That was the thought I could not shake: the idea that I might wake up to nothing, that Markus would return to the waking world not as a king preparing for war but as a man sitting quietly behind Scott’s stream, reduced to commentary and memory. Victor would be there, of course, practical as ever, already planning contingencies, already making jokes to mask the worry. They would tell themselves that I had done what I could, that the run had been a good one. The Dominion would continue without me, reshaped by other hands or broken by Alaric’s slow tightening grip.
So I stayed where I was, kneeling at the end of the Priest’s Walk, the wind tearing at my hair and cloak, the city of Solomir layered beneath me like a judgment rendered in stone. I let myself think instead of act, because thinking had kept me alive this long. My mind drifted backward despite myself, tracing the line from the first day I arrived in Nod to this moment balanced on the edge of execution. I remembered confusion turning into obsession, survival turning into ambition. The glass foxes flashed through my thoughts first, strange and beautiful and lethal, a reminder that this world rewarded attention as much as strength. Then the ashwing, its heat and fury, the way its power had forced me to adapt or burn. The arena at Sunhome followed, cheers echoing in my memory, the rush of proving myself before a crowd that wanted blood and spectacle in equal measure. Each victory had felt monumental at the time, a step toward something larger, and yet here I was, still wishing I had done more, learned faster, planned better.
My thoughts shifted to the Dominion itself, to the projects left unfinished and the ones only just beginning. Structures rising where there had been none. Systems half-built, alliances tentative but real. I had delegated, trusted others, tried to build something that could stand even if I was absent for a day or a week. But absence forever was something else entirely. There were still decisions only I could make, dangers only I fully understood. The idea that all of that could end because of one man’s need for a symbol hardened something in my chest.
I am not done, I told myself, the thought forming not as a plea but as a statement of fact. This is not the end. Whatever Alaric believes, whatever he intends to make of me, I will persist. I will survive this, and one day he will regret underestimating what that persistence means. The wish came unbidden then, sharp and painful in its clarity. I wished for the ashwing aegis, for the comfort of its familiar weight and the safety it represented. If I had guided that evolution differently, if I had pushed for wings instead of reinforcing armor, this moment might have gone very differently. Wings would have meant choice. Wings would have meant escape. Without them, I was bound to this narrow strip of stone, my fate tethered to the whims of men who wanted a show.
Footsteps announced Galoravad before his shadow crossed me. I did not look up immediately. I did not need to. His presence carried its own weight, heavy with anticipation and barely concealed satisfaction. When I finally lifted my eyes, he was smiling down at me, a wide, gloating expression that spoke of old grudges and new opportunities.
“Not so strong now, bug,” he said, his voice carrying easily over the wind.
God, don’t talk to me, I thought, the irritation cutting through my tension. Aloud, I gave him what little courtesy he deserved. “Wow. Alaric’s dog thinks he gets to gloat.”
His smile twitched, offended but not yet angry. “Mad that we beat you?”
“Talk to me any more,” I said evenly, “and yours will be the first head I take after I wake tomorrow.”
He laughed, a harsh sound. “You think you could best me when I have my relics and my army?”
I tilted my head slightly, studying him as if he were a problem rather than an executioner. “You think that even with your relics you could beat me, Galoravad?”
The disdain on his face was immediate. “You’re taking the fun out of this. Beg me. Plead.”
“Just kill me and get it over with,” I replied. “Dog.”
His jaw tightened. “I am supposed to wait for the king’s signal.”
I scoffed despite the situation. “Of course you are. A dog barking for scraps, waiting to be told when to bite. Looking to your master for permission.”
“You piece of shit,” he snarled. “I don’t need anyone’s permission to do anything.”
That was it. I felt the shift then, the moment his pride overrode his obedience. “Seems like you do,” I said, calm as ever. “You follow him now. He’s your boss. Best wait until he gives the signal. You wouldn’t want to break his rules.”
The wind carried my words back to him, and I saw the effect instantly. His breathing grew heavier, his posture tightening as anger took hold. I pressed once more, knowing exactly how fragile that control was. “It’s for the best, honestly. You needed his protection. When we fought, I barely had to apply any effort. You were overwhelmingly easy to outmaneuver.”
He moved without waiting for another word. One moment he was standing there, seething, and the next he was stepping forward, silvered sword flashing as he drove it up through my back. The impact was explosive, pain blossoming outward in a way that stole my breath and set my teeth on edge. He twisted the handle deliberately, ensuring the wound was deep and cruel.
“I was supposed to cut off your head, make it quick,” he said close to my ear. “I don’t think you deserve that, though. Trash should go where it belongs.”
His boot came down hard between my shoulders, and as I slid off the blade I felt the world tip forward. The stone vanished beneath me, replaced by empty air, and then I was falling.
The first ring rushed up to meet me, the world narrowing to the roar of wind and the searing agony radiating from my back. It was worse than anything the ashwing had ever put me through, not because of the physical damage but because of the realization that this pain was the culmination of my own choices. Below me, the city reacted as one. I saw heads tilt upward, heard distant cheers ripple through the higher rings as word spread that the monster king had fallen. On the first ring, though, there was no sound at all. Faces turned upward in silence, eyes wide, bodies moving even as my vision began to blur.
As the blood loss took its toll, shapes shifted beneath me. People were running. Reaching. Organizing in a way that did not match the chaos above. Darkness closed in at the edges of my sight, and I surrendered to it.
Thankfully, I never felt the impact.
Black, cold, familiar.
I sit up with the quiet certainty of habit, my hands already lifting to adjust glasses that are not really there, and yet feel as solid as ever against my face. The surface beneath me reflects back not Kyris but Markus, tired eyes and all, distorted slightly by the black marble of the table of kings. The reflection stretches away on either side, impossibly long, its edges dissolving into shadow.
“Seth,” I say, my voice sounding too loud in the emptiness.
“Markus.”
I do not see him at first. I never do. That, more than anything else, tells me where I am. The absence has a presence here, a pressure that settles between my shoulders and lets me know I am being watched.
“Why am I here, Seth?”
The air ripples to my left, and he steps into existence as if he has always been there and I am only now allowed to notice. He walks along the surface of the table itself, boots making no sound, then stops across from me and lowers himself into a chair that resolves beneath him at the last second. He folds his hands together and looks at me with an expression that would be patient if it weren’t so practiced.
“I’m not in the mood right now,” I tell him. “Explain.”
He smiles, just a little. “Think about it. I’ve brought you here before when your body decided it had taken enough punishment. I thought I’d give you another go.”
“I died, Seth,” I say flatly. “I didn’t black out from pain.”
He tilts his head, confusion settling over his features in a way that feels rehearsed. “Did you, though? I didn’t see you die.” His eyes flick briefly toward the empty space behind me. “And I see everything.”
With a lazy wave of his hand, the darkness fractures. A wall of screens blooms into existence behind him, each one alive with motion. Kingdoms fill them in perfect order, one through one hundred, borders glowing faintly, structures pulsing with activity. For a single heartbeat my gaze snags on the Singing Citadel’s throne. Empty. No tetsubo resting there. Relief hits me so sharply I almost laugh.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The screens vanish as abruptly as they appeared, plunging us back into shadow.
“You’re very much still alive, Markus,” Seth continues. “Near death, but alive. Close enough that I can pull you here for a moment.” His smile thins. “Not much time, though. If you have questions, ask them now.”
I bite back a dozen impulses. There are too many things I want answers to and not nearly enough space to waste them. Whatever is happening to my body outside this place is happening fast.
“Redmoon,” I say. “I have two questions about that.”
He cuts in smoothly. “Why he was removed, and how the relic transfer rules work?”
I scowl at him, irritation flaring despite myself. “Yes. That.”
“Do you remember when I explained the lives system?” Seth asks. “Kings get three. It’s simple.” He leans back slightly. “Redmoon wasn’t a king anymore. His throne was taken. His people were scattered. By the time you killed him, he was a monarch of nothing. No throne, no domain, no lives left to spend.”
That sits heavy in my chest. “If he had reclaimed his throne?”
“Then he would have reclaimed the right to return.”
“And the relics?”
“You had the right idea,” Seth says. “Relics can’t be taken from a corpse. They must be given freely by the owner. You weren’t the king of that nation, Markus. You didn’t hold the authority required to pass ownership along. While you carried them, they weren’t truly yours.”
“If I had taken his throne first,” I say slowly, following the logic through, “they would have locked to me.”
“Yes.”
The next question comes automatically, dread already curling beneath it. “So if Alaric sits on Redmoon’s throne…”
“Then he becomes the rightful owner,” Seth finishes. “Exactly.”
He straightens slightly, the faintest edge creeping into his tone. “You have time for two more questions.”
My mind races. There are a thousand threads to pull, but one stands out, heavy and unavoidable. “What is Alaric’s Apex?” I ask. Then, before he can redirect me, I add, “And is Solvael real? I didn’t know there were gods in Nod.”
Something like approval crosses his face. “You asked the perfect question.”
“Solvael?” he continues. “No. He may have existed once, deep in Solomir’s history, but not anymore. What that means is up to you.” He pauses, letting that settle. “As for Apex… you might have wasted that question.”
My stomach drops. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll have the chance to get that answer very, very soon.”
His form begins to lose definition, edges blurring as if he’s being erased rather than leaving of his own accord.
“Wait,” I say sharply. “Seth. Why do you keep helping me?”
His voice reaches me as his image thins. “You’re out of questions, Markus. And you’re out of time.”
The table trembles beneath me.
“It’s time to wake up.”
THUMP
Pain slams into my chest, distant but violent, like a blow felt through layers of cloth and bone.
THUMP THUMP
The black marble shatters into nothing, and I gasp as I surge upright, the dream tearing away to reveal a dark room and startled figures recoiling from my sudden movement.
I drag in a breath that burns all the way down, lungs protesting as if they’ve been submerged in ice. Light snaps into focus in uneven bands as my eyes adjust, and every muscle in my body tightens, ready to fight or run before my mind fully catches up.
“Easy,” a voice says, close and steady. “Don’t move yet.”
Hands rise into my peripheral vision—not grabbing, not restraining, just present. There are many of them. Too many for coincidence. I twist my head despite the pain and take in the space around me. We are underground. The ceiling arches high overhead, reinforced with ribs of stone and metal. Heat radiates from braziers set into the walls at regular intervals, their flames fed by blue-white coals that burn hot without smoke.
The people gathered around me are not the desperate poor of the first ring. They are dressed for winter, yes, but in layered cloaks reinforced with leather and mail. Armor has been fitted, maintained, personalized. Weapons rest within easy reach, not stacked away as trophies but worn by those who expect to use them. Beastkin stand shoulder to shoulder with humans and elves, their expressions wary but controlled, eyes sharp with the kind of alertness that comes from training for years.
I shift, and pain flares along my spine, a deep, angry heat that pulls a sharp hiss from between my teeth.
“Hold, King Kyris,” the same voice says again. “You are safe.”
I focus on the speaker and recognition settles in. Himel stands a few paces away, his posture relaxed in the way of someone who understands exactly how much authority he carries without needing to show it. He wears no crown, no obvious sigil of office, but the room bends subtly around him, attention oriented in his direction even when he is not speaking.
“How am I alive?” I ask. There is no accusation in the question, only a need for truth.
Himel inclines his head slightly. “Partly because your executioner was careless. He wanted spectacle more than certainty.” A flicker of distaste crosses his face. “Partly because someone intervened.”
“An old weave of Elven Magic. Elegant. It did not stop the damage, but it softened the finality of it.” His eyes meet mine. “You were not meant to survive the fall. Someone disagreed.”
A knot I hadn’t realized was there loosens in my chest. Thalienne’s choice had been silent, invisible to everyone except the one person she intended to protect. I file the thought away. An inside hand matters more than open allegiance ever could. She has shown her allegiance.
I look down at myself. My clothing has been cut and replaced with a heavy wrap, bandages layered beneath a hardened vest that radiates faint warmth. When I shift again, carefully this time, the wound in my back answers with a sharp pulse and then something stranger—a controlled heat spreading outward, sealing discomfort behind a wall of sensation that feels almost… managed.
“That’s new,” I mutter.
“The ashwing left its mark on you,” Himel says. “It reacts when it must.”
I exhale slowly. “Where are we?”
“Beneath Solomir,” he answers. “Not beneath the city it shows the world, but beneath the one it buries.” He gestures around us. “This place was founded long before Alaric arrived. It was meant as a safeguard, a final answer should the office of kingpriest ever fall into the wrong hands.”
“And these people?”
“Those he tried to erase,” Himel says simply. “Those who refused to accept his revision of righteousness.”
My attention drifts across the room again, taking in details I missed the first time. Symbols stitched discreetly into cloaks. Variations of armor that favor movement over parade. Scarred faces, yes, but not broken ones. This isn’t a mob or a rebellion in its infancy. It’s infrastructure.
“I dont have long before the end of my night,” I begin, then have to pause as a wave of dizziness tries to drag me back down. The room tilts, steadies.
Himel notices at once. “Time presses, I agree. We have much to go over and very little time to do it. So listen carefully.”
He straightens, the casual calm he has worn until now tightening into something more deliberate. “Alaric has a weakness,” he says plainly. “One he has structured his entire reign around hiding.”
I feel my focus snap fully onto him. “What weakness?”
“The sword,” Himel says. “The relic he parades as proof of divine favor.” He pauses, letting the words settle. “He cannot draw it.”
For a beat I just stare at him. “What do you mean, he can’t draw it?”
“I mean exactly that,” Himel replies. “It has never left its scabbard for him. Not once.”
He exhales slowly before continuing. “That blade was forged under Solvael’s final covenant. It was never meant to rule, never meant to conquer. It exists for a single purpose: to place oneself between harm and those who cannot defend themselves. No ambition. No spectacle. No hunger for dominion. Only defense, freely chosen.”
His eyes harden. “Alaric wants the sword as theater. As authority made visible. As a crown in another form. The relic reads that intent as conflict, as division. To the sword, he is unclean—not sinful, not corrupt in the way sermons describe, but split in purpose. He wants to save the world by owning it. The sword will only answer someone willing to be ruined by it instead.”
My stomach tightens. “Then how did he claim the office at all?”
“By claiming the story,” Himel replies. “When Solvael ascended—truly ascended, not the myth Alaric sells—he left the office of Kingpriest behind with a singular charge: to watch, to guard, and to never rule. I was the last to hold that mantle properly.” His eyes lift to mine. “Solvael bound my life to that duty. Not immortality as kings understand it, but persistence. I do not age beyond my charge, and I do not die while it remains unfulfilled.”
Realization hits like cold water. “Alaric didn’t inherit the role.”
“No,” Himel says quietly. “He usurped it. He preached reform, then necessity, then inevitability. When I refused to sanctify conquest, he named me an obstacle. He cast me from the Priest’s Walk, just as he cast you, believing the city would forget me as easily as it forgot the purpose of the sword.”
His mouth curves into something grim. “I survived because Solvael’s blessing does not care for theatrics. Alaric learned the wrong lesson from that night. He believed the fall proved he was chosen. In truth, it proved only that he cannot finish what he begins.”
“And the sword?” I ask. “If it won’t answer him…"
“It remains bound to the office, not the impostor,” Himel says. “Which means he can parade it, threaten with it, even build an entire faith around it—but he cannot draw it. And yes,” he adds before I can ask, “I could take it from him. As easily as he took your necklace. Ownership follows legitimacy, not force.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
“Because stripping him of the blade too early would give him what he craves most,” Himel answers. “Martyrdom. If the sword vanished now, the faithful would weep and call it sacrilege. They would cling harder to his version of righteousness. So we wait. We let the lie stretch until it cannot hold its own weight.”
Himel considers me for a moment. “Because belief is a powerful substitute for truth, when truth is inconvenient. He has convinced his followers that the blade answers to divine timing rather than intent. That it waits. That it tests.” A pause. “People accept delays more readily than contradictions.”
Understanding dawns, cold and sharp. “You’re letting him expose himself.”
“We are letting him build a tower of lies tall enough that it cannot fall quietly.”
The tug returns, stronger now. The pull of my body elsewhere, of systems and alarms and people waiting on the other side of the veil.
“I’m going to wake up soon,” I say. “When I do, everything changes.”
“It already has,” Himel counters gently. “You survived. That alone fractures the narrative he intended to cement today.”
I push myself upright fully, ignoring the protest in my muscles. Several people shift forward instinctively, then stop when Himel raises a single finger.
“What do you need from me?” I ask.
Himel’s gaze sharpens. “An army.”
I almost laugh, then think better of it. “That may take time.”
“I have forever,” he repeats. “Just try to be quicker than that.” he says with a soft smile.
The room begins to blur at the edges, light smearing into motion as the connection strains.
“One more thing,” I say, voice already echoing oddly in my own ears.
“Yes?”
“When I come back,” I say, “I don’t intend to be subtle.”
For the first time, Himel smiles fully. “Good. Neither will we.”
The world turns sideways and then inside out.
I wake to the hum of my apartment, the familiar whirr of appliances and the distant sound of traffic bleeding through the walls. For a heartbeat I am nowhere, caught between kings and concrete, between blood and bandwidth.
“Victor,” I call out.
“Shit,” he calls back immediately from the kitchen. “You’re awake? Are you alright?? Tell me every—”
“Victor,” I say more clearly. “The stream.”
He appears in the doorway, tablet already in hand, expression flickering from irritation to concern to something sharper. “It cut the moment you went over the edge,” he says. “Every channel. Then—” He stops, looking at the screen. “Then this happened.”
The tablet turns toward me.
The throne room fills the display.
Not Solomir’s. Mine.
The Singing Citadel stands silent, banners stirring in an unseen current. The throne dominates the space, dark and angular, its presence undeniable even through glass and code then I see it and my heart stutters.
The tetsubo rests across the arms of the throne.
Thus marks the end of volume one of Nod. So far I have had a lot of fun writing this out, and I appreciate those of you that have ready even a single chapter of my book. Thank you all so much for taking this journey with me.
Vol 2 of Nod will continue in a month. I will be taking the month of February to consolidate and plan the next volume and get the preliminary chapters ready for a backlog.
While this means I wont be posting chapters of vol 2 just yet, I am going to maintain a posting scheduled on Monday of each week till the Vol starts back up, and I will include sketch art, maps, and author notes from writing the first volume. If you have any Author questions for me, please ask in the comments and I will address those in the next Monday behind the scenes!
I hope you all are not too disappointed in the ending of the vol, as this is setting the tone for the next vol to push off hard.
OFFICIAL DATE OF RETURN IS MARCH 2ND 2026. Where we will return with Nod vol 2 : Cleric