Servants already wait in orderly lines at the circular entry, heads bowed, hands folded, faces neutral in that cultivated way that makes it impossible to tell whether they are calm or terrified. They look less like people and more like fixtures—part of the architecture. Expectant. Motionless until needed.
Our carriage rolls to a stop.
Across from us, the opposite door opens first.
Two figures are ushered forward with practiced efficiency, attendants guiding them with subtle gestures rather than hands. No touching unless necessary. Even at a distance, I can feel the invisible pressure of Solomir’s etiquette bearing down on the moment.
The first to step inside is a man.
Broad-shouldered. Tall without being hulking. Dark hair pulled back into a practical tie that’s seen more than one retightening. He wears layered leathers reinforced with inlaid metal plates—not decorative, not ceremonial. Scuffed in places. Repaired in others. Armor that’s lived a life.
Not fancy dress party attire that is for certain.
His boots thud solidly against the carriage floor as he enters, weight settling naturally, balanced. His eyes don’t wander. They don’t flick to the carvings or the velvet trim or the silver filigree like someone impressed by luxury.
They sweep once.
Scott first. Then me.
A quick assessment. No hostility. No awe. Just awareness.
He inclines his head in greeting—not a bow, not a salute. Something in between. Equal footing. Acknowledgement without deference.
I feel a faint, unexpected flicker of relief.
Then the second figure steps in, and the air in the carriage seems to tighten.
They move with restraint, every motion deliberate. Measured steps. Immaculate posture. Pale robes hang in clean lines, layered with subtle complexity. Threaded through the fabric are faintly glowing script-runes that shift almost imperceptibly as they breathe, like text being rewritten over and over again.
Their crown is modest by Solomir standards. No towering points. No heavy gems. Just a simple circlet—old metal, dulled with age rather than neglect.
A crown worn, not displayed.
Their gaze meets Scott’s briefly, then comes to me.
It lingers half a second longer than comfort allows.
Studying.
Then it softens, just a fraction, and they incline their head as well.
Introductions follow quickly. Politely. Carefully. The sort of exchange where everyone knows better than to linger on any one detail.
Names. Titles. Kingdoms.
Surface-level.
No one mentions borders. Conflicts. Alliances. No one asks what we’re doing here beyond the obvious. No one says anything that couldn’t be repeated to others without consequence.
I note the cadence of their voices. The armored king’s tone is steady, practical, carrying the faint rasp of someone used to speaking over wind or battle noise. The robed monarch speaks more softly, every word placed with care, syllables precise without sounding rehearsed.
The carriage door shuts behind them with a solid, final sound.
The locks slide into place.
We move.
As the carriage pulls away from the villa, conversation begins—not forced, not awkward, but cautious. Polite fencing. Each sentence light on the surface, weighted underneath.
The armored king speaks first.
“Solomir is… difficult to ignore,” he says, glancing out the window as the lights of the villa recede behind us. “Scale alone would make that true.”
Neutral words.
But there’s an edge to them. Appraisal rather than admiration.
Scott chuckles lightly, leaning back into his seat, one arm draped casually along the carved rail. “Yeah. Kinda hard to miss a city built like a divine ego project.”
The armored king snorts—a brief, unguarded sound. “Efficiently built, though. The guard rotations, especially. Even here.” He tilts his head slightly, as if listening through the walls. “Disciplined. Overlapping patrol routes. Redundancy.”
I catch the robed monarch watching him as he speaks, expression unreadable.
Scott raises a brow. “You been doing a lot of scouting already?”
“Habit,” the man replies. “Old ones die hard.”
That’s all he says about it.
The robed monarch gestures subtly toward the window, where the road begins to curve upward. “And yet, despite all that structure… it is beautiful. In a way.” Their voice is calm, distant. “The symmetry. The devotion made manifest. Solomir is less a city than a declaration of power.”
“Like a painting,” I say before I mean to.
They glance toward me again. “Precisely,” they reply. “Impressive to behold. Difficult to inhabit.”
Scott’s gaze flicks between us, interest sharpening. He shifts forward, elbows resting on his knees. “What about your lands?” he asks casually, but I can hear the intention beneath it. “Terrain-wise, I mean.”
The armored king answers without hesitation. “Rough. Broken. Hard to cultivate, harder to hold. But honest. What you see is what tries to kill you.”
Scott grins. “My kinda place.”
“And yours?” the robed monarch asks Scott in return.
“Chaotic,” Scott says easily. “Monsters. Ruins. Too much sand. Lots of monsters ready to find a meal.”
They hum softly at that, amused or thoughtful—I can’t tell which.
Questions follow, flowing naturally. Resources. Weather patterns. Defensive concerns framed as curiosity rather than threat. Scott weaves between them with practiced ease, tossing out observations, asking what seem like idle questions that conveniently reveal structural details.
“Noticed the lift pylons?” he says at one point, nodding upward as the carriage rounds a steeper incline. “The reinforcement density changes by ring.”
The armored king nods. “Upper rings prioritize speed. Lower prioritize containment.”
“Containment,” Scott repeats, thoughtful. “That tracks.”
I listen more than I speak, fingers loosely interlaced in my lap, my eyes drifting between the passing stonework outside and the faint reflections in the glass. My head aches—a dull, persistent pressure that’s been building since the dungeon.
Every word feels heavier than it should.
Every pause feels loaded.
I keep expecting something to snap—some unseen tension finally giving way—but the carriage continues its steady climb.
The road tightens into switchbacks as we ascend, the incline growing sharper. Snow thickens along the edges, gathering in soft drifts against the carved guardrails. Lanterns burn brighter here, their light refracting off ice crystals in the air.
Ahead, the ninth ring rises.
Not just another tier, but a crown carved straight from the mountain itself. Towers spear upward, their silhouettes stark against the darkening sky. Even from here, the Castle dominates the horizon, white stone gleaming faintly as if it holds the day’s last light captive.
I feel very small looking at it. Very tired.
The armored king falls quiet, gaze fixed forward. The robed monarch folds their hands into their sleeves, posture immaculate, as though preparing themselves for what waits above.
Scott glances at me, catches my eye.
“You good?” he asks lightly, out loud.
I nod. “Just… long day.”
Not a lie.
The carriage climbs on, wheels biting into stone, the city of Solomir unfolding beneath us ring by ring. Streets tighten. Buildings shrink. Lanternlight becomes sparse, then ceremonial, then distant altogether. The sounds of the city fade until there’s only the grind of iron rims, the steady breath of the horses, and the wind slipping down the mountain face.
Higher still, the air thins. Not enough to struggle to breath but enough to notice. Enough to remind you that this place was never meant to be lived in naturally. It takes power to be here.
Scott leans forward, bracing a hand against the window frame, peering out as the final ascent begins.
“Well,” he mutters, low enough that only I hear him, “if this is where the night ends, I’m guessing it doesn’t get any friendlier from here.”
The carriage slows as the road widens into a massive circular approach, stone laid so precisely it feels intentional down to the inch. Ahead, guards stand in immaculate formation, armor polished to mirror sheen, helms tucked under arms. They don’t look at us as we pass. They don’t need to.
One of the attendants riding atop the carriage raps twice against the roof and calls back, voice formal and rehearsed.
“Prepare yourselves. We approach the Radiant Vestige—seat of Solomir’s Holy See, and cathedral-palace of the Kingpriest.”
The name hangs in the air for a moment, heavy with implication.
Then the structure itself comes into view.
The Radiant Vestige does not pretend at subtlety.
It dominates the summit of Solomir rendered in stone—part cathedral, part palace, part fortress. White towers claw upward into the thinning sky, their surfaces shot through with veins of silver that catch what little light remains of the day. The last rays of the sun glance across those edges, ignite them briefly, and then slip away, leaving the structure looming against the encroaching night.
It is not merely tall.
It is intentional.
Every angle is meant to be seen from below. Every spire positioned to remind the city beneath exactly where authority resides. The mountain doesn’t culminate naturally here—the Radiant Vestige has been placed at its peak, a crown hammered onto the head of Solomir whether it wanted one or not.
The carriage rolls to a stop at the base of a grand stair, and before any of us can speak, attendants step forward in precise formation. Doors open. Hands extend. Words of greeting are murmured with careful reverence.
We step out.
The air up here is sharper, thinner, but warmed by unseen enchantments. The cold retreats just enough to be tolerable, not enough to forget it exists. The stone beneath my boots is pale and flawless, each slab polished to a mirror sheen that reflects torchlight and moonlight alike. No cracks. No moss. No imperfection allowed to linger.
We are ushered forward.
The doors—massive, layered slabs of reinforced whitewood and silver—swing open with practiced ease. As soon as we cross the threshold, they close behind us with a sound more final than necessary.
A deep, echoing thoom that seems to vibrate through bone as much as stone.
Inside, the warmth is immediate.
Not the cozy warmth of a hearth, but the controlled, curated warmth of power exerted without effort. Incense hangs heavy in the air—frank resin and something sharper beneath it, metallic almost. Polished marble reflects the torchlight overhead, amplifying it so the entire hall seems to glow rather than be lit.
Our footsteps echo as we move forward, the sound multiplied by vaulted ceilings that stretch far beyond necessity. The space isn’t designed for comfort or even practicality.
It is designed to impress.
Attendants guide us in a flowing procession, their movements synchronized, robes whispering softly with each step. No one rushes. No one hesitates. We are being moved at exactly the pace intended—slow enough to absorb the grandeur, fast enough not to linger too long in any one place.
And as we walk, the walls begin to speak.
Tapestries line the hall from floor to ceiling, enormous works woven with impossible detail. The earliest ones are… different.
They depict Solomir’s founding.
Stone laid upon stone by bare hands. People gathered beneath an open sky, faces uplifted. A kingpriest stands atop a raised dais—robes simple, expression earnest—as golden light pours down from above. The imagery is restrained. Reverent. Even from a distance, the age of the fabric is unmistakable. These pieces are old. Truly old.
You can feel the weight of belief stitched into them.
The attendants’ voices soften as we pass these.
“—this work commemorates the First Convergence,” one murmurs, almost reverently. “When Solvael’s light was first heard by the faithful.”
“—note the absence of crowns,” another adds. “The Kingpriest ruled as servant, not sovereign.”
Then, gradually, the imagery changes.
The tapestries grow more dramatic. More crowded. More violent.
Battles rendered larger than life stretch across panels that seem to bleed into one another. Figures clash in storms of steel and fire. Enemies are no longer men or rival nations but twisted caricatures—elongated limbs, distorted faces, monstrous forms meant to embody heresy rather than opposition.
The Kingpriest grows taller in the imagery.
His robes grow richer. His presence more central.
And then—Alaric.
Alaric triumphant, blade raised as enemies fall before him in heaps too numerous to count.
Alaric crowned, light spilling down around him as if the sun itself has chosen him alone.
Alaric standing beneath a radiant figure meant to be Solvael, arms outstretched as power pours into him like liquid divinity. The god’s face is indistinct—blurred, suggested rather than defined—but Alaric’s features are painstakingly clear. Every angle flattering. Every shadow purposeful.
The attendants speak again as we slow.
“—this piece marks the culmination of the Heretical Purge—”
“—Alaric’s anointing as Kingpriest Eternal—”
Their voices carry the cadence of people repeating words they have spoken a thousand times. Polished. Memorized. Safe.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
I feel my jaw tighten despite myself.
Then we reach the final display.
And I stop.
Encased in crystal—thick, flawless panes layered for both protection and spectacle—rests a broken construct. Gears frozen mid-rotation. Brass warped and split as if wrenched apart by impossible force. Glass lenses cracked, their inner light long extinguished.
Even lifeless, it radiates pain.
This isn’t art. It isn’t symbolic.
It’s real.
A trophy.
Mounted like a sacred relic at chest height, illuminated from beneath so the shadows it casts climb the wall behind it like grasping fingers. No attempt has been made to hide its nature or soften its implications.
The Clock King’s remains.
Not buried.
Not sealed away.
Displayed.
A warning masquerading as reverence.
I don’t speak, but I feel the shift around us—the subtle tightening of posture, the almost imperceptible glance of attendants toward our group. Watching reactions. Cataloging them.
Seeing who flinches.
Seeing who lingers.
I force myself to move.
The procession resumes, and the spell breaks. The crystal case slides from view behind us, but the image lingers in my mind, gears forever locked in the moment of defeat.
The hall opens wider ahead, sound changing as music begins to bleed into the space—strings, soft and elegant, weaving together into something meant to soothe.
The doors to the banquet hall stand before us.
They are taller than any door has a right to be.
When they open, the room beyond unfurls like a vision.
The banquet hall is vast—large enough for a thousand people to dine comfortably, perhaps more. No corner is left untouched by opulence. Every surface gleams. Silver filigree traces the arches. Red banners cascade from the rafters in rich folds, each emblazoned with Solomir’s sword-and-eye sigil. Light refracts from crystal chandeliers, scattering warm glow across gilded columns and polished floors.
Round tables fill the space in careful symmetry, each crowned with elaborate centerpieces of crystal and flame. Each table seats a king—and around them, a carefully curated ring of Solomir’s most important citizens. Generals in formal dress. High members of the ecclesiarchy. Wealthy patrons of the upper rings, draped in finery that borders on excess.
No dissenters.
Not one face here looks uncertain or uncomfortable.
Serving staff move like currents through the room, trays balanced with effortless grace, pouring wine, setting plates, murmuring offerings. Overhead, magical displays ripple across the ceiling—light bent into slow-moving constellations, scenes of Solomir rendered in shimmering illusion.
The music swells slightly as we enter.
Eyes turn.
Conversations soften, then resume.
And still—Alaric is absent.
We are guided to our assigned tables, gently but firmly separated. Scott is directed one way. I am ushered another. Hands gesture, smiles reassure.
This way, my lord.
Your seat awaits.
I take my place, surrounded instantly by practiced warmth—voices welcoming me, compliments offered, curiosity masked as courtesy. Glasses are raised. Plates appear. The decadence presses in from every angle.
And as I sit beneath banners heavy with belief and silver, I cannot shake the image of frozen gears behind glass.
A kingdom that displays its victories does not intend peace.
It intends obedience.
The music swells.
Not suddenly. Not dramatically.
It rises the way a tide does when you aren’t watching—string by string, breath by breath—until the air itself seems to hum with expectation. Conversation thins. Chairs turn. Heads lift.
The massive doors at the far end of the hall begin to part.
Light spills through the widening gap, refracted through crystal and polished stone until it fractures into silver and gold across the banquet floor.
And then Alaric enters.
For a heartbeat, the room is so quiet you could close your eyes and feel like the only one there.
If the garments he wore in the streets were elegant, these are something else entirely. Clerical vestments fused seamlessly with military regalia: layered whites and deep reds edged in silver embroidery so fine it looks etched rather than sewn. Threads catch the light and refract it like spun glass. Gemstones are worked into the fabric itself—small, deliberate placements that glow faintly with restrained magical charge. Not decorative. Functional.
And at his hip—
His sword.
His relic.
The holy blade of Solomir hangs openly at his side, its scabbard adorned with runes and sigils that pulse in time with the hall’s music. No concealment. No apology.
No one else here is armed.
That fact lands hard, the longer you sit with it.
Applause erupts.
It surges from every Solomir table, a standing ovation so immediate and unanimous it borders on reflex. Captains rise. Clergy bow. Noblemen press hands to hearts. Even those seated furthest from the dais clap as if afraid to be seen stopping.
The kings do not mirror them.
Some remain seated, hands folded. Some offer polite applause, measured and slow. A few simply watch, expressions guarded, faces carved into neutrality. I don’t miss the way the difference stands out.
Alaric smiles as the sound washes over him.
He doesn’t rush it.
He lets it linger. Lets the applause crest and fall on its own terms. Lets the Belief in the room thicken until it feels almost tangible.
Only then does he raise a hand.
The hall quiets immediately.
“My friends,” he says, voice smooth, warm, carrying effortlessly without needing magic. “Tonight is not for burdens.”
A ripple of approving murmurs.
“We have gathered here not to argue, not to negotiate, not to weigh ourselves against one another like merchants in a market. Those things will come.” A gentle chuckle. “They always do.”
Laughter, light and indulgent.
“Tonight is for celebration. For fellowship. For joy.” His eyes sweep the room, pausing briefly on each king in turn. “Soon, many of us may stand together against the darkness that threatens this world. But before alliances are forged, before banners are raised… we should know one another.”
He spreads his hands, palms open.
“Eat. Drink. Enjoy yourselves. Tomorrow will ask more of us.”
The Solomir tables respond like a single organism—applause, cheers, murmured praise. The kings remain restrained.
Alaric nods once, satisfied.
Then he steps down from the dais.
And begins to move.
He doesn’t wander aimlessly. He doesn’t circle randomly.
He moves table to table with practiced precision, each stop clearly planned. At every king’s table, an empty chair has been left opposite the royal seat. Not beside. Never beside.
Opposite.
Always ensuring the king must face him directly.
Always ensuring the surrounding Solomir guests—a dozen of them at each table—have a clear view. Clear hearing. No privacy.
Conversation becomes spectacle.
By the time Alaric reaches Scott’s table, I already know what’s coming.
My ring vibrates faintly at the edge of my awareness.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Heads up. He asks sideways questions. Not about Nod. About you.
I don’t respond. I don’t need to.
I watch from across the hall as Alaric takes his seat opposite Scott, posture relaxed, hands folding neatly atop the table as if settling in for friendly drinks rather than interrogation.
Their exchange looks easy at first.
Too easy.
Alaric laughs readily. Nods often. Listens with intent that feels flattering rather than invasive. He asks Scott about Sunhome’s fortifications, about the tremor magic I already know Scott only half-explains, about the logistics of feeding a growing population.
Then, gradually, subtly, the frame shifts.
“So tell me,” Alaric says at one point, tilting his head just slightly. “You keep yourself in remarkable condition, King Thalos. Discipline like that doesn’t come naturally to most.”
Scott shrugs, casual. “Part of the job.”
“Of course.” Alaric smiles. “But habits are born somewhere. Do you train alone? Or do you belong to a house, a lodge… perhaps a gym?”
Scott laughs. Plays it off. Mentions working out at home. Talks about food instead. Red meat. Balance. Nothing too specific.
Alaric nods thoughtfully, like a man filing information away.
When he rises from Scott’s table, Scott doesn’t exhale until he’s gone.
By the time Alaric reaches me, I’m already tight with anticipation.
He takes the seat opposite mine.
Up close, the effect is stronger.
His presence pulls at the room—not with force, but with gravity. He smells faintly of incense and cold metal. His eyes are bright, attentive, alive.
But they don’t soften.
They never soften.
“My King of the Blacksand Dominion,” he says warmly. “Kyris.”
I incline my head. Polite. Neutral.
“I’ve enjoyed watching your rise,” he continues. “Few monarchs balance strength and mercy with such… consistency.”
Compliment. Bait.
“I do what I can for my people,” I reply simply.
“As we all claim to,” he says lightly, smiling. “Tell me—how fares your domain? Prosperous, I hope.”
We exchange surface pleasantries. Population growth. Stability. Defensive expansions. He asks about my victories, but not the fights themselves—about timing. Decision-making. Why I moved when I did.
Questions designed to map how I think.
Then he leans back slightly, folding one arm over the other.
“So,” he says, tone bright, almost playful. “What do you do for a living?”
The table quiets. Not suddenly, but enough that I feel it.
I pause.
Before I can answer, he chuckles.
“My apologies,” he says smoothly. “That was abrupt. One forgets proper decorum in pleasant company.” He inclines his head. “Allow me to lead by example.”
He gestures to himself.
“In the waking world, I am a preacher. Mission work. Sermons. Guidance.” A hand rests briefly over his chest. “A life devoted to shepherding others toward the light.”
Of course you are.
The picture clicks into place with unsettling clarity.
I keep my face neutral.
“No,” I say evenly. “I work in tech. Mostly code.”
Distilled truth. Nothing more.
His brow lifts, just slightly.
“Ah.” Interest sparks. “Logic, then. Structure. Systems.” He smiles. “Fascinating. One might even say fitting.”
I don’t ask him to elaborate.
The questions continue.
They come softly, conversationally, but each one presses at a different angle.
Do I prefer routine or adaptability?
Do I work with teams, or alone?
How do I unwind after a long day?
Do I enjoy silence?
Music?
Order?
Each answer I give is true—but trimmed. Rounded. Filed smooth.
I feel him testing the edges, waiting for a reaction, a contradiction, a slip.
He doesn’t get one.
Eventually, he stands.
“Thank you, Kyris,” he says warmly. “I look forward to tomorrow.”
Then he moves away.
I don’t realize how tense I am until he’s gone.
When Alaric returns to the front of the hall, the Solomir crowd rises once more. He thanks them. Encourages continued revelry. Promises fruitful discussions ahead.
As applause fills the room again, I push my chair back.
I’m done.
The spectacle is over. The knives are sheathed—for now.
Dread coils low and persistent in my gut.
This wasn’t a dinner.
It was a survey.
And I don’t like the way Alaric just took measurements.
I almost stand the moment Alaric leaves the hall.
The chair scrapes softly against marble as I push back, the sound swallowed immediately by music and renewed conversation. Around me, Solomir’s elites are already shifting—voices rising again, laughter returning too quickly, as if silence itself is something they are trained to fear.
Across the room, I catch movement that mirrors my own.
Sethryn.
She’s already on her feet, expression set, posture rigid in that way that speaks of restraint rather than calm. Not fleeing. Not storming out. Just… finished.
Thalos, on the other hand, looks like he’s only just started enjoying himself.
He’s crossed the room entirely, somehow inserted himself at Queen Thalienne’s table, and has very clearly displaced a noble from their seat without so much as an apology. Whatever he’s saying has drawn a laugh from her — sharp, genuine, the kind that doesn’t belong in a room like this.
Good for him.
That could matter later.
I slip out before anyone can stop me.
The cool air outside the hall feels thinner than I remember.
The Radiant Vestige looms behind me, all white stone and silver veins glowing faintly against the dark, like it’s still watching even after you’ve left its shadow. I descend the steps toward the valet court, my mind still replaying Alaric’s smile, his questions, the way his eyes never stopped measuring.
My ring hums faintly.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Hey man, where did you go? Things are actually kind of chill now that the cleric left.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Heading back. Long night. I’ll loop you and Victor in when we’re out. There’s… a lot to go over.
A moment passes.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Yeah. I figured. Get some rest. We’ll talk soon — and hey, you did good in there.
I don’t answer. Not because I don’t want to — but because if I start typing again, I won’t stop.
The valet area is quieter than I expected. Lanterns line the curved drive, casting warm pools of light against pale stone. Servants move with near-silent efficiency, opening doors, checking lists, guiding small clusters of figures toward waiting carriages.
That’s when I see her.
Sethryn stands near the edge of the stair, arms folded loosely, gaze fixed somewhere past the lights and movement. She isn’t pacing. She isn’t fidgeting.
She’s holding herself together.
When she looks up and notices me, there’s a flicker of surprise — quickly masked — followed by something that looks almost like relief.
We don’t acknowledge each other immediately.
There’s no nod. No greeting.
Just a mutual understanding as we’re ushered toward the same carriage.
The ride back is quiet. But somehow not awkward.
The carriage rocks gently as it begins its descent, wheels grinding softly against stone. Lanternlight flickers through the small window, illuminating Sethryn in intermittent flashes — the sharp line of her jaw, the way her hands remain clenched in her lap, the faint tension in her shoulders that never seems to fully release.
I don’t push a conversation on her.
It’s her voice that finally breaks the silence.
“I wanted to thank you,” she says.
Not loud. Not forceful. Just… honest.
“For showing that buffoon his place yesterday.”
I glance toward her, surprised not only by the words — but by the tone.
It isn’t triumphant.
It isn’t satisfied.
It’s bitter.
She exhales slowly, fingers flexing as if remembering something unpleasant.
“He didn’t look dangerous,” she continues. “Galoravad. Loud. Aggressive. Predictable.” A pause. “I misjudged him.”
She lifts her arm slightly, as if still testing it.
“I think he broke something. In my forearm.” Her mouth tightens. “Didn’t even realize it had happened until everything went numb.”
I remain silent.
She seems to appreciate that.
“At the banquet,” she goes on, eyes flicking toward the ceiling of the carriage, “Alaric barely moved his hand. Just… gestured. And I felt it knit back together. Bone, muscle, everything. Like it had never happened.”
Disgust creeps into her voice now. And underneath it —
Fear.
“He didn’t ask,” she says. “Didn’t warn me. Just fixed it.” She shakes her head once. “That kind of power shouldn’t feel that effortless.”
Her gaze shifts toward me.
“I don’t trust him.”
It isn’t a question.
“And I don’t think you do either.”
The carriage turns slightly, the motion pulling at our balance. I lean back, hands folding together, eyes forward.
“I’ve been trying to decide,” I say slowly, “whether he wants loyalty… or obedience.”
Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile.
“I think it depends on who he’s talking to.”
She studies me then — really studies me — as if weighing the risk of what she’s about to say.
“We’re still offline,” she says. “All of us. No streams. No eyes. No commentary.” A sharp breath. “It’s the first time since Nod began that I’ve been able to speak without wondering how it’ll look clipped and reposted somewhere.”
Her voice softens.
“I want to work with you.”
The words land carefully.
“Not him,” she adds immediately. “Never him.”
She sits forward slightly now, elbows resting on her knees, intensity bleeding through the cracks in her composure.
“I don’t think he brought us here for peace. I think he brought us here for leverage.” Her jaw tightens. “To gather those he can control — and test the ones he’s afraid of.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine.
“That’s why you and Thalos are here.”
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the creak of the carriage and the distant wind.
“I don’t know which category he’s placed me in yet,” she admits. “But I know I don’t like being evaluated.”
She hesitates — just a fraction.
“I also know you’ve been cautious around me.”
I don’t deny it.
“Our borders are close,” I say. “Close enough that a single misunderstanding could turn into something ugly.” I glance toward her. “I didn’t want my words to be the reason for a war.”
That earns me something real.
A smile.
Small. Brief. Unguarded.
“I can assure you,” she says quietly, “that’s the last thing I want.” She straightens slightly. “If we work together — truly together — I think we could do a lot of good here.”
She reaches into her sleeve and withdraws a small scrap of folded paper, holding it out between us.
I take it automatically.
An email address.
I blink.
“Is this—”
She lifts a finger to her lips.
A shushing gesture. Almost playful — but there’s urgency behind it.
Before I can speak, my ring vibrates.
{direct message} [Sethryn]: I think you’ve figured out how to do this. If you don’t want to use it, that’s fine. I just wanted you to know the option exists. We can talk where no one is watching.
The carriage slows.
Stone grinds beneath the wheels.
The door opens.
Cold air floods in.
Sethryn rises first, posture already shifting back into the version of herself the world expects. At the threshold, she pauses — turns halfway back toward me.
She gives a small wave.
Then she’s gone.
I watch her until the door closes again.
The rest of the night passes in quiet fragments.
My room is dim. Cold. Blessedly empty.
I shut the door, remove my coat, and let myself fall back onto the bed without ceremony. The mattress dips beneath my weight, the sensation grounding in a way nothing else tonight has been.
For the first time in days, I don’t replay conversations.
I don’t plan contingencies.
I don’t watch for the knife behind the smile.
I just lie there.
Breathing.
Wishing — irrationally — for a single night where the world can wait.
Just one where I get to sleep instead of endless planning and duty.
I close my eyes.
And log off.
I have had some people talk about how much I use description in my work, and I wanted to just bring that up. I know I use it a lot, to a borderline obsessive degree at times. This chapter has about 2600 words strait of just describing everything around Kyris. I really wanted to push home the overbearing oppressiveness that he and the others are feeling, and my litterary background has been for 15 years that of a Dungeons and Dragons DM. I tell stories that players live in and make choices in.
The basis of Nod is from the point of view of Kyris, but a lot of the characters I have based on my players, and I have them read chapters before hand and have them tell me how they would react. It helps me to voice characters in ways I couldnt do as a single person.
So if you have made it this far in my story, and still havent given up on me because of my abundance of words,
Thank you, and I hope to keep building a world that you can see without a picture.
Tesh