating. Isolating. Awe threaded tightly with fear.
If I were seeing Solomir for the first time without context—without knowing Alaric, without knowing the games being played—I would assume this was a force to align with, not oppose. A power too entrenched, too polished, too overwhelming to push against without being crushed.
And that, I realize, is the point.
This city is a weapon, just as surely as any army or spell. A psychological opening strike. Posture raised to an art form. Every arch and banner exists to make visiting kings reconsider any lingering thoughts of dissent. To make rebellion feel childish. To make obedience feel reasonable.
Scott exhales slowly beside me. I don’t look at him, but I don’t need to. I know that sound. He’s impressed despite himself—and irritated that he is.
We were prepared for Solomir.
But we weren’t prepared for this.
From Alaric’s streams, the city always looked beautiful. Grand, yes, but distant. Curated. A glimpse offered here and there. Alaric has been careful from the start—almost obsessive—about how he presents himself. He doesn’t leave the watch braziers burning all night the way I do. He treats visibility like a limited commodity.
When Alaric goes live, it’s an event.
He lights the braziers sparingly, sometimes for only an hour or two, and when he does, people rush. It’s like a concert announced two days before the show—no time to second-guess, no time to drift away. You either show up now or miss it entirely. The scarcity alone sharpens attention.
And then there’s the waking world.
He has a Twitter account. Public. Polished. Scheduled announcements, teasers, reminders. Someone—someone—is managing that presence. Tracking engagement. Feeding information out slowly, deliberately. Not too much. Not too little. Keeping anticipation high and fatigue low.
Victor and I have talked about it more than once. Whoever Alaric is outside Nod, he understands narrative control. This isn’t improvisation. This is practiced. It feels like someone with a background in entertainment, maybe influencer culture, maybe something adjacent—someone who knows when to press and when to pull back, how to keep people wanting more without giving them enough to get comfortable.
That kind of restraint is dangerous.
Standing here now, with Solomir laid bare in front of me, it’s clear how intentional all of this is. The city. The streams. The pacing. They all serve the same purpose.
Power, reinforced from every angle.
In Nod, the rules of survival have been clarifying themselves with brutal efficiency. Strip away the novelty, strip away the spectacle, and what remains are three pillars. Ignore any one of them and the whole structure collapses.
The first is Martial strength. The obvious one. The ability to fight, to command, to build defensively and think strategically. Armies. Fortifications. Response time. Without this, you don’t last long enough to need to worry about the other pillars.
The second is Political power. Alliances. Trade. Trust. Culture. How well your people believe in what you’re building, and how other kingdoms decide whether you’re worth standing beside—or behind. A blade can win a battle, but it can’t hold ground forever without someone choosing to stay.
And the third—arguably the most volatile—is the Social pillar. Followers. Faith. Tithe. The waking world’s attention flowing directly into Nod, fueling everything from structures to artifacts to influence. Ignore it, and you starve. Mismanage it, and it turns on you.
You don’t need to dominate all three.
But you need to be competent in all of them.
As kings fall and channels go dark, their followers don’t disappear. They scatter. They migrate. They attach themselves to whoever is still standing, whoever looks strong, whoever feels inevitable. The early days matter more than anything else, and Nod is still young—barely two months old since this began.
This is the most opportune time to grow, before other kings catch on and do it first.
The audience is forming habits. Loyalties. Favorites.
Solomir was built to win that race.
Scott shifts beside me, boots scraping softly against the polished stone, and I feel the weight of the city press in from all sides. The banners don’t move. The soldiers don’t fidget. Even the air feels disciplined.
Alaric doesn’t just want to be king.
He wants to be the center of gravity.
And as we stand at the foot of his pavilion, framed perfectly for maximum effect, I’m more certain than ever that this summit isn’t about unity.
It’s about reminding every other king exactly how small they are supposed to feel.
Marcus. What’s first on our tasks?
Scott's direct message pulls me from my thoughts and back to reality.
I keep my face still. Don’t glance. Don’t shift. Not even a twitch toward him. If the wrong person is watching closely enough to catch an eye flick, then all the effort to hide our ring's new ability would be a waste.
Follow along with the circus, I send back, careful and measured. We learn what they expect of us. We get the schedule. We see how close the leash is. Assume we’re watched the entire time. Play along. I’ll call the next move when I’m sure.
Copy. Eyes open.
The message fades, and with it the thin comfort of having our private channel. The city presses in again—bright stone, sharp banners, the weight of intention in every surface.
Two men peel away from the waiting cluster of servants and soldiers and approach us with the kind of confidence that comes from being told they’re untouchable. Not knights. Not priests. Something in-between. The posture of educated men who know how to stand in front of power without flinching, because they’ve been trained to handle it.
“I am Jasper,” the first says, inclining his head. “And my companion is Gaius. King Kyris, I will be your guide and direct aid while in Solomir. And Gaius will be yours, King Thalos. Should you need anything while in our country, please ask it of us. Our Holy Kingpriest Alaric wishes that you want for nothing.”
I take them in the way I’d take in an unfamiliar location—fast, clinical.
They’re both around my height, moderate build, clean lines. No soldier’s calluses at the heel of the palm, no scars from blade work. But there are ink-stains that never quite wash out, and the faint, pale knots on the knuckles that come from years of writing. It’s the difference between a hand that grips a weapon and a hand that grips a pen. I’ve had both—different lives, different worlds—and I can see it on them.
Jasper’s hair is jet black, cropped close in a practical cut. Clean-shaven. Efficient. He looks like the type who measures everything and never wastes a word he doesn’t have to.
Gaius is rougher around the edges—darker eyes, a mouth set like he’s used to being obeyed. His blond hair is shaved at the sides and pulled into a short topknot that keeps it out of his face. He looks like he plays the friendly guide, but would have no issue walking you into a locked room and leaving you there.
They turn toward a broad causeway that leads away from the grand pavilion and its gleaming landing.
“If you would both follow us,” Gaius says, voice bright in that practiced way, “we will take you to your lodgings for your stay here in Solomir. If you have any questions as we walk, do ask! We would love to teach you about our culture.”
I fall into step without hesitation, matching their pace. Scott does the same, casual as ever. He can make anything look like a joke if he wants to. It’s a weapon. Here, it might be the only one we’re allowed to carry openly.
“Will there be a schedule for the summit?” I ask. “Or are we to wait until we’re called from our lodging?”
“Oh yes,” Gaius answers immediately, pleased. “We have prepared time for you to tour the city and enjoy our amenities. Once we arrive at your allotted quarters, we’ll go over the schedule.”
Allotted quarters. Another phrase that rubs raw. Not your rooms. Not your villa. Allotted. Like we’re being issued housing the way soldiers are issued bedrolls.
We move.
Solomir is built on a mountain, and it wants you to know it. The streets aren’t just streets—they’re sweeping tiers that curve along the slope, each ring higher than the last. From where we were brought in, the district feels like wealth condensed into architecture: pale stone so clean it seems impossible, wide staircases, fountains that run without visible plumbing, gardens arranged with geometric precision. Parks open into vistas that drop away into mist, the city falling beneath us in layered half circles like a crown wrapped around a peak.
And everywhere—banners.
Red and white fabric hangs in long vertical drapes from balconies and arches, snapping gently in the mountain wind. The black sword and red crying eye repeat so often it stops feeling like decoration and starts feeling like a brand burned into the skyline. The eye is symmetrical—perfectly balanced, the tear a stylized shape, not grief but a symbol of sanctioned sorrow. A reminder that even emotion here has rules. And a reminder that you always have eyes on you.
The people match the city.
High-class humans, almost all of them. Well-dressed, tailored clothing with religious motifs woven into hems and collars. White cloth, red trim, occasional black accents. Jewelry that looks more like signifiers of station than personal taste. Rings, pins, chains with the crying eye stamped into them.
And soldiers. Gods, the soldiers.
Dozens of them in sight at any given moment. Sometimes standing at corners. Sometimes walking in pairs. Sometimes lining an entire stretch of road like a parade that never ends. Some wear full plate with tabards. Others wear lighter armor with red sashes. There are enough bodies and blades here that it feels less like a city and more like a fortress pretending it’s civilized.
Scott’s presence draws glances. My presence draws stares—quickly hidden, but sharp. I see women pull children slightly closer. I see men pause their conversations just long enough to watch me pass. Not curiosity.
Judgment.
The causeway runs past establishments meant to make you forget your station—if you aren’t paying attention.
Outdoor restaurants with iron tables and white cloth in the style of a French sidewalk café. Bakeries with open windows that spill warm air and the smell of sugar and butter into the street. Smoking lounges with curtained entrances where rich men drift in and out, laughing softly as if nothing in the world could touch them. Luxury retailers displaying jewelry in glass cases like holy relics, and clothing shops with mannequins dressed in immaculate whites and reds.
Every third building is dedicated to the ecclesiarchy.
Small chapels with open doors and candles burning in broad daylight. Offices with red banners hanging like curtains. Stone alcoves where robed figures stand and offer blessings to passersby.
As we walk, I catch snippets of their speech.
“Kingpriest bless you, child.”
“May the light of Solvael grant you guidance.”
Solvael.
That name is new, and it hits my attention like a nail. I keep my voice neutral when I ask, as if it’s casual curiosity and not a key turning in a lock.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” I say, looking toward Jasper as we pass another chapel, “but who is Solvael? I overheard some citizens say the name.”
Jasper’s expression brightens in a way that feels rehearsed—like he’s been waiting for one of us to ask.
“Oh goodness, yes,” he says, almost delighted. “Solvael—may he guide us all—is the lord divine over all of Solomir. He placed our home upon this mountain to protect us from the detestable evils below.” He gestures upward, toward the higher rings that vanish into cloud. “He makes his home at the highest point of the peak, named thusly after him. Kingpriest Alaric is his chosen speaker, and what Alaric says is dictated as direct law from Solvael.”
Scott’s face stays relaxed, but his eyes narrow a fraction. I can feel him listening.
I keep my tone polite. “So King Alaric rules in place of Solvael?”
Jasper’s smile shifts. Not offended—more like he’s correcting a child.
“Well, yes and no. Not rules in his place, as our Lord Solvael has no interest in rule. We dedicate ourselves to him out of our love.” He spreads his hands, as if the concept should be self-evident. “But all peoples must have a leader. Solomir’s leader has always been he—or she—who speaks for Solvael.”
I lock that away.
Not just religion.
A structure. A justification. An engine that can turn obedience into holiness.
We pass a wide square where a regiment is marshaling. Rows of soldiers—hundreds—moving in perfect lines, their boots striking stone in synchronized rhythm. Commands barked. Banners snapping. Spearheads catching the sun.
It looks like training.
It feels like theater.
A grand spectacle meant to be seen, meant to press weight into our bones.
Look. Understand. You are small here.
“So,” I ask, keeping it light, “do all citizens of Solomir follow Solvael?”
Gaius answers this time, a hint of regret smoothing his voice. “Unfortunately not all of our people have stepped into the light of our lord.” He tilts his head, then adds quickly, “Though I assure you—anyone you meet around this ring is devout. You should not worry yourself with that. I doubt you will be visiting the lower rings during your stay.”
Lower rings.
There it is again. The unspoken line: There are places you will not go.
“How would I go down a ring?” I ask, letting curiosity do the work. “Are there checkpoints?”
Gaius looks appalled for a heartbeat—like I asked to wade into sewage for fun—but he recovers and answers anyway.
“Well, if you must descend, I don’t recommend further than the fourth ring.” He gestures vaguely to either side, as if the city’s infrastructure is obvious. “Each ring has an east and west lift, manned by soldiers of that ring. They know you are visiting. They know you have access up to the eighth. All you must do is present your hand to show the ring indicating you as royalty.”
My eyes flick—just briefly—down to my hand.
He means the Ring of the Outer Court.
And I understand immediately that asking more questions will tighten the leash.
“Interesting,” I say smoothly, letting the topic die. “Thank you. I’m curious to the entertainment and culture of your city. Thank you for enlightening me.”
Gaius brightens again, as if grateful to be returned to safe territory. “Of course! Solomir’s arts are unmatched—our music, our sculpture, our cuisine—”
Scott’s DM pops in again, dry as dust.
Man. You’re getting a lot of sideways looks from these people.
I keep my face forward.
I’m sure there isn’t much nice to say about me, I send back. Any information they get is doctored in favor of Alaric. They probably only know me as a monster.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
I glance at a passing couple—both dressed in white with red sashes, hands clasped, eyes flicking away when they catch mine.
They don’t have the luxury of seeing the struggles of other kingdoms. To them, we’re lesser kings at best… and heretical vermin at worst.
Scott’s reply is delayed a beat, which means he’s watching too.
Yeah. Smiles only. For now.
We keep walking.
And with every step, the city climbs—subtly, steadily—rings tightening as we rise, the buildings growing taller, the stonework cleaner, the guards more numerous.
Solomir isn’t just showing us its beauty.
It’s showing us its throat.
And daring us to reach for it.
Our guides slow their pace as the streets widen, the noise of the city thinning the way it does when you step into a richer district—less shouting, fewer carts, more stonework meant to impress.
Ahead, an estate rises behind gilded fencing and hedgerows trimmed with surgical precision. The gold isn’t gaudy so much as it is intentional—a line drawn in metal that says this is where the important people sleep. Tall lamps line the walkway, their glass panes cut into sharp angles that catch and fracture the light. Every surface is polished. Every corner is planned.
This isn’t hospitality.
It’s containment dressed as comfort.
One of the guides gestures to the gates as if he’s presenting a trophy.
“One of our finest citizens has offered his second villa as your lodging for the time here in Solomir,” he says, voice smooth with rehearsal. “Four other kings will also be staying in this villa, so I do ask that you be courteous to your peers. It is encouraged that you get to know them and mingle when you have the chance. I am sure that you will be quick allies and be all the more prepared when you are taken into the fold.”
Taken into the fold.
The phrase catches in my chest like a hook.
My eyes stay on the estate, but my mind runs, fast and sharp, tracing the shape of the sentence the way you trace a crack in glass. It’s not an invitation. It’s a presumption.
Look how much better we are than you. Obviously our goals are more important. Join us. Help us advance them. You’ll be better off for it too.
Scott doesn’t react outwardly, but the angle of his shoulders shifts—a subtle tightening I’ve learned to recognize. He heard it too.
We pass through the gates, our footsteps swallowed by the manicured path. The front doors are massive—dark wood reinforced with metal bands that glint like a warning.
Attendants wait in a neat line.
And one of them is beastkin.
My attention snaps to him immediately. A man—if I can call him that—with a short muzzle and fur that’s been brushed into perfect order, wearing servant’s white with red trim like everyone else. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t meet Scott’s eyes. Doesn’t meet mine. His hands tremble faintly as he takes the door handles, gaze fixed on the stone at his feet.
The door opens.
He steps aside.
And his shoulders sag with a relief so small most would miss it.
I don’t.
We are greeted by waiting staff who move with practiced grace, like they’ve been trained not only to serve but to observe. A woman with hair pinned into a severe knot offers a shallow bow and says something about refreshments. Another man immediately reaches for Scott’s cloak, and Scott’s posture stiffens before he lets it happen, like he’s swallowing the instinct to jerk away.
Our two guides stop in the foyer, just inside the threshold, as if this line on the floor is where their authority ends.
“This is where we will leave you for now,” the lead guide says. “Make yourselves comfortable, and the house staff will take care of your needs until we meet next. The itinerary will be issued to the head of the estate staff, but all you need to know is that after you rest, and wake tomorrow, you will have time to take in our culture and meet with many of our esteemed citizens, followed at the end of the day with a banquet of extravagant magnitude.”
He pauses, as if savoring the words.
“The primary talks of the summit will happen on the following day and take place through the second half of the day.”
A schedule. A funnel. A structure designed to keep us moving where they want us to move.
The guide offers a slight bow. The second mirrors it. The doors shut with a soft, final click that feels louder than it should.
And just like that, we are sealed inside.
Scott lets out a low breath through his nose. “Well,” he says, voice light, “this is… cozy.”
I glance sideways at him. His grin is there, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
We’re both nearing the end of our nights. I can feel it in the subtle pull behind my eyes, the slow drag of exhaustion that has nothing to do with muscle and everything to do with time. Whatever we want to investigate tonight, we don’t have much runway for it.
But we have enough to learn the layout.
And enough to meet whoever else Alaric decided to cage with us.
The head of the house staff—an older woman with a silver pin shaped like the crying eye—claps once, and servants scatter into motion. We are guided through high-ceilinged rooms built for hosting: a grand sitting hall with wide windows and red-draped curtains, a dining room long enough to seat an army of nobles, a kitchen that smells like baked bread and herbs and something sharp beneath it—spice, or antiseptic.
There are smaller rooms too. Intimate ones meant for quiet conversation. A music room with instruments arranged like offerings. A library that makes my attention snag so hard I slow unconsciously.
Shelves stretch up two stories, lined with leatherbound volumes and scroll cases, the spines labeled in neat, consistent script. The books look used, not decorative. That matters. A place like this wouldn’t waste shelf space on nothing.
I file it away.
Then they show us the practice yard in the back of the estate.
It’s open to the sky, surrounded by white stone walls topped with ironwork that mimics the shape of blades. Sand has been packed into the ground and tamped flat, with a ring of smoother stone forming a sparring circle at the center. Training dummies stand in corners like silent witnesses.
And in that circle, two kings are mock-fighting with wooden weapons.
They move with enough skill that it isn’t play. Real footwork. Real distance. Controlled strikes that stop inches from bone.
We watch for only a moment before the staff continues the tour, but that glimpse tells me what I need: not everyone here came to smile politely.
The last stop is the third floor—bedrooms. A corridor with thick carpeting and doors spaced far enough apart to allow privacy, but not far enough to prevent listening. Each door has a small plate bearing a symbol I don’t recognize. Perhaps the villa owner’s family crest. Perhaps something else.
Perhaps a reminder that even here, we are guests in someone else’s cage.
Scott is shown to a room down the hall from mine. The staff offers us both a soft-spoken explanation about bell pulls and bathing rooms and meal schedules.
We nod. We smile when appropriate.
We play the part.
And then we are led back down to the main sitting room—because the villa is designed for mingling, not hiding.
That’s when we hear voices raised in argument.
A man and a woman.
The woman’s tone hits me first. Something familiar in the cadence, in the bluntness threaded through her words, like she’s speaking to someone who’s wasting her time. I don’t recognize the voice immediately, but my instincts flare.
We step into the room.
The woman is standing near the fireplace, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing sharply as she speaks. She’s tall, posture straight with the kind of effortless confidence that doesn’t come from training—it comes from ego.
And when she turns, the light catches her ears.
Elven. Long and elegant, the tips adorned with thin chains that glint like frost.
My mind stutters.
Memory opens like a trapdoor.
Not a replay, not a perfect copy—just fragments, the sensation of that black table under my palms, the cold air, the way the world felt like the oppressive darkness around the table was both infinite and claustrophobic at the same time. The first glow down the table. A woman startled, then steadying herself, pressing her disc like she’d decided fear was beneath her. The map above us spinning, settling on a gleaming forest shot through with light like crystal veins.
And Seth’s voice—rich, ceremonial—naming her kingdom in a tone that made it feel like a decree.
A realm of beauty, order, and light.
Then the air folding inward around her, the flash, the sudden absence.
And the map showing her again, in sunlight, transformed—silver hair, mirrored blue armor, a crown like crystalline branches circling her head, a poleaxe of the same light resting across her shoulders as if she’d been born to carry it.
I blink once, slow.
The woman in front of me is the same woman, but sharper around the edges. Still beautiful, but in a way that has teeth.
The Kingdom of Tellestra.
The first king chosen at the table.
She’s here.
I haven’t looked into her much since Nod began. I’ve seen glimpses. Rankings. Occasional chatter. But nothing that made her feel present.
Seeing her in person makes it real again in a way I hadn’t expected.
I reach for my ring out of habit, ready to DM Scott—then stop as I realize how stupid that is.
He’s five feet away.
Instead of messaging, Scott walks right into the room as if he owns it, drops into a chair big enough to swallow him, and sprawls like he’s been invited to lounge in nobility’s lap.
It’s a calculated insult.
The man arguing with the elven queen flicks Scott a disgusted sideways glance.
He looks human at first. Then I see the tattoos.
They crawl up his hands in dark bands and geometric lines. They mark his cheeks and the edges of his jaw, disappearing beneath the collar of his outfit like they continue down his throat. Not decorative. Purposeful. Intentional.
And his clothing is… ridiculous.
Regal, yes, but not suited for anything resembling real combat. It reminds me of old paintings—Spanish counts in the 1400s, dressed for court and ego rather than war. Dark greys and vivid light blue, puffed sleeves embroidered with flowery patterns that shimmer in the firelight.
He’s trying very hard to look important.
“As I was saying, Thalienne,” he continues, voice tight with the effort of ignoring Scott’s presence, “I think that your kingdom and mine would make for good allies. With your control of magic, and my legions of troops, we could control the surrounding area with ease. The lesser kingdoms around us would fall, and we could prove to be stronger assets to Alaric. Don’t you agree?”
His accent isn’t thick, but it’s there—edges of words rounded differently, consonants softened like he learned English from someone wealthy.
Thalienne’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, the distaste deepens.
“Lucen,” she says, and it’s clear she’s already tired of him. “I just don’t see the benefit. I have no need to expand with that kind of haste. We are here now, and if I deem that Alaric is a beneficial allegiance, I will work to that end. For the two of us, though, it’s simply not the case.”
She gestures at him like he’s a chess piece she’s decided isn’t even worth taking.
“Yes, you have military might,” she continues, voice calm and cutting, “but you have yet to prove that might other than in number. Anyone can collect toy soldiers. Can you lead them to victory? That has yet to be seen.”
Lucen’s pride visibly fractures.
His jaw tightens. His nostrils flare. He forces his expression back into something resembling courtly composure, but the emotion is leaking out around the seams.
He glances at Scott again. Scott is idly messing with his ear like a bored teenager.
“Do you mind?” Lucen snaps. “We are in the middle of conversation.”
Scott looks up, bright and cheerful. “Oh, I don’t mind at all. Continue by all means.”
Thalienne’s gaze slides to Scott, recognition lighting her face.
“Thalos,” she says, as if delighted. “Goodness! I didn’t know you were invited to the summit?”
Then she looks back at Lucen with a smug little tilt of her chin.
“See, Lucen? This king can hold his own in a fight. You could stand to watch some of his recaps, and maybe learn something.”
It’s the final straw.
Lucen stands too quickly, chair scraping hard against stone. His hands clench into fists at his sides, tattooed knuckles white.
“You will regret this, Thalienne,” he says, voice shaking with fury he can’t contain. “You don’t have the manpower to push outward. Magic or no.”
He shoves past serving staff, knocking a platter to the floor. Porcelain shatters. Someone yelps. A servant drops to their knees immediately to gather the pieces, hands moving too fast, too practiced.
Lucen storms toward the exit—and toward me.
Until now, I’ve been leaning in the entryway, arms crossed, letting the room see my silhouette before it sees my face. Black hair immaculate. The pale crown hovering faintly above my head like a threat that doesn’t need to shout.
Lucen’s stride falters.
His eyes catch mine.
Recognition slams into him so hard it’s almost funny.
He dead stops, stammers once like he wants to say something sharp—something worthy of his ego—then the words die. His face drains of color.
He takes a half-step back.
Then another.
And then he turns and practically runs up the stairs.
A distant slam follows. The villa exhales and resumes movement like the interruption was just a gust of wind.
I push off the doorway and walk to the chair Lucen abandoned, taking it without ceremony.
Thalienne watches me with the slow smile of someone who knows exactly what reaction she’s provoking.
“Gods above,” she says, voice lighter now that Lucen is gone. “The both of you. Both of you are here.” Her eyes flick between Scott and me. “I knew Alaric had invited quite a few kings, but for you both to be here? I didn’t expect anyone else in the top twenty ranks to be attending.”
She looks—genuinely—more at ease.
“Who was that guy?” Scott asks, casual as ever. “Lucen, was it?”
“Lucen Marrador,” Thalienne replies with an eye roll that is entirely too modern for the setting she’s wearing. “He’s a king in the sixties ranks. Kingdom’s about fifty miles from my forests around Tellestra.”
She gestures vaguely with her hand, dismissing him like smoke.
“His nation has some defense gimmick. Those tattoos, right? Wards. Magic has a hard time affecting them. But otherwise they’re pretty much just human. He hasn’t really done much. His armies haven’t grown since Nod started, and he just screws around in the castle and his town like he’s having a blast being important for once in his sad life.”
There’s no malice in her bluntness. Just boredom.
“He doesn’t get much viewership,” she adds, almost conversationally. “Hasn’t advanced anything. Doesn’t even know how to activate his artifacts. It’s… embarrassing.”
Her tone makes it clear she isn’t even pretending this is a real world.
She’s also treating it like entertainment—just with sharper instincts than Lucen.
“So that’s enough about that guy,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “You two though—what are your plans here? You can’t be considering signing up with Alaric, right?”
Scott answers first, immediately sliding into the voice he uses when he’s performing for an audience.
“Well, I can’t just decline a badass party,” he says, grin wide. “I’m sure the food is gonna be on point for a king’s banquet. If it means I get to eat well and have fun, then I might be up for some co-op play with Alaric.”
Thalienne laughs, delighted.
I nearly roll my eyes, but I catch myself. The way she reacts—how quickly she warms to Scott’s persona—it hits me in a way it hasn’t before. People want the act. They respond to it. They lean toward whoever makes them feel like they’re part of something.
And then I feel my own stillness in contrast. My habit of being quiet. Of being stoic.
A persona has power.
But I can’t fake Scott’s. And I don’t want to.
“How about you,” Thalienne asks, turning those pale eyes toward me, “Monster King of Bugs. What’s your angle?”
Sarcasm drips from the nickname, but there’s curiosity beneath it. Testing.
I meet her gaze. Hers is amused. Mine is cold enough to be clear.
“I’m here to see other kings,” I say. “Broker peace if possible, set expectations where not, and ensure that it is known I am not a stepping stone for someone else’s numbers.”
I stand as I finish, crossing the room and placing a hand on Scott’s shoulder—an anchor, a warning, a message without words.
“I’m turning in for the night,” I add. “Don’t cause trouble if you stay around later.”
Scott flashes me a grin. “Me? You’re the one that always has trouble on his heels. But sure, man. Sure.”
The ring hums.
A private message slips into my mind—clean, silent.
You really loggin’ off or you have other things to do? I get the feeling you don’t like her.
I pause at the doorway, fingers on the frame, considering.
It’s not that I don’t like her, I send back as I walk. I just don’t trust her. She isn’t taking any of this seriously.
I glance back once, watching Thalienne laugh at something Scott says, watching how easily she settles into the moment.
She’s dangerous to pair with. She could watch her kingdom burn as long as it was fun while it lasted. She doesn’t treat this like a real thing. Just another game.
Scott’s reply comes quick.
I get it, man. I’m gonna pry more and see what I can get from her. I’ll let you know. Night man.
Night.
I leave the sitting room and step out onto a terraced balcony that overlooks the practice yard. The air is cool up here, clean, carrying the faint scent of trimmed hedges and oil from training weapons.
The two kings outside have stopped their match. They’re toweling off now, walking back toward the estate.
And as I watch them, my eyes narrow.
As they get closer I notice I was wrong. Not two kings, but a king and a queen.
The Queen I recognize immediately.
Queen Sethryn.
The pirate queen. The one I’ve had my eye on for a while—dangerously close to my territory, the only one with the right kind of force to invade if she ever decided my borders were worth taking.
The male beside her is new to me.
He’s massive. A mountain of a man in ceremonial plate—red lacquered armor edged in black and gold. His hair is black, his goatee neatly kept. Even relaxed, he carries himself like someone who expects obedience by default.
They’re talking as they walk, but the closer they get the more I realize it isn’t friendly.
They’re arguing.
Royalty doesn’t get along anywhere, it seems.
And something else clicks into place as I watch them in the half-light.
Until now, most kings have been the biggest fish in their ponds. Their people look at them like gods. Their enemies are smaller, local, manageable.
Here, in Solomir, Alaric has dragged those biggest fish into the same shallow tank and added blood to the water.
He undermines us the moment we arrive—makes us feel small with his city, his banners, his scale. Then he locks us together in gilded walls, tired at the end of our nights, surrounded by servants and symbols and controlled schedules, and he calls it hospitality.
It’s a powder keg.
Infighting. Division. Frayed patience.
Whatever Alaric is planning, it isn’t a simple let’s all work together alliance.
I turn away before Sethryn and the armored man get close enough for me to be noticed.
I don’t need to be pulled into another conversation tonight.
I head up to my room and lock the door behind me after murmuring to the attendant in the hall that I’m retiring for the night.
The room is extravagant in a way that makes my skin itch. Too much polished wood. Too much silk. Too many ornaments meant to remind you that someone here has wealth to waste.
I sit down in a chair near the window, forcing myself to breathe, forcing my mind to line up everything I’ve learned—
A knock interrupts.
Sharp. Confident.
I grind my teeth. I told the staff I was done. I push up and cross to the door, already annoyed, ready to dismiss whoever it is.
I open it.
And my eyes have to adjust upward.
The armored man from the yard fills the frame like a wall, smiling like a predator that has found its next meal.
“Hey, little bug,” he says, voice thick with amusement. “You can’t be going to bed without fighting me first. Practice field. Let’s go.”
My hand tightens on the door.
“I don’t know what you think is going on here,” I say flatly, “but I am done for the night. I do not have any desire to help you test your ego. Leave.”
I start to close the door.
His boot stops it.
A massive armored foot wedges into the gap, metal scraping softly against wood.
“Now don’t be like that,” he says, still smiling. “Friendly fight. See where we stand as kings. Nonlethal, of course.” His eyes glitter. “Can’t be making the pope king upset before we get to have a talk.”
I stare at him.
For a heartbeat, I consider simply logging off. Vanishing. Leaving him standing here with his boot in my doorway like an idiot.
But his face—
His face presses on something old in me. Something raw.
Every pushy asshole I’ve ever wanted to punch. Every bully I’ve ever wanted to see corrected. Every man who thinks size and confidence and machismo is what makes you valueable.
It’s probably a bad idea.
I’m too tired to care.
I step back from the door, letting it open wider.
“Fine,” I say quietly.
His grin widens like he’s already won.
I tilt my head, the pale crown catching the light, my voice turning colder.
“Let’s show you why southern kings aren’t to be underestimated.”