Eyes begin to move.
Not the casual glances of polite conversation. This is different. This is inventory. Assessment. Threat evaluation. Thirteen people looking at one another and doing the same mental math at the same time.
Someone seated at this table killed Redmoon.
That’s what Alaric dropped into the room like a stone into still water. A murder accusation with no name attached and no evidence offered—not yet—only the authority of his voice and the implied weight of Solvael’s “guidance.”
And the instant the implication lands, the room does what people always do when they’re afraid.
It reaches for the easiest target.
I feel the shift first—the subtle convergence of attention—before I see it. When I look, the majority of Alaric’s supporters have turned their gazes dead-on Sethryn. Some of them are careful about it, trying to keep their expressions neutral like trained politicians. Others aren’t hiding it at all. Their eyes are sharp with accusation, as if suspicion is proof.
Lucen is the worst.
He doesn’t even bother with restraint. His stare carries a kind of eagerness, like he’s relieved to finally have a villain he can point at instead of having to be useful himself. The scarred king from the second villa watches Sethryn with a grim patience, chin resting on knuckles, as if waiting to see if she’s going to slip. The river queen leans back in her chair, fingers tapping lightly, her gaze flicking between Sethryn and Alaric as though she’s already deciding which way the current will carry her.
Sethryn notices it immediately.
Her spine stiffens. The line of her jaw tightens. Her hands—always so capable on a cutlass or a spear—curl against the armrests like she’s restraining an instinct to stand and dare them to say it out loud.
Then she meets Galoravad’s eyes.
He looks at her the way a predator looks at wounded game. Almost… pleased. Like he’s been waiting for someone to bleed in public.
His lips lift into the smallest half-smile.
Sethryn’s nostrils flare. She draws breath, ready to speak. I can almost hear the words forming in her throat—something sharp, something righteous, something that would satisfy her pride and get her killed politically in the same motion.
I don’t let it happen.
I extend my hand to my side, palm down, level with the table. Not touching her—just a quiet, firm boundary in the air.
Wait.
Her eyes flick toward my hand, then to my face. There’s heat there. Anger. Disgust. Fear, too, buried under the anger like a knife kept close. She wants to fight. She wants to make this loud.
But she stops.
It’s a small thing, the way she stops, but it matters. It’s the first time I’ve seen her temper bend for anyone.
I stand.
The scrape of my chair against stone is loud in the quiet room. The sound turns heads toward me—some curious, some annoyed, some wary. Thalos’s gaze lifts immediately, sharp and attentive despite the casual posture he’s forcing. Thalienne watches me from across the table with that bright, unreadable expression she uses when she’s masking—eyes slightly wider than normal, lips curved as if this is still entertainment for the stream that's not even able to be seen.
I plant my feet.
“I’m going to stop that right there.”
My voice carries without me raising it. The room is built for acoustics. Sound doesn’t get lost here—it gets held.
Lucen’s mouth tightens. Galoravad’s smile fades into something more intent.
“Just because she has been the most openly opposed to this,” I continue, “you all jump to conclusions.”
I sweep my gaze across the table, taking in the kings and queens who have already decided the story they want to believe.
“Where is any proof that anyone in this room did anything?”
No one answers. No one can.
“All we have is Alaric’s word, in his own castle, that one of us is at fault for a supposed murder,” I say, choosing each word carefully. “When the entire point of Nod is conquest and politics.”
I glance toward Alaric, like I’m trying to be fair.
“I’m not sure if this is a backhanded way to treat opposing forces,” I add, “or legitimately an inquest to find a murderous king. But before you start pointing knives at her…”
I tilt my chin slightly toward Sethryn, not giving them the satisfaction of seeing me “defend the pirate queen,” but making it clear that she’s not standing alone.
“…think about who in this room has actually already killed a king.”
The words settle into the air like dust.
“Who has displayed that very king’s body for us to all see last night.”
That lands harder.
It forces their minds to turn where they don’t want to turn.
Because I’m not wrong.
Alaric hasn’t spoken since his revelation.
He sits at the head of the table, hands folded, expression composed. He looks up at me now. The light from the stained glass paints faint colors across his face—an accidental halo of blue and gold and red—and the effect makes him look even more like a man built for a pulpit.
I can’t read what he’s thinking.
I can say, with certainty, that I don’t like it.
Then he speaks, and it surprises me.
“Kyris is right.”
The room stills.
His voice is calm. Measured. Patient, like he’s soothing a congregation.
“I will not have random accusations based on your own internal feelings,” he says. “This is not how we serve the righteous path.”
A few of his supporters relax visibly, reassured. Of course they do—he’s speaking like a father chastising children, and they want to be children in his story.
Alaric rises to his feet, slow and controlled.
“This is impromptu,” he admits, “but we are placed in a unique situation allowing us to inquire and solve this murder.”
He spreads his hands slightly, palms open, posture radiating reason.
“We have time left in the summit,” he continues, “and I would rather not align with a potential traitor. So it is best that we settle this before we move on.”
The scribe’s pen scratches softly as she writes, recording his every word like scripture.
And then my ring vibrates.
The sensation is subtle, like a pulse against my skin, and it drags my attention inward even as the room continues to watch Alaric.
{direct message} [LifelineV]: Heads up Marcus. All of your streams just came back up, but it looks like the chat function is off still. We can all see what's going on in the room now, and reddit is losing its mind. I already warned Scott as well. Alaric is trying to broadcast this to the world and villainize the accused. Be careful.
My stomach clenches.
So the outer courts can see the room now, but they can’t speak. They can’t warn in chat. They can’t steer public perception in real time. They can only watch the story unfold the way Alaric wants it to.
Alaric didn’t just reopen the streams out of “safety.”
He reopened them when the tension was at its peak.
He wanted the audience back right as the accusation took shape.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Shit, got it. Thank you for the warning Vic.
I keep my face neutral. I force my breathing to stay steady. I can’t afford to react like I just received information that changes the stakes, because it does, and if he’s watching for reaction—if he can read anything in this room beyond words—then my smallest shift matters.
Alaric looks around the table again, and when he speaks, his tone changes slightly. Less pastoral. More authoritative.
“Firstly, I will come outright with it,” he says.
He waits just long enough for everyone to lean in.
“I had King Redmoon imprisoned on the First Ring of Solomir.”
A ripple moves through the room. Surprise from some. Satisfaction from others. Lucen’s eyebrows lift as if this is confirmation of something he already wanted to believe—that Alaric has always been “handling threats.”
“His people had grown tired of his inability to lead them,” Alaric continues smoothly, “and fled north to my regions.”
The lie is clean.
“My soldiers and cardinals welcomed them into the First Ring,” he says, “and have extended every right we extend our own citizenry. They have even been allowed to ascend the rings.”
I see heads nod.
Not because they know it’s true.
Because it sounds true, and it fits the story they want: Alaric the savior, Redmoon the failure, Solomir the refuge.
“He came to retake his people,” Alaric says, “and by force if needed. It was only out of necessity I detained him.”
Another lie.
And it doesn’t matter that it’s a lie. I can already see the sympathizers accepting it like doctrine.
Galoravad speaks up before anyone else can interrupt.
“So then all we need to do is narrow down who has been to the lowest ring,” he says, voice almost bored.
He leans back, folding his arms as though the conclusion is inevitable.
“I’ll say right now,” Galoravad continues, “I haven’t stepped foot off the Eighth. No need to debase myself going anywhere beneath me.”
A few supporters murmur approval. Not because the statement is helpful, but because it flatters their shared elitism.
Other kings begin offering reasons.
Some are simple. Some are overly detailed, the kind of explanation that feels like a man trying too hard to sound innocent. The silks queen says she spent most of her time in the villa, preparing for the summit, uninterested in Solomir’s “novelty.” The antler king says he explored the Seventh and Eighth, seeking craftsmen, but avoided the lower rings for safety. The river queen claims she has no desire to descend into “squalor,” her tone dripping with contempt.
Then Sethryn speaks.
“I went to the First Ring,” she says plainly.
Every head snaps toward her.
“I heard people there were not being taken care of,” she continues, voice tight but controlled. “I wanted to see if that was true, and provide help if I could.”
Lucen’s lips part like he’s about to pounce on the confession, but I cut in before he can.
“I’ve been to the First Ring as well,” I say, letting the admission sit cleanly. “Where I also went on a mission of extending aid to those less fortunate.”
The room’s focus fractures, just slightly. Good. Let it fracture.
Thalienne shakes her head with a small laugh, too bright, too casual.
“I haven’t gone lower than the Sixth,” she says, like she’s confessing to skipping chores. “If there isn’t food, music, or something worth streaming, I’m not going.”
A few people chuckle. She lets them.
Thalos tilts his head back, stretching like a man unconcerned.
“She’s telling the truth,” he says easily. “I’ve been with her most of the time. When I wasn’t, it’s because I was back at the villa eating.”
His grin flashes, a little too charming. A little too unbothered. It’s a mask—and a useful one. It makes him seem harmless. It makes him seem like he couldn’t possibly be calculated.
Lucen stammers when it’s his turn.
“I—I was exploring the Eighth,” he says quickly. “The city is… magnificent. I had no reason to go lower.”
His expression is hard to read. Too practiced to be panic, too uncertain to be confidence. It feels like he’s editing his own truth mid-sentence.
Before anyone can press him further, Alaric raises a hand.
“This may make things a bit easier for us to understand what has occurred,” he says.
He pauses, letting the room settle.
“The other day when the announcement went off,” Alaric continues, “and we were all alerted to Redmoon’s demise, all of the streams of your courts were cut from the real world.”
My spine tightens slightly. I keep my face still.
“That was my doing,” he says.
Murmurs flare.
“I cut the streams of our kings in case it was an attack,” Alaric explains smoothly, “and I didn’t want anyone in the waking world feeding locations of any of you to the would-be assassin.”
It’s a neat story. A protective story. The kind that makes him look responsible and heroic at the same time.
“I left my stream up because I am armed and in my own territory,” he continues, “and would not be a good host if I let anything happen to any of you.”
Then he turns his gaze toward me.
“I made myself the bait,” Alaric says, “and walked the city without a guard retinue. Kyris, I believe you can corroborate this. You met with me on the road back to the villa.”
There is the third lie.
And the worst part is how easily it will be accepted.
Because it paints him as brave. It paints him as self-sacrificing. It paints him as the one who took risk while everyone else sat safe in villas.
Lucen jumps on it immediately.
“How gracious of you, Kingpriest Alaric,” he says, voice warm with devotion he hasn’t earned. “I, for one, am glad that you would risk your own safety to ensure our own.”
Bootlicking, dressed as gratitude.
Alaric inclines his head, humble.
“Sarah,” he says, without looking away from the table, “do we have the Grand Cardinal’s examination ready?”
The scribe nods, stepping forward. “Yes, Kingpriest. The Grand Cardinal has sent his report.”
She holds out a glass sphere no bigger than a golf ball.
Alaric takes it like it’s nothing. Like it’s just another tool. Another prop.
“Ah,” he says pleasantly. “Good. This will help us come to a conclusion.”
He casually tosses the sphere into the reflecting pool.
It stops dead center, floating above the surface as if held by invisible hands. The water beneath it ripples constantly, endless concentric rings that never fade, like time repeating itself. Light pours out of the sphere in thin strands, weaving together into a three-dimensional image that hangs above the pool.
A cell.
Redmoon’s cell.
But it’s wrong.
The image shows a lit room, warmer than any dungeon has the right to be. A bed with blankets. A small table. A proper ceiling tall enough for Redmoon to stand fully upright without stooping. A door set into the stone like a normal prison.
And Redmoon’s body lies face down on the bed.
His fur is matted dark with blood.
Thirteen stab wounds, clustered across his back like a pattern.
I keep my expression neutral, but inside my mind recoils.
Because I know the truth.
That cell wasn’t a room. It was a hole carved into the mountain. A place designed to freeze a man to death and make sure no one even noticed.
This is Alaric scrubbing the cruelty from the narrative and replacing it with something palatable for viewers. A “humane” imprisonment. A “tragic” murder.
He is polishing his own image in real time.
“I have known about this for the past day,” Alaric says calmly, “but I was not going to bring it up with all of you and cause undue panic.”
His supporters nod like he’s noble for withholding information.
“I doubled my guard,” he continues, “and if you have noticed this morning, ensured each of you had an armed escort about the city to ensure safety.”
He gestures toward the floating image.
“I only show it to you now so we are able to find the killer,” Alaric says, voice tightening just a fraction. Just enough to make the room feel the seriousness without making him look afraid.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
He takes a breath, then points to the door in the vision.
“The door to the cell was left locked,” he explains, “but it was a simple lock meant only to keep those inside from leaving, and able to be opened from the outside.”
He points to Redmoon’s body.
“The victim was on his bed, asleep,” Alaric says, “and was stabbed in the back thirteen times, where he bled to death.”
“The Grand Cardinal did not find any evidence of others in the room with his magics,” Alaric continues, “meaning that it must be a king.”
He lets that sit.
Because it’s the hook.
Because it places the suspicion back at the table.
“As we are all protected from scrying by whatever system is in place by the powers over Nod,” Alaric finishes, tone mild again, “no one else could have entered unseen.”
That’s new information to me—if it’s true.
And I can’t afford to assume it’s a lie, because it’s the kind of lie that could still be useful to him even if it’s false: it forces the room into an enclosed logic box. It narrows the suspect list. It turns thirteen rulers into a jury trapped in a sanctified chamber.
I watch the image, letting my face remain still.
Inside, my thoughts churn.
He knows the truth, or enough of it. He knows Redmoon was in his custody. He knows Redmoon died. He knows a king did it—or wants everyone to believe only a king could.
He doesn’t know which king.
And this whole performance—the softened cell, the “simple lock,” the “humane bed,” the thirteen wounds—is a trap designed to make the killer correct him.
To make someone say, that’s not what it looked like.
To make someone flinch at the number.
To make someone claim a detail only the murderer could know.
And I’m sitting here, holding the real version of that room in my memory like contraband, trying not to let it touch my eyes.
Because if I react, even slightly, I’ve told him that his story intersects with mine.
And because somewhere beyond this warded room, with chat locked and viewers forced to watch without speaking, the whole waking world is seeing exactly what Alaric wants them to see: thirteen monarchs under suspicion, and the Kingpriest offering order in the chaos like the only man capable of saving Nod from itself.
The accusation hangs in the air like frost.
The illusion above the reflecting pool still shows Redmoon face-down on that too-clean bed, the thirteen wounds rendered with enough detail to make even the most hardened monarch swallow. It is a curated brutality—sanitized enough to be acceptable to Solomir’s faithful, graphic enough to be useful as a cudgel.
The armored king—broad-shouldered, worn leather under plates that look hammered rather than forged—breaks the silence first.
“Bladed…” he says, voice level but carrying, the cadence of someone who has given orders in storms and lived to give them again. “All of us are unarmed and were checked before transport. I was not allowed to carry any of the weapons I bought while at the blacksmiths on the 7th, and was told they would be transported with me to my kingdom when we return.”
He looks around the table once, slow, as if to make sure the logic lands on every face. He isn’t accusing anyone. He’s doing what soldiers do when something doesn’t make sense—pulling a thread until the knot shows.
Alaric inclines his head as if pleased someone is thinking the way he wants.
“That is correct,” he says. “The examination leads us to think it was a kitchen knife, of Solomir make.”
He says kitchen knife the way a priest says sin: simple, universal, easy to picture. Not a king’s blade. Not a relic. Not something grand enough to romanticize.
“So it was a weapon acquired after arrival,” Alaric continues. “If we find the weapon, we find the killer.”
His gaze sweeps across us as if he is offering something merciful.
“I took the liberty,” he adds, “to have the villas searched while I had all of you here, and found no knife.”
A murmur begins, low and unsettled, like bees shifting inside a hive.
Alaric lets it start. Then he drops the real hook.
“But it was reported that the western villa was missing one of their knives from the kitchen. One that matches the profile of the weapon used.” He pauses, deliberate. “That narrows down our list to six.”
The room tilts.
Inside my mind—inside everyone’s mind—the table’s gravity shifts. The accusation stops being a vague cloud and becomes a blade pointed in a specific direction.
Six.
Western villa.
My throat goes dry.
Of course the knife is missing. Of course it matches the profile. Of course the search “found nothing.” Because I didn’t put it back. Because I didn’t clean it. Because I couldn’t risk being caught moving through the villa like a thief returning stolen goods.
And because I needed it.
Not just to kill Redmoon impromptu when I did. I needed it afterward, too. In a city where I’d already learned the rules can change mid-sentence, and the walls listen, and even my own stream can be cut like a cord.
A thousand details crowd my mind at once: the feel of the knife’s handle in my grip, the way the blade caught torchlight, the way the air in that cell tasted like shit and old frost. The way Redmoon’s voice had sounded when he accepted what was happening—anger and exhaustion braided together so tightly it became something calm.
I should have cleaned it. I should have put it back. I should have—No. This is how it has to be.
{direct message} [Kyris]: The three of you. No matter what happens, do not start a fight in this room. If this is going where I think it is, then its better for 3 of us to make it out of here and only one take the fall.
I can feel Thalos’s attention snap to me—subtle, but I know him too well. Even without reading his face, I can feel the way his energy shifts when he senses danger aimed at his circle.
Sethryn’s reply comes almost immediately, hot enough to burn through the ring.
{direct message} [Sethryn]: No way in hell am I letting him do anything to any of you.
Then Thalos.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Hes trying to pin it on one of us man. We can't take this sitting down.
My heartbeat stays steady by force. I refuse to let panic show on my face. I refuse to give Alaric anything he can point at and call guilt.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Yes, but we also can't have all 4 of us in cells, unable to go back to our thrones. Just trust me that I know what I am doing. Please.
There is no response for a few seconds, and the silence in the ring feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and waiting to see if the ground holds.
Then Lucen explodes out of his chair like a cork forced from a bottle.
“That means…” he says, voice rising too high, too sharp. “One of them did it!”
He points—vicious, trembling finger—at me, Sethryn, and Thalos like we are already condemned.
“They openly did not accept the alliance!” Lucen spits. “They are trying to tear it apart from within!”
His accusation is not logic. It’s hunger. He wants a villain because a villain means he doesn’t have to face the possibility that he aligned with a tyrant out of cowardice.
Before I can even open my mouth, Galoravad moves.
It’s casual.
Too casual.
He rises just enough to reach Lucen and backhands him like swatting an insect.
Lucen’s head snaps sideways. He stumbles backward and drops hard into his stone chair, breath knocked out of him, eyes wide with shock and humiliation.
“Quiet, you sniveling wretch,” Galoravad says, voice low and full of contempt. “The implication is clear, and we don’t need you to spell it out for us.”
He turns his gaze back to Lucen, smile sharp as a broken tooth.
“And if you don’t recall,” Galoravad adds, “you and I are in the western villa as well. Jumping to accusations makes you look awfully guilty.”
Lucen’s mouth works soundlessly. The room’s attention shifts, and the immediate heat of Lucen’s accusation diffuses for a moment—redirected into a new suspicion: if Lucen is desperate, maybe he has reason to be.
The redirect is unexpected.
Not unwelcome.
But the room is still boiling. Suspicion doesn’t vanish. It just moves, seeking a new shape.
Thalos leans back in his chair and kicks his feet up onto the stone rim of the table like he owns the room. The move is pure Thalos—provocation wrapped in humor, body language that dares anyone to treat him like a subordinate.
“So a knife goes missing in a house with three people who don’t agree to your alliance outright,” he says, voice light, “and we just now hear about it after you get an idea of who is on your side.”
He tilts his head, grin lazy, eyes sharp.
“This is very convenient for your narrative, Alaric.”
A few of the minor crowns flinch at the disrespect. One of Alaric’s supporters—antler king, I think—shifts like he wants to protest.
Alaric’s expression remains serene, but the muscles around his eyes tighten.
“I am only now saying so because I didn’t want to believe it was anyone in this room,” Alaric replies. “I want to trust you all to be on the side of good.”
Thalos’s grin widens.
“So what now then, Cleric?” he presses. “Patdowns for each of us in the west? Go ahead then—search me now and see for yourself.”
It’s bait. It’s also deflection. Thalos is drawing heat to himself on purpose, giving me time to think.
Alaric lifts a hand.
“That will not be needed, Thalos,” he says, voice soft, almost indulgent. “So please, calm yourself.”
He doesn’t sound angry. That’s the most dangerous part. He sounds like a man speaking to a child having a tantrum. Like he is confident he can end this whenever he wants.
He calls the glass sphere back into his palm with a flick of his fingers. The illusion above the pool collapses into threads of light and vanishes, leaving only rippling water. The room feels colder without the floating image, like the violence has moved from spectacle to intent.
Alaric settles back into his chair.
Then he starts naming names.
“Of the six of you in the western villa,” Alaric says, “I know for certain that Galoravad had nothing to do with it.”
Galoravad’s smile fades. His jaw tightens at being spoken about like a piece on a board.
“After his overzealous encounters with Sethryn and Kyris,” Alaric continues, “I had him watched to ensure he did not seek vengeance on Kyris.”
Galoravad’s eyes flick to me, then back to Alaric—humiliation and fury layered together.
“And Lucen,” Alaric says, “was engorging himself on the Eighth Ring on the amenities provided in our establishments, as offered, when the announcement that Redmoon was removed from Nod went through.”
Lucen’s face reddens, but he can’t argue without confirming the picture Alaric just painted: a weak king distracted by luxury while someone bled out below.
Alaric’s gaze moves again.
“Thalos and Thalienne were both eating with members of the Seventh Ring,” he says, “and were observed reacting to the message itself with shock by witnesses around them.”
Thalos’s feet remain on the table. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen a fraction at the idea his actions were reported on.
Alaric doesn’t look at him long. He doesn’t need to. He is building a funnel.
My stomach drops as I see where the funnel ends.
Alaric turns his gaze to me.
Then to Sethryn.
“Leaving two,” he says quietly.
The room tightens like a drawn bow.
“The two of you both admit to being on the First Ring yesterday,” Alaric continues, “and I can confirm this by the lift captains of the Fifth Ring telling me that you descended.”
My mind races.
The lift captains. The guards. The controlled choke points of Solomir. Every movement recorded by someone loyal to him.
“Kyris and I spoke on the Eighth Ring shortly after the announcement,” Alaric says, voice gentle, “and there is no way to have reached the Eighth Ring quickly from that moment…”
He pauses, letting everyone complete the sentence for him.
“…leaving Queen Sethryn.”
Sethryn’s shoulders square. She looks like she’s about to spit venom.
“…who was detained by the Fifth Ring guards on arrival to the lift,” Alaric finishes, “and searched there. She was then left to return for the banquet when nothing was found on her person.”
He spreads his hands slightly.
“Obviously then,” Alaric says, voice regretful, “my lady, you are the sole person who could have killed Redmoon in the cell—and you hid the murder weapon on your way to the lifts.”
No.
My mind rejects it so hard it’s almost physical.
He can’t believe that. Not truly. Not with how cleanly he just walked around the possibility of me. Not with how calculated this has been.
He is not concluding. He is selecting.
He is choosing Sethryn because she is already painted as monstrous in the public mind. Pirate queen. Ocean tyrant. Naga. Easy villain. Easy sacrifice.
Sethryn’s voice comes out tight.
“What proof do you have other than I was on the First Ring when the announcement went off?” she demands. “That’s a weak argument, my lord Alaric.” She spits the last words out.
Alaric’s eyes harden, finally. The mask slips just enough to show what’s underneath.
“Frankly, Lady Sethryn,” he says, “your open contempt for me…”
He leans forward, and every word feels sharpened.
“…your actions in your own kingdom, with you jumping at the opportunity to cause havoc for any kingdom daring to sail your seas…”
Sethryn’s expression twists with disgust.
“…and your barbaric and monstrous people’s innate desire to rob and steal what they did not earn—” Alaric continues, voice now laced with righteous disdain, “is all I need to understand.”
He turns his gaze toward me for a moment, like he is comparing us.
“Lord Kyris is the only other who was close to the ring,” Alaric says, “and he has not even engaged with another kingdom in combat. His first kingly encounter he made an alliance with Thalos. He speaks for peace first before he shows his teeth.”
He looks back to Sethryn.
“So I am sorry to say,” Alaric concludes, “but I think I am ready to pass verdict.”
The words pass verdict hit like a hammer.
I feel Thalos’s ring pulse again.
{direct message} [Thalos]: MARKUS. We CANT let them take her. She is one of us!
My mind snaps through possibilities at impossible speed.
Fight here? We could. Thalos could shatter stone. Sethryn could turn water in lungs. Thalienne’s magic is a knife wrapped in silk. But there are unknowns. Too many. This room is warded. Streams can be cut. Powers can be muted. Alaric has already demonstrated that what applies outside does not necessarily apply inside Solomir.
And the worst-case scenario isn’t us dying in this room.
The worst-case scenario is us being caged.
Kingless thrones. Vulnerable kingdoms. Alaric consolidating power while we rot in a dungeon.
Then the room changes.
From the corner of my eye, I see movement at the door we came through.
It opens.
And knights step in.
Not guards. Not ceremonial attendants. Knights in full plate, swords drawn, faces hidden behind visors that reflect stained-glass color like bloody clothing. They spread out in a practiced arc, two shadowing each king and queen present, forming a ring of steel around a ring of crowns.
No one speaks while they enter.
Even Galoravad stays silent, his grin fading into a hungry stillness.
Alaric rises.
“Queen Sethryn,” he declares, voice carrying to every corner, “Pirate Queen of the Cerulean Waves—”
Sethryn’s fingers flex, and the air around her feels suddenly charged, like the sea before a storm.
“I, Alaric, Kingpriest of Solomir, hereby declare you guilty of regicide against the Moon Tribe King Redmoon, and sentence you to execution by blade.”
He pauses just long enough to let it land.
“To be commenced this evening.”
A vacuum hits the room, robing the breath from us all.
I feel Sethryn’s rage like heat. I can feel the moment she’s about to lunge, about to erupt, about to turn this room into a war zone and damn the consequences.
And I know, with cold clarity, that if she does, Alaric gets exactly what he wants.
A monster on display.
A justification.
A reason to rally his alliance into war.
A villain.
My chair scrapes again as I rise.
“Wait.”
The word isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.
I plant both hands on the table, knuckles whitening against stone.
“Do not touch her.”
Every visor turns slightly toward me. Alaric’s attention shifts, interest flickering beneath his calm.
“King Kyris,” Alaric says softly, “I am sure that you have your reasons, and I am sorry if you have doubts, but I am certain that she is the only one that had access and ability to commit this crime.”
“No,” I say, voice steady. “She is innocent. She has nothing to do with Redmoon’s death.”
Alaric’s eyes soften in a way that makes my skin crawl, like he is indulging my naivety.
“And what makes you say so, Kyris?” he asks.
Because if I answer the way I want to—because I know how you operate—you’ll use it as a sermon.
So I answer with the only thing he can’t smooth over.
“Because…” I say, and the room feels like it shrinks inward, all attention narrowing to my mouth. “…I am the one who killed Redmoon.”
A collective inhale.
Thalienne’s gasp is theatrical and immediate, a hand flying to her mouth, eyes wide—mask or real, I can’t tell, but it sells the shock to the room.
Thalos half-rises from his chair, body tensing like a coiled spring. Ready to move. Ready to break something.
I lift one hand—small, controlled—toward him.
Sit.
He freezes, jaw clenched, eyes locked on mine.
{direct message} [Kyris]: No Scott. Let me do this.
Alaric’s expression does not change immediately. He studies me, head tilted slightly, like he is trying to decide whether this is courage or manipulation.
“A valiant offer,” he says at last, “but I see no way that you were able to have done the deed, Kyris.”
His voice is gentle. Almost kind.
“If this is some way to save Sethryn from my judgment,” Alaric continues, “I am sorry, but I do not believe you.”
I don’t argue.
I don’t plead.
I reach into my satchel.
The movement is small, but every knight shifts, swords angling slightly, tension spiking.
My fingers find the object I kept hidden, wrapped inside Redmoon’s relic bag. The bag’s magic has preserved more than it should.
When I pull the knife free, it glints wetly.
And when I slam it onto the table—
The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot.
Blood splatters across the stone. Fresh. Dark. Too alive.
Several of the eastern villa crowns recoil, chairs scraping back in a chorus. One of the minor kings actually stands and stumbles away from the table like the blade might leap on its own.
Lucen shrieks, a thin ugly sound that makes him sound less like a king and more like prey.
Galoravad’s grin returns—wide, delighted. Not because he cares who died. Because he cares that something real just happened.
The knife sits there between my hands, dripping.
I keep my face still.
Alaric stares at it, and for the first time, something like genuine emotion flickers through his expression.
Not shock.
Not fear.
Something closer to satisfaction disguised as sorrow.He looks at me with pained eyes, as if he regrets what he is about to do.
“Knight Captain,” Alaric says quietly. “Take the blade. And King Kyris into custody.”
His voice hardens just a fraction.
“Prepare him for execution. He will pay with one of his own lives.”
Sethryn explodes to her feet.
“NO,” she snarls, voice ripping through the room. “You bastard. This theatrical bullshit ends right here.”
She points at Alaric, not caring about the swords around her.
“Kyris didn’t kill the wolf king because he wanted to!” she spits. “He killed him to free him from your torture!”
Alaric’s eyes narrow.
“You vile lying snake,” Sethryn continues, words pouring like seawater through a broken hull. “With all your pretty words about unity and evil doesn’t present itself as evil—you are the devil in disguise, you son of a bitch.”
Some of Alaric’s supporters recoil, aghast. Others look pleased to finally see the “monster” they expected.
Alaric doesn’t rise to her fury. He doesn’t need to.
“Knight Captain,” he says evenly, “have Lady Sethryn escorted to the transport terminal and send her back home.”
He turns his gaze to her as if offering mercy.
“She obviously will not be willing to align with the rest of us,” Alaric says, “and I would rather not waste her time any more.”
Orders ripple through the armored ring. The knife is snatched from the table. A knight grabs my wrists. Cold iron clamps around them—manacles, heavy and deliberate.
I can feel the temptation. I can feel how easily I could break them if I chose. How easily I could turn this into a scene that would justify every accusation.
And I know that is exactly what Alaric wants.
He wants me to lash out.
He wants me to paint myself as the monster he needs.
So I don’t.
I let the manacles close. I let the knights take my arms. I stand when they pull. I walk when they push.
Calm.
Controlled.
As if this is my choice.
My ring vibrates again, frantic.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Im sorry guys. Remember what I said, DO NOT retaliate.
Sethryn is still yelling, still fighting against knights trying to corral her toward the door. Thalos is rigid with restraint, knuckles white, eyes burning. Thalienne sits very still, her expression unreadable now—mask hardened into something dangerously quiet.
As I’m led away, I look back over my shoulder.
Thalos’s gaze locks onto mine.
Thalienne’s, too.
{direct message} [Kyris]: make it out of there safe. Say what you need to to get back to sunhome and Telstra without him putting you to the sword as well.
Thalos’s response is immediate, incandescent with fury.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Im going to kill you myself when we wake up. We could have taken them. I have all of my tremor left and Alaric be damned he cant fight three of us even if he is armed. I could have gotten us swords from the guards and we fought our way out.
The truth in it cuts. He’s not bluffing. He could. We could have tried. We might have even won.
But winning here might still mean losing everything that matters.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Im not risking all of us. Its better that I am the only one. Get to sun home. I have three lives, so if I dont figure a way out Ill be home tomorrow. We will figure out what to do from there.
I force myself to think past the immediate. Past the fear. Past the anger.
A life lost is not the same as a kingdom lost.
A king can die and return.
A throne left empty can be taken.
As the knights escort me through the door and into the corridor beyond, the warded air shifts. The stone here feels colder, less ceremonial. The scent changes—less incense, more iron and old water.
I send one more message before the ring’s connection dies.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Vic, is the stream still going?
Victor replies fast.
{direct message} [LifelineV]: The second the doors shut again the stream dropped. You are still streaming, and people are flocking to you like wild. You have nearly 800,000 viewers right now.
Eight hundred thousand.
The number hits me like an impact.
Alaric wanted an audience. He wanted a villain. He wanted a story. And now, whether he intended it or not, he has handed me something too: a spotlight so bright it could burn.
I swallow, and keep walking.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Well at least there is a benefit to this in the long run. Trust me with what I am about to do. Ill see you when I wake up.
Victor’s reply comes with dread in every letter.
{direct message} [LifelineV]: I dont like the sound of that Markus
I don’t answer.
The corridor stretches ahead, lit by torches set into silver sconces shaped like praying hands. The knights’ boots echo in rhythm. My manacles clink with each step.
And in the distance—far ahead, beyond another set of doors—I can hear something faint and unmistakable:
The murmur of a crowd.
Not physically here. Not in Solomir.
But in the waking world, where eight hundred thousand pairs of eyes are locked on my stream, watching the “Monster King” walk calmly to his own execution.
Alaric thinks he just wrote the ending of my volume for me.
He thinks he just made me the villain.
He thinks this is where the pressure breaks me.
I breathe in.
I let the cold settle into my lungs.
And I start planning how to use his stage against him.
I realized afterward that this chapter has heavy Danganranpa vibes xD. Circle of 13 people, a murder, a (albeit quick) investigation, and ultimately a verdict and execution sentence. Thought that was kind of funny.
Hence the chapter name.
Tesh~