Last night, the climb had been theater—torchlight, drums, attendants moving like choreography meant to remind us of our place. This morning it’s quieter, efficient. The wheels bite into the stone switchbacks and the mountain swallows the sound.
The air thins as we rise. Sunlight hangs low and pale, caught in the silver veins of the upper architecture. The Radiant Vestige watches us the way a cathedral watches sinners—patient and unmoving.
When we arrive, we aren’t brought through the grand entrance plaza this time. The carriages circle south, past a line of buttressed walls and narrow colonnades where guards stand in pairs, helms tucked under arms, spears grounded. There are more of them than yesterday.
We step down into an entry court paved in pale stone that’s been worn smooth by generations of feet. The light here feels filtered, as if the building itself is deciding how much sun we’re allowed to have. Attendants wait with the same bowed posture and blank expressions, guiding us forward without ceremony.
I keep my hands visible. I keep my pace unhurried. And still I feel it—eyes that aren’t watchers, aren’t citizens. Something that sits behind the polite infrastructure of Solomir and measures you like wild game.
We are led to a side corridor, and into the castle proper. Warmth replaces the bite of the mountain. Incense lingers in the air, layered over something cleaner—polished marble, oil for hinges, candle smoke caught in tapestry. We pass guest rooms with carved doors and small alcoves holding idols and saints I don’t recognize. The Vestige is designed to confuse you softly, to make you forget where you came in.
A few steps behind me, Thalos scoffs.
{direct message} [Thalos]: So that asshole had all these rooms but had us all stay in the villas. He could have had us here in the palace with him.
I don’t look back as I reply, because I’m already picturing where the guards are and how close the nearest attendant is.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Its all a power thing, he wants to make us dance to his tune. The villas were part of that. Down to him putting specific kings in each villa.
Ahead, the hall widens, then ends in a set of double doors that are less dramatic than the banquet hall’s—no towering angel statuary, no radiant arch—but still too fine to be casual. Dark wood banded in silver. Handles shaped like a sword laid vertical across a crying eye.
One of the attendants steps forward before any of us can reach for them.
She is older than most of the others we’ve seen—lines at the corners of her eyes, hair drawn back tight, posture rigid with long-practiced discipline. Not a servant trying to impress. A functionary doing her duty.
“Before you enter,” she says evenly, her voice carrying without strain, “you should be aware of the nature of this chamber.”
Her hands clasp behind her back.
“The council room is warded. No streams. No outer courts. No observers will be permitted to view, record, or interfere with what is spoken within.”
She meets our gazes one by one, not lingering, not avoiding.
“This space exists so that kings may speak honestly—without audience, without fear of misinterpretation.”
The implication hangs there, sharp and double-edged.
Say what you want.
No one will hear you.
No one can prove you said it.
Thalos exhales quietly through his nose.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Well. That’s ominous as hell.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Or convenient. Depends on who’s in control of the wards.
The attendant turns back to the doors, clearly finished with her part.
The attendants don’t ask if we’re ready.
The doors begin to open anyway.
They open them as if it’s already decided.
The room beyond isn’t a ballroom. It’s a chamber built for argument.
Rounded walls wrapped in windows, most of them stained glass—scenes of Solomir’s founding, winter pilgrimages, a kingpriest at a dais with light pouring down. The ceiling curves overhead like the inside of a bell. Every surface is designed to carry sound.
In the center sits a table shaped like a massive ring—thirty feet wide at least, a polished stone donut with carved seating spaced evenly around it. The empty center holds a reflecting pool, water black-blue and perfectly still until the first wave of footsteps enters and the surface trembles, catching our reflections in fractured lines.
At the far side of the ring—what can only be called the head, despite the table being a circle—Alaric is already seated.
Not standing to receive us. Not walking to greet anyone. Just… there. As if this room was built around him and we’re arriving late to something sacred.
He isn’t in last night’s regalia. No pearls of light. No glowing embroidery. He’s dressed like he was the first time he stopped me on the street—elegant, controlled, almost modest by Solomir standards. The sword is still at his hip. Of course it is.
Beside him stands an aide: a smaller woman, blonde hair pulled back tight, face lined not by age but by strain. She holds a ledger and a stylus, eyes flicking between us and Alaric like she’s watching a stormfront.
Alaric rises when we’re all within sight of him. It feels practiced—enough respect to pretend, not enough to actually offer.
“Everyone,” he says, voice filling the chamber with effortless authority, “I thank you again for attending this first meeting of Monarchs here in Nod.”
He smiles as if we’re guests at his table, not pieces on his board.
“I know there is anticipation—and anxiety—as to the reason I have called us all together. But I want you to feel safe here in these walls.” His hands open, palms visible. A gesture of peace. A gesture used by men who want you to forget they have blades at their hip. “This meeting is for the best of Nod. To unite us against the will of evil intent.”
We stand clustered in the entryway like children waiting to be assigned desks.
Attendants drift in from side passages and begin guiding us to seats with soft hands and softer words. Our villa’s group is ushered to the left side of the ring. The other villa’s kings and queens fill the right.
The seating has the appearance of chance. That’s the part that makes my skin itch.
I’m placed between the armored king from the banquet carriage and Sethryn. Far enough apart that if Sethryn and I both reached out, fingertips still wouldn’t meet. The space isn’t comfort. It’s insulation. It’s an attempt to prevent whispered alliances and sudden violence.
Across the ring, Lucen is seated with the posture of someone who thinks the chair was built for him. He adjusts his sleeves like he’s about to be painted. Galoravad is closer to Alaric than anyone should be by accident—one seat off his right hand, shoulders squared, expression set in that calm, predatory way of men who don’t need to raise their voice to be terrifying.
Thalos ends up flanking Alaric on the opposite side, close enough to hear him without strain. Sethryn’s nostrils flare at that arrangement. Her jaw tightens.
The armored king to my other side sits without fuss, forearms on the table edge, gaze moving around the circle in small, precise increments.
The robed monarch from last night—pale robes threaded with shifting script—takes their seat across the curve, posture immaculate, hands folded as if they’re praying. Their crown looks older than the room. Their eyes don’t rest anywhere for long.
And then there are the others—four more crowns to fill the circle.
A woman in layered desert silks and heavy gold rings, eyes lined dark, mouth set in a bored half-smile like she’s already decided this is beneath her. A man with braided hair and a cloak pinned by a carved antler—his hands are calloused, the kind of king who still climbs his own walls. A slight, sharp-faced queen with river-blue gemstones braided into her hair, watching everyone like she’s counting debts. And a thick-necked, broad-backed king with scar lines up one cheek, wearing armor that looks patched from a dozen battles that never made it into tapestries.
They’re not the center of the board. But they’re still pieces.
My ring feels heavy on my finger.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Ill follow your lead Kyris. Just give me ques if you need to.
{direct message} [Sethryn]: I dont know how much I can stay my tongue, but Ill do my best.
I don’t answer either immediately. I watch Alaric’s aide lean close, whisper something. I watch Alaric nod without looking at her, stylus scratching a note into the ledger as if he’s already decided what today will be.
Then I respond, careful with my tone even in private, because paranoia is a survival trait now.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Don't worry too much about that, if you hear anything you don't like, argue against it. That's what this meeting is for, we need to hold our ground and not let them bully us into a corner. All this power display is to make us follow the flow and not resist his whims. Lets play this right, find out what he really wants, and then push back where it counts. None of us are leaving in alliance with him, but I also want to keep us all out of open war with him if I can.
Across the table, Thalienne looks like she belongs here in the way an ember belongs in a fireplace. Bright. Easy. Laughing too easily at something one of the minor kings murmurs to her. But I’ve learned that her performance is a shield, not a personality.
My ring buzzes again.
{direct message} [Thalienne]: That’s for the best. I dont want to be a bitch about it, but the three of you are all right next to each other geographically. My kingdom is closer to allaric and I already know Lucen is going to side with him. I can't be openly opposing him when I can't defend against a combined effort of his allies. So if I don't openly support you three in this meeting, dont take it as betrayal.
I exhale slowly through my nose. It’s the smartest thing she’s said out loud without saying it out loud.
{direct message} [Kyris]: I get it Thal, do what you need to keep your kingdom safe, but understand we will do what we can to help you at the same time. Now lets keep the DM’s silent unless needed for the meeting. We know he can silence streams, no telling what else he can do, like read private messages.
That last line tastes like rust as I send it.
Because the thought is already in my head: what if he can?
I glance up immediately, trying to catch a twitch, a flicker, a micro-smile.
Alaric doesn’t look at me. He’s still head-down, writing in his ledger while the aide murmurs. If he read my message, he gives no sign. If he didn’t, that’s not comfort either.
When all thirteen of us are seated, the attendants step back to the walls like shadows and Alaric stands again, hands resting lightly on the stone of the table’s ring.
“The world is young,” he begins, voice calm, warm, practiced. “And yet we have already seen what happens when power is left without guidance. When kings pursue selfish desire. When nations rise on the backs of fear.”
His eyes sweep the circle, landing for a fraction longer on Sethryn—just long enough to remind her he sees her as something.
Then he moves on.
“You all know why you are here,” he says. “You all feel it. The tension in the air. The… hunger. The Perfect Wish will be claimed. It is not a matter of if. It is a matter of who.”
Lucen’s chin lifts at that, like a man hearing the word inheritance.
Galoravad doesn’t react at all. That’s its own kind of reaction.
Alaric continues, unhurried. “If we do not unify, Nod will become a graveyard of empty thrones. We have already watched a few crowns fall. We have already watched kings removed.”
His eyes flick, very briefly, to the reflecting pool. The surface ripples again, and for a moment the stained glass reflections make his face look fractured—like the man and the myth are two separate things forced to share skin.
“I have called you here,” he says, “because I will not allow evil to write the first chapter of our world.”
There it is. The way he says evil.
Not as an abstract concept. As a label he intends to place on someone’s forehead.
Sethryn’s fingers tap once on the table edge—small, controlled. Thalienne’s smile doesn’t change, but her eyes sharpen. Thalos leans back like he’s bored, but I know him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders.
And me—
I keep my face neutral. I keep my breathing slow.
Because I’m sitting in a room built to amplify truth.
And a man at the head of the table is already setting the stage to name a monster.
Not yet. But soon.
And I need to know which direction he plans to point the crowd when he does.
Alaric lets the silence breathe after his little sermon, as if he is giving time for the room to applaud.
The only sound is the faint lap of water in the reflecting pool and the soft scratch of his aide’s stylus as she prepares to record what he’s about to pull out of us.
He smiles anyway—patient, benevolent, practiced.
“Before we speak of alliances,” Alaric says, hands folding neatly in front of him as if he’s about to officiate a wedding, “we should speak of needs. Not in the abstract. Not in theory. In truth.”
His gaze travels the ring, pausing on each of us just long enough to feel like a hand on the back of your neck.
“You are monarchs,” he continues. “Which means you carry burdens your people will never fully understand. And yet a burden shared is a burden halved. So let us begin simply.”
He turns slightly toward a minor king across the curve—one of the ones I still haven’t had time to learn beyond face and posture. Braided hair. Antler-pin. Calloused hands.
“Tell me,” Alaric says, voice gentle. “What does your kingdom lack most?”
The antler-pinned king sits straighter, as if being addressed by the sun. “Stability,” he answers after a moment. “Our borders shift too often. Raiders. Monsters. We have strong people, but we can’t keep rebuilding what gets burned.”
Alaric nods as if that answer pleases him.
“Then you need stone and structure,” he says, smooth. “You need a spine. Walls that do not crumble every time the world tests you. And you need trade, so your rebuilding does not cost you your future.”
His aide writes without looking up.
The king blinks, mouth parting slightly. The words land like prophecy, not suggestion. Like the answer was always waiting for Alaric to speak it.
Alaric doesn’t stop there.
He turns to the sharp-faced queen with river-blue gems braided into her hair. “And you, my lady?”
Her eyes narrow. “Information,” she says, and I can hear the edge of suspicion. “My people survive on river routes. Trade. Movement. But the world changes too quickly. Roads appear where none were. Borders harden overnight. I need reliable knowledge.”
Alaric’s smile widens a fraction.
“Yes,” he agrees immediately. “You need a network. Eyes. Couriers. A way to see beyond your own shores.” He taps the ledger once, idly. “And a way to punish liars.”
That last part makes the woman’s mouth tighten.
Punish liars.
It’s a strange phrase to drop so casually in a room built for political performance.
He continues around the circle with a calm inevitability.
To the desert-silk woman: “You need resources your land refuses to offer. Food stores. Water. You’ve learned luxury, but your people need security.”
To the scar-cheeked armored king: “You need a cause. Your people are strong, but strength without purpose becomes rot. You need direction, before your blade turns inward.”
Each time, he speaks like the need is obvious. Like he’s been watching their streams. Like he knows the shape of their home, the shortages in their pantries, the cracks in their politics.
It’s not the content that unsettles me.
It’s the certainty.
Eventually his gaze turns to Lucen.
Lucen has been sitting like he belongs in a painting—back straight, chin high, hands arranged elegantly on the stone. He looks like he practiced this posture in a mirror.
Alaric’s tone softens, almost affectionate.
“And Lucen,” he says. “Tell us. What does your kingdom require?”
Lucen draws breath as if he’s about to deliver something grand.
But Alaric doesn’t let him.
“You require leadership,” Alaric says, still smiling. “Not soldiers. You already have them. Not wealth. You already possess it. Not even security—you have walls and bodies and loyalty.” His eyes gleam faintly. “What you lack is a guiding hand that your people will follow without hesitation.”
Lucen’s jaw locks for a half-second. A flicker—too small for anyone who isn’t looking for it.
“I—” Lucen begins.
Alaric lifts a finger, polite. “You are not weak, Lucen. You are… indulgent. And indulgence is a luxury your enemies will not grant you forever.”
Lucen’s smile becomes a mask stretched too tight. “My people are happy,” he says, voice controlled. “They are fed. Safe.”
Alaric nods as if humoring a child. “Yes. And so they will remain—if you place yourself within a structure that supports you. An alliance. A hierarchy.” He says hierarchy like it’s a blessing. “You need someone strong enough to make the decisions you’d rather not.”
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It’s so clean. So surgical.
Lucen doesn’t argue, not really. He can’t—not without looking defensive. Not without exposing exactly what Alaric just described.
One by one, Alaric pulls needs out of kings like teeth.
Then his gaze reaches Sethryn.
She has been sitting rigid, shoulders squared, hands still. A coiled storm held in place by sheer will. Every time Alaric speaks, I can see her fighting the urge to spit on the floor.
“And you, Sethryn,” Alaric says, voice gentle as prayer. “What is it your people require?”
Sethryn’s eyes don’t flicker.
“Justice,” she says flatly.
There’s a ripple of subtle reaction around the table—some nobles shifting, some minor kings tilting their heads as if hearing a foreign language.
Alaric’s smile doesn’t falter. “A noble answer. But justice can mean many things. Clarify it for us.”
Sethryn’s fingers flex once on the table edge. “My kingdom needs tyrants removed from power.”
The room stiffens.
Alaric’s aide pauses her writing for the first time, stylus hovering.
Alaric’s smile remains, but it loses its warmth. Not openly. Not enough for anyone to claim offense. Just… less human.
“How earnest,” he says softly. “And how dangerous, when spoken without restraint.”
Sethryn leans forward a fraction. “It’s dangerous to tyrants.”
A few of the minor monarchs glance toward Alaric as if expecting him to lash out.
He tilts his head slightly, studying Sethryn like she’s a specimen pinned behind glass.
“I appreciate your passion,” Alaric says. “Truly. But passion without wisdom becomes fanaticism. I have seen it. I have fought it.” His eyes sweep the room, gathering witness. “And when kings decide they are arbiters of justice, history bleeds.”
Sethryn’s smile is sharp as a hook. “History bleeds when kings decide they are gods.”
That lands harder than anything said so far.
For a heartbeat, I think Alaric might actually show teeth.
Instead, he exhales, long and controlled, and turns his attention away from Sethryn as if dismissing a barking dog.
“Very well,” he says. “We will return to philosophy. For now, we remain practical.”
His gaze finally reaches me.
“Kyris,” he says, and it’s strange hearing my name in his mouth in this room again. “What does your kingdom require?”
I keep my posture relaxed. I give him the expression I’ve used a hundred times at work when someone is trying to corner me into saying something stupid.
“Time,” I answer.
Several heads turn.
Alaric’s eyebrow lifts. “Time?”
“To grow,” I clarify. “To stabilize. To build without being forced into constant reaction.” I let my eyes flick briefly toward the stained glass and back, as if I’m thinking. As if this is all about governance. “The world is young. Everyone wants something. My people need time to become more than a foothold.”
Alaric nods slowly. “A reasonable need. And one that can be granted—if your borders remain unthreatened.”
That is a promise shaped like a knife.
He turns to Thalos next, as if on cue. “And you, Thalos?”
Thalos lounges back in his seat like he’s sitting at a bar, not in a cathedral-palace conference room. But I can see his jaw working, the restraint he’s forcing.
“My people need to not get steamrolled,” he says, blunt and easy. “They need allies that don’t talk pretty and stab you later.”
A few nobles bristle at the tone. Alaric doesn’t.
He smiles at Thalos like he’s amused.
“Honesty,” Alaric says. “How refreshing.”
Thalos shrugs. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Alaric lets the conversation continue around the ring for a few more minutes—Thalienne giving a bright, airy answer about trade and cultural exchange that hides the careful undertone of defensive positioning. The robed monarch offering something vague and elegant that reveals nothing. Galoravad speaking in terms of strength and discipline, his words brushing dangerously close to Solomir’s ideology without admitting it.
And all the while, Alaric is collecting.
Not just our needs.
Our vulnerabilities.
When he finally speaks again, it’s with the air of a man closing a book.
“You see?” he says, voice warm, carrying. “Needs. Real ones. Not theories. Not fears whispered in the dark.” He rests his hands on the stone ring of the table. “This world will not survive thirteen crowns pulling in thirteen directions. Let alone one hundred.”
He pauses.
And I feel the pause like a trap springing open.
“The Perfect Wish needs to be in the right hands,” Alaric begins.
I cut him off before he can shape the sentence into some grand promise..
Voice even, polite but sharp. “And those hands are yours? Because this feels less like a summit and more like a recruitment drive.”
The room shifts.
Not dramatically. Not outwardly. Just enough to feel the currents change beneath the surface.
Alaric’s smile remains, but it tightens at the corners.
“Kyris,” he says softly, as if he’s disappointed rather than challenged. “I have not claimed the Wish.”
“Not yet,” Sethryn murmurs under her breath.
Alaric ignores her like she’s not worth the energy.
“I called you here,” Alaric continues, “to prevent the Wish from falling into hands that would corrupt it.”
“And who decides what corrupt means?” I ask.
Alaric’s gaze meets mine, steady as stone. “The righteous.”
Thalos lets out a quiet laugh.
“The righteous,” Thalos repeats, rolling the word like it’s a bad drink. “That’s… pretty vague, King Priest.”
Alaric turns his head slightly toward Thalos, expression patient. “Evil rarely calls itself evil. It wears virtue like perfume. It speaks of justice and freedom while it burns cities. We must be wise enough to see past appearances.”
Thalos leans forward just a little. “Okay. Then define it. ‘Will of evil intent.’ What does that actually mean? Are we talking about an Apex? Are we talking about a kingdom? A monster? Or are you hunting a boogeyman under the bed because it makes people easier to control when they know what evils face is?”
A sharp intake from one of the lesser kings as Thalos speaks. The aide’s stylus scratches faster.
Alaric’s eyes don’t leave Thalos.
“My concern,” Alaric says carefully, “is not imaginary. It is inevitable. Someone will rise who believes they alone should shape Nod. Someone who will justify atrocity in the name of destiny.”
Sethryn’s eyes narrow. “You mean you.”
Alaric smiles at her without warmth. “If you truly believed that, Sethryn, you would not be sitting here. You would be drawing steel.”
His gaze flicks—briefly—to the empty space at our hips where weapons should be.
A reminder.
Then back to me.
“Kyris,” Alaric says, as if returning to the main performance. “You speak of recruitment as though unity is a sin.”
“Unity isn’t,” I reply. “Submission is.”
The words hang there. Clean. Simple. Hard to twist without looking like you’re twisting them.
Alaric’s smile holds. He spreads his hands again, the same gesture as before—palms open, holy, harmless.
“Then let us speak plainly,” he says. “If the Perfect Wish is placed in careless hands, it will unmake us all. I will not allow that.”
“And you’ll stop it how?” Thalos asks. “By being the only one with authority?”
Alaric’s gaze sweeps the circle. “By ensuring the Wish is claimed by someone who understands sacrifice.”
I feel the urge to laugh, but I don’t. I keep my face calm.
Because that’s the dance here.
Not shouting. Not dueling. Not drawing blades.
Polite conflict—sharp enough to draw blood, subtle enough to deny you did it.
And across the table, Alaric’s eyes shine with quiet certainty, like he already knows what role he intends to cast each of us in.
Hero. Follower. His eyes land on Sethryn. Or monster.
Alaric lets the last exchange settle like dust.
He doesn’t look rattled. If anything, he looks… pleased. Like the resistance is proof he is right.
“Enough philosophy,” he says, tone smoothing again, warmth painted back over the edges. “We’ve spoken of needs. We’ve spoken of threats. Now we speak of something simpler.”
His gaze circles the table once—slow, deliberate.
“Intent.”
The aide at his shoulder shifts her ledger closer. The room seems to lean forward with her.
“I will not pretend,” Alaric continues, “that unity is effortless. Nor will I pretend that all of you will agree with my methods.” He inclines his head toward Sethryn, just enough to acknowledge her existence. “But agreement is not required for survival.”
His fingers rest lightly on the stone table, and he looks at each of us like he’s weighing coin.
“So,” he says, “before we go further—before we speak of resources, routes, military pacts, oaths—there should be a preliminary understanding.”
The word preliminary is meant to sound gentle.
It lands like a collar.
“Who here,” Alaric asks, “stands willing to form an alliance under the light of Solomir? Not a blood oath, but a declaration of intention. A simple statement: I will stand with you when darkness comes.”
Around the ring, the stained glass catches the morning sun and bleeds it into the room in soft, colored shards. Reds and golds and blues fall across faces, making everyone look like they’re already part of some painted history.
Alaric’s smile returns—wide, radiant.
“Lucen,” he says first, as if the answer is a foregone conclusion.
Lucen straightens in his chair, almost relieved to be called. “Of course,” he says. “Solomir is—” he searches for the right flattering phrase, “—the guiding pillar of this world. It would be foolish not to stand with its King Priest.”
He says it like he’s choosing wisdom.
Like he isn’t choosing shelter.
Alaric nods approvingly. “Galoravad?”
Galoravad’s answer is immediate. “Strength requires structure. I support it.”
No speech. No flourish. Just a statement that carries the weight of a blade dropping into place.
“And you?,” Alaric says next—to the broad-shouldered one who rode with us the night before. The man’s eyes flick once to me, then to Thalos, then back to Alaric.
“I stand for it,” he says evenly. “If it is truly against a threat. Not… politics.”
Alaric’s smile doesn’t change, but the meaning in his eyes does. Politics is what I call it.
“The River Queen,” Alaric continues.
She pauses half a beat—just enough to show she knows she’s being measured—then dips her chin. “For the sake of stability and trade, yes.”
“The Antler King?”
He swallows, shoulders tightening like he’s bracing for impact, and then: “Yes. My people need protection.”
“The Silks Queen?”
Her fingers toy with a ring on her hand. “Yes,” she says, voice smooth. “It would be… pragmatic.”
“And the robed queen,” Alaric finishes, finally turning toward the one who spoke like a poem the night before.
The robed monarch’s eyes are calm. Too calm. The faint script along her sleeves shifts like living ink as she folds her hands.
“I stand for unity,” she says. “So long as unity does not become domination.”
Alaric laughs softly, as if charmed. “Wisdom,” he says, as though he agrees.
Seven voices—some eager, some cautious, some resigned—still answering yes.
The room tilts subtly, like the table itself has gained weight, gravity bending toward the side that has already chosen. Even the reflecting pool at the center seems to pull that direction.
Alaric lets the number breathe.
He doesn’t smile wider. He doesn’t press yet. He simply allows the silence to do what it was always meant to do—make the remaining space feel exposed.
Then he turns, deliberately, toward the rest of us.
His expression remains kind. Open. Almost gentle.
“Sethryn,” he says, voice smooth, resonant. “Pirate Queen of the southern seas. Mistress of tide and trade. Your kingdom has suffered under unchecked cruelty before. You above all others must understand the value of decisive unity.”
Sethryn does not look away. She does not bow her head. Her hands rest flat on the stone table, fingers spread, as if feeling the truth of it beneath her palms.
“My people need tyrants removed from power,” she says, flat and unadorned. “No matter what banner they hide behind. If your alliance does that, I’ll consider it. If it crowns one instead—then no.”
The room stiffens.
Alaric inclines his head, as if acknowledging a fair point rather than a direct challenge. “A passionate answer,” he says. “We will return to it.”
His gaze slides on.
“Thalos,” he continues, tone warmer now. “Champion king. Your strength is unquestioned, your loyalty to your allies commendable. Would you stand with us?”
Thalos grins easily, rolling his shoulders as if settling into a familiar role. “I’m here to listen,” he says. “To learn what this alliance actually means. I don’t commit blind—especially when my brother-in-arms hasn’t finished asking questions.”
Alaric studies him for a moment longer than the others. Then, serenely, he nods.
“Prudence,” he says. “Noted.”
His eyes move again.
“Kyris.”
My name lands heavier than it should.
“Your rise has been… remarkable,” Alaric says, fingers steepled now. “Your power. Your growth. Your influence. Nod watches you closely. Will you add that weight to the alliance?”
“I’m here for discussion,” I reply evenly. “For clarity. I won’t commit until the full scope is laid bare—threats, expectations, costs. Especially costs.”
Something flickers behind Alaric’s eyes. Gone almost immediately.
“Wisdom,” he says. The word feels rehearsed.
He turns next to the armored king with the scar the one who looks like he hasn’t replaced his armor because it has never failed him.
“And you,” Alaric says. “King of Giants.”
The title lands with quiet weight.
The man straightens slightly, metal plates shifting with a soft grind. “I’ve buried too many of my people because others promised protection and delivered control,” he says. “If this alliance becomes command rather than cooperation, I’ll walk. Until then—I listen.”
Alaric nods once more, as if adding another tally mark only he can see.
Then—finally—his attention turns to Thalienne.
Elf Queen. Bright smile. Light laugh. The one who has treated this summit like spectacle and story so far.
“And you, Thalienne,” Alaric says gently. “Your magic is rare. Your people ancient. Where do you stand?”
Thalienne’s smile doesn’t come immediately.
Her fingers tighten in her lap. Her gaze flicks—once, quick and almost imperceptible—toward Thalos. Then to Sethryn. Then, finally, to me.
Eight have said yes.
Three have abstained.
She inhales.
“This summit has been… illuminating,” she says lightly, but there’s strain under the brightness now. “And my people value stability. Predictability. I can’t afford to stand alone if the rest of you march together.”
A pause.
A choice.
“I will join,” Thalienne says at last. “Provisionally.”
Alaric’s smile returns in full, radiant force—another victory etched into the walls of his city.
At the edge of my vision, my ring pulses once.
{direct message} [Thalienne]: Im Sorry
I don’t respond. Not now.
He turns his gaze to the remainder—me, Thalos, Sethryn. His expression stays kind, his posture open.
“I will say this plainly,” Alaric announces, voice rising just enough to be ceremonial. “No one is forced to join. I do not compel loyalty.”
Sethryn makes a quiet sound that could almost be a laugh.
Alaric continues, unbothered.
“But understand what an alliance is. It is not merely a promise to share feasts and words. It is a structure. A living body. And a living body protects itself.”
His gaze sharpens, just a degree.
“If a kingdom here refuses the alliance,” he says, “and later that kingdom falls under assault by the threat of evil… our priority will be the safety of the alliance.”
The words are wrapped in soft cloth. They are still a weapon.
“Meaning,” Thalos mutters, too low for the aide but loud enough for me and Sethryn, “if you don’t join, you’re bait.”
Sethryn’s nostrils flare.
Alaric’s smile warms again, as if he’s offering a gift instead of an ultimatum.
“I do not say this to threaten,” he adds, voice gentle. “I say it to clarify. In war, choices have consequences. And in a world like Nod… consequences arrive quickly.”
He rests his hands on the table again, fingers splayed like a preacher emphasizing scripture.
“And when the time comes,” Alaric says, “Solvael will guide my hand. He will reveal where wickedness hides. He will show who stands in righteousness… and who stands in rot.”
There it is.
Not a coalition.
A church.
A hierarchy crowned by a man who believes he speaks for a god.
He leans forward slightly, tone turning intimate—confessional.
“I have been given a purpose,” Alaric says. “To cull the evil that would poison Nod at its root.”
His eyes sweep the ring again.
“Wouldn’t you rather stand on the side of righteousness?”
It’s a simple line.
It feels like a blade offered by the handle.
For a heartbeat, the only sound is the quiet ripple of the reflecting pool.
Then movement.
An attendant—one of the aides in white and silver—approaches Alaric from behind. She leans down and murmurs something into his ear.
I watch Alaric’s face as the words land.
His smile doesn’t fall immediately.
It freezes.
Then, like a curtain dropping, the warmth drains out of him.
His eyes go distant for a split second, not in fear—more like calculation, like someone just moved a piece on a board he thought was set.
He rises smoothly, chair whispering against stone.
“Excuse me,” he says, voice still calm. “A brief matter of governance.”
He turns to the room, smile returning in a thinner shape. “Continue your discussions. We will resume in moments.”
And then he’s gone—through a side door that blends into the stained glass shadows.
The door closes.
The room exhales all at once.
For half a second, no one speaks, like they are waiting to see if it’s allowed.
Then it breaks.
Voices overlap. Chairs shift. Someone laughs nervously. Someone else mutters a prayer under their breath as if Alaric might still be listening through the walls.
Lucen is the first to regain his performance.
“This is the only reasonable path,” he says, turning toward the curve of the table where Thalienne sits. “If you have any sense, you’ll accept. It’s protection. It’s structure. It’s—”
“—it’s you handing someone else your spine because you’re tired of carrying it,” Thalienne cuts in, bright voice sharpened clean. Her public mask has cracks in it now. The smile is still there, but it’s tight, weaponized. “You want him to tell you what to do so you can keep wearing your pretty clothes and pretending you’re a king.”
Lucen’s cheeks color. “I AM a king, you just dont understand how to govern.”
“Oh I understand it,” Thalienne snaps, and the room quiets just enough to hear her. “You just don’t want to do it.”
Lucen turns his gaze toward the others, searching for support. “I have a massive army,” he says, as if that should end the argument.
“And what good is an army,” Thalienne says, “if its king is looking for someone else to hold his leash?”
Galoravad’s mouth curls in a faint expression that might be approval—or amusement at weakness.
Sethryn’s voice cuts through, low and dangerous.
“You’re all arguing about comfort while he talks about ‘culling wickedness.’” Her eyes flick around the ring, daring anyone to meet them. “You want to know what he means? He means anyone who doesn’t kneel.”
The River Queen lifts a hand delicately. “Better to kneel now than be drowned later.”
Sethryn’s gaze snaps to her. “Careful. It’s easy to justify chains when they aren’t around your own throat yet.”
The scarred king speaks then, quietly. “We don’t have enough information. None of us do. Maybe this alliance is just—”
“A net,” Thalos says, voice easy but edged. “A net to see who swims where he wants.”
He grins like it’s a joke.
No one laughs.
I sit still, hands loosely clasped on the stone in front of me. I don’t add fuel. I don’t calm it either.
I watch.
I catalog who speaks, who deflects, who hides behind pretty words.
I watch the robed queen in particular. She says nothing. She listens like a scholar watching an experiment. Her gaze flicks to each speaker, absorbing the room’s shape.
Then—footsteps.
The side door opens again.
Alaric returns.
And the rooms conversation dies.
Silence slams down so hard it feels physical.
Because he isn’t smiling.
Not even a polite, paper-thin version.
His face is darker, jaw set, eyes sharp with something that wasn’t there when he left—something colder than calculation.
He walks back to his seat and doesn’t sit immediately. He stands behind it for a moment, hands resting on the chair’s carved back as if grounding himself.
Then he lowers into the seat with deliberate control.
He knits his fingers together atop the table.
The gesture is intimate. Calm.
It feels like a judge preparing to read a sentence.
He looks around the table once, slow and thorough, as if counting heads.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet.
Which makes it worse.
“It seems,” Alaric says, “that evil has already infiltrated our gathering.”
No one breathes.
His gaze settles on the reflecting pool at the center of the table, watching the ripples as if they’re omens.
“Someone,” he continues softly, “has sought to fracture unity before it begins. To turn you against one another. To poison the very idea of alliance.”
His eyes lift.
And they sweep the room again—this time not like a host, but like a hunter.
“Solvael has revealed to me,” Alaric says, “that in this room…”
He pauses.
The pause is a noose tightening.
“…one of you is the murderer behind King Redmoon’s death.”
The words hit the air like a hammer strike.
A couple of monarchs jerk instinctively—small movements they can’t fully stop. The antler king goes pale. The silks queen’s fingers tighten around her ring. Lucen’s mouth opens slightly, then shuts.
Sethryn’s eyes flare with open contempt, like she’s about to speak—
I feel it in the shift of her shoulders.
—but she stops, watching, weighing the room.
Thalos’s posture goes loose on purpose, like a man pretending he isn’t bracing to fight.
And me—
I do nothing.
No flinch. No widening of eyes. No tightening of jaw.
I let my face remain exactly what it was a heartbeat before.
I stare at Alaric like he just announced the weather.
Inside, every muscle wants to move.
Inside, my mind is already racing through exits, through consequences, through the bag at my hip, and the knife hiding inside it.
But on the surface—
Nothing.
Because if I react, he’ll know.
And if he knows…
Alaric’s fingers tighten together once, the only hint of emotion he allows.
“We will proceed carefully,” he says, voice calm as confession. “We will proceed… righteously.”
His eyes lock on the ring of monarchs as if he’s already chosen who deserves salvation.
And I sit there, silent and still, letting my heartbeat stay buried where no one can hear it—praying, for once, that my mask is better than his.