After the meeting with my captains, I decide to return to the Citadel with Cast and the artisans. There were more things I intended to check, plans to shape with the sand map, and the long list of orders to refine… but the moment I step into the Cathedral, everything in my head empties.

  The message dispenser is glowing.

  A single orb sits in the receiving groove at the base of the chitin lattice, grapefruit-sized, softly pulsing, an eerie green bleeding through its shell.

  I stop where I stand.

  My heart drops clear into my stomach.

  No one should be contacting me.

  Not today.

  Not now.

  And certainly not with this color.

  Scott is the only one who’s ever used the network to reach me, but he hasn’t touched it in days. We speak face-to-face now, alliance solidified. And Cast would have said something on the march here if this had arrived before she left the Citadel.

  Which means… it arrived recently.

  Very recently.

  The Cathedral is empty except for me.

  The silence feels thick.

  I approach the dispenser. The orb’s glow reflects faintly off the black glass floor. My hand hovers for a moment over the message, pulse hammering in my throat.

  Kings are the only ones who can send these.

  And each message costs faith.

  No king sends one idly.

  I lift the orb from the tray.

  It warms instantly in my palm, like a living thing waking up.

  The shell cracks, not physically, but with a ripple across its surface, and the voice begins.

  Cold.

  Clear.

  Like someone poured ice water straight into my ears.

  “King Kyris,” the voice says.

  “This is Pope Alaric, King of the Holy See of Solomir.”

  My hand nearly slips.

  A spike of nausea hits me so hard I have to brace a shoulder against the message pedestal. The orb vibrates faintly, as if pleased it has my full attention.

  “I would like to congratulate you on the successful defense of your kingdom.”

  I barely hear the rest.

  My mind is racing.

  Why me?

  Why now?

  He can’t be calling just to offer praise. Not him.

  “The battle with the monstrous creature went quite well for you,” he continues, tone untouched by warmth or malice.

  “More kings should turn their attention toward destroying such abominations.”

  There it is.

  Hidden judgment behind polite phrasing.

  A statement that sounds like approval but feels like evaluation.

  My mouth is dry. I force myself to keep listening.

  “As kings, it is our duty to protect this world and its people from the evils abounding.”

  “Come on,” I whisper under my breath, “get to the part where I should start panicking.”

  The orb obliges.

  “That being said… I believe it is time something more concrete was done.”

  My grip tightens.

  A cold sweat beads down my spine.

  “I am hosting a Summit of Kings here in my capital.”

  There it is.

  The hammer blow.

  “The Summit will take place one week from today. I will be sending an aid to Sunhome to collect yourself and King Thalos. He has already been informed.”

  A week.

  For something like this?

  Too fast.

  Way too fast.

  Alaric is forcing the pace.

  Forcing me.

  “I ask that you attend with an open mind… and without weapons or armor. This will be a peaceful summit.”

  The orb dims. Light folds into itself. The message ends.

  I stand there in the center of the Cathedral, holding a dead piece of crystal that suddenly weighs more than the Ashwing’s skull.

  For a long moment, I can’t breathe.

  Alaric doesn’t move without purpose.

  He doesn’t gather kings for social calls.

  He doesn’t extend invitations.

  He issues tests.

  He sets traps.

  He chooses battlefields.

  And now…

  he wants me on his.

  I press my thumb into the cold seam of the orb, grounding myself. The Cathedral feels too large, too quiet. Every sound echoes.

  The Clockfather’s final moments replay uninvited in my head, the way his city fell piece by piece, the way his mechanical armies ground to a halt like their souls were being sucked out of them. The documentary narrator’s voice overlays the memory, calm and academic, describing a catastrophe like it was a weather pattern.

  But I remember the throne room most.

  The way Alaric walked through the smoke without hesitation.

  The ease with which he placed himself upon another king’s seat.

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  How the very architecture seemed to kneel for him.

  The Clockfather hadn’t even burned through his second life.

  He still had two deaths remaining, two whole chances.

  But chances didn’t matter.

  Not when the throne was gone.

  Not when the kingdom was gone.

  A king without a kingdom isn’t a king at all.

  So where does he wake now?

  The idea makes my stomach twist painfully.

  And more than that, what happens to the people?

  My hands tighten around the orb.

  If I fall… what happens to my Hekari?

  What happens to Cast, Rhel, Narai, Ira, Thane, Seris…?

  Do they vanish?

  Do they grieve?

  Do they become hollow shadows like the Clockfather’s last drones, wandering ruins without orders?

  Do they die?

  I swallow hard.

  That fear settles like a burning stone deep under my ribs.

  I can use it, the fear.

  Let it sharpen me. Not break me.

  I will not let my kingdom slip into ash because I was too afraid to step into the lion’s mouth.

  I look again at the now-dim orb.

  I cannot refuse him.

  Alaric drew a circle, and my name is inside it.

  To decline is to declare myself an enemy.

  To decline is to put my people in the crosshairs of the strongest kingdom on the continent.

  So I go.

  Trap or not, I go.

  He mentioned Thalos, which means Scott is involved whether I want him to be or not. The Sunforged will be drawn into this no matter what. And if there’s even a single person I trust to watch my back when walking into the jaws of a god-king, it’s him.

  But this message changes everything.

  It changes how we build.

  How we speak.

  How we plan.

  How we exist inside Nod.

  There are eyes on us now, real ones, powerful ones. Kings who were ignoring us are going to start paying attention. The Cleric King’s invitation is less a request and more a flare shot into the night sky, announcing to the world:

  Look here. Look at these two new kings. Look at what they have slain. Look at what they are becoming.

  Every sentence we speak in Nod from here on could be used against us; every order we give might be twisted into implication or intent, every ally weighed as potential leverage. The thought settles heavily, and I rub my temples as I cross the Cathedral floor, trying to smooth the edges of rising anxiety.

  We will need more waking?world meetings, more careful planning beyond the Dream where ears cannot follow. Public statements will have to be measured, movements deliberate, and any show of strength reserved for when it matters most. The realization hits with quiet force, a sharp clarity that borders on painful.

  I’m not just playing a kingdom anymore. I’m being watched—judged, assessed.

  I’m being watched. Judged. Assessed.

  The Summit isn’t an invitation.

  It’s an evaluation.

  And if I misstep, if I give him the wrong idea about my intentions, about my strength, about my kingdom…

  …I’ll end up like the Clockfather.

  Alive.

  But dethroned.

  Alone.

  King of nothing.

  I breathe out, long and steady, forcing my heartbeat to slow.

  “Well,” I whisper to myself, voice echoing off the high cathedral arches, “then we won’t give him the wrong impression.”

  I turn toward the exit. I need to speak with Thalos. With Scott. Immediately.

  The Summit is in a week.

  And I need to be ready long before that.

  I stand there for a long moment in the Cathedral, orb cooling in my grip, letting the thoughts settle until they become something I can use. Fear is the first reaction, but not the one I choose to keep. I can’t afford to freeze. Not now. Not with an entire kingdom depending on the choices I make this week.

  I breathe once, steady, and set the orb back into the repository cradle.

  I can’t let this rattle me.

  There are moves to make, and I need to keep making them.

  The Summit is in a week. That is time, dangerously little, but time nonetheless. Enough, if I work smart. Enough, if I put pieces into motion now that can unfold while I’m gone. Enough, if I station the right captains in the right projects before leaving.

  My first call is Helisti. I reach for the resonance and feel it answer, a gentle ripple across the Dominion. Her voice arrives a heartbeat later, soft and steady as always.

  “Archivist Captain,” I say, my tone even. “Prepare your survey team. I’ll be joining the next expedition into the Obsidian Vaults.”

  She pauses only long enough to confirm she heard correctly.

  “You yourself, my king?”

  “Yes. There are secrets down there we’ve barely brushed. If the Summit is a trap, or a negotiation, or anything in between, I need more understanding of this world’s foundations. We uncover everything we can. And we do it tomorrow night.”

  “As you command,” she answers. “I will assemble a team of our most meticulous. Rhel and his chosen guards can accompany us to ensure safety.”

  “Good,” I say. “Tell them to prepare for ancient traps, collapsed halls, and anything else the Vault has kept hidden.”

  “Understood.”

  The connection fades with a familiar hum, leaving the Cathedral silent once more.

  I make my way up the spiral stairs toward the King’s chambers, each step echoing off the dark stone. The Citadel is awake with quiet productivity; somewhere below, forges ring and archivists whisper over scrolls. The Dominion doesn’t sleep because I returned. They work because the world is changing under their feet and they refuse to be left behind.

  In my chambers, I sit at the writing desk, a broad slab of obsidian polished so perfectly the candle’s flame reflects twice. The weight of the room grounds me. Maps. Ledgers. Sketches of future towers and road expansions. Half-finished strategies from before the Ashwing’s death. Notes on troop distribution. A list of resources Fen requested for the week. And now, atop all of it, the new threat: a summons from a king who has already devoured another kingdom whole.

  I run my hand along the corner of the sand map, watching grains shift subtly in response to my touch. Roads glow faintly. Scouting markers pulse like tiny fireflies. My reach isn’t infinite, but through resonance, it might as well be.

  I begin issuing orders, letting each one settle into the Dominion with quiet precision. Steady directives woven into the resonance, a controlled tide of intent radiating outward from the Citadel.

  I send the orders as a steady stream of intent carried through the resonance. Road crews are to push forward at full pace, but only with proper rest, no Dominion structure is worth the price of exhaustion-clouded judgment. At the lair, excavation teams will begin the careful removal of plates and bone, holding off on any experimental processing until Helisti’s archivists complete their first pass.

  Fen will comb through every ledger and tally three times over, hunting for shortages or weak points that could hinder rapid mobilization later in the week. Raleth is to draft three separate designs for the border fortress—one simple, one moderate, one ambitious—so that Scott and I can sit down and choose the shape of our shared wall.

  Vosk is already assembling notes on the equipment failures from the raid; I instruct him to refine the reports and begin proposing improvements immediately. And Aeris and Cael, restless for challenge, receive provisional authority to begin their tests the moment the first cooled Ashwing samples arrive in the forges.

  The resonance carries each directive outward, a warm hum passing through the halls and down into the hive.

  For a moment, I just sit there, listening to the faint after-ring of my own power woven through the Citadel. It feels different now, heavier, fuller, as if the Ashwing’s fire hasn’t fully settled in my bones yet. Even the air around my hands warms when I focus.

  I lean forward, elbows on the desk, studying the sand map’s shifting topography. The Dominion’s borders feel small in the grand scheme. Sunhome stands firm beside us, but beyond that? A world of kings and nations, most of whom I have never met, and one of whom has just pulled my name onto the stage.

  There’s no turning back from this.

  But that doesn’t mean I walk in unprepared.

  I straighten, reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment, and begin sketching the first draft of contingency plans, not war plans, not yet, but contingencies for the Dominion should negotiations take a turn. Evacuation corridors. Resource redistribution. Temporary command hierarchies. Protocols for communication if I’m delayed returning from the Summit.

  Not fear.

  Preparation.

  Because while Alaric may cast shadows long enough to swallow kingdoms, I refuse to let mine be one of them.

  And as I write, as orders ripple outward from the Citadel to every corner of the Dominion, one truth sits firm behind my ribs:

  This is the calm before the storm.