Shenzah’s gait is steady beneath me, his two long tails swaying with practiced balance, the metal barbs at their tips clicking faintly when they brush together. Iskri pads along beside us, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through my armor. He doesn’t look at Shenzah directly, but every line of his body is tight—ears angled back, tail low, shoulders tense. Territorial. Jealous.
Felkas notices before I do.
He leans forward on Iskri’s back, fingers twisting lightly in the sablehound’s mane. “He doesn’t like him,” he says quietly, as if worried the words themselves might spark a fight.
“He’ll get over it,” I answer, though I’m not entirely sure. Iskri flicks an ear toward me, a pulse of emotion brushing against my thoughts—protectiveness, pride, and something sharp-edged that feels very much like that’s my rider.
Shenzah snorts, unbothered, eyes forward. He’s a working beast, disciplined and focused, trained for war and spectacle alike. Iskri is something else entirely. A companion. A partner. The difference is night and day.
The Sunhome gates rise ahead of us, pale stone glowing softly in the late light. The city feels… subdued. Not quiet—Sunhome is never quiet—but muted, like a place catching its breath after shouting itself hoarse. I can still feel the echoes of the arena reverberating through the streets, the aftershock of fear and awe braided together.
Boris.
The thought tightens something in my chest.
I don’t know how he’s doing. I don’t know if he’s in pain, or frightened, or simply confused by the violence done to him. Losing a head isn’t something any creature should have to endure, no matter how massive or monstrous the rest of the world thinks it is. The image of him bowing—four heads lowered in unison after the trial—keeps replaying in my mind. Dignified. Patient. Trusting.
And then the sand had exploded.
By the time we reach the inner courtyard of the Bastion, the adrenaline that carried me through the aftermath finally burns out. I dismount stiffly, handing Shenzah off to the waiting stablehands. He resists for half a heartbeat, then submits with a low huff, casting me one last assessing glance before allowing himself to be led away. Iskri watches him go, nostrils flaring.
Felkas slides down more carefully, legs wobbling when they hit the stone.
“You did good,” I tell Iskri, steadying him with a hand on his muzzle. “Both of you did.”
Iskri leans into the touch, tension easing just a little.
We make our way back to the guest chambers without ceremony. I don’t have the energy for it. My armor retracts piece by piece as we walk, the Ashwing Aegis dissolving back into dormant plates until all that remains is the familiar weight of exhaustion pressing down on me from the inside out.
The room is massive, cool and quiet, silk curtains stirring gently in the open air. Sunlight spills across polished stone and woven rugs, warm but not oppressive. I barely make it to the bed before I give up on standing altogether.
I sit down and sink in. Then, without bothering to remove my boots, I let myself fall backward.
The mattress swallows me whole.
For a long moment, I just lay back and breathe.
Every muscle trembles with the aftereffects of pushing too far, of dipping into reserves I didn’t even know I could access. The fight with Boris alone had nearly dropped me to my knees. The broodlord after that… I don’t like thinking about how close I came to blacking out on my feet. If Shenzah hadn’t been there—if the Sunforged hadn’t arrived—if Boris hadn’t held his own against the thing—
A faint chime sounds in the corner of my vision.
[LifelineV — Direct Message]
They stabilized him. Neck was cauterized successfully. Boris is alive and sedated. He’s going to recover.
Thalos is heading back to the Bastion now. He wants to talk when you’re up to it, meet him in the war room.
I close my eyes and let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“Thank you,” I murmur, knowing others can still hear me, but not caring enough to worry.
Felkas moves quietly near the window, Iskri settling beside him like a living shadow. The boy glances back at me, ears twitching with concern.
“You’re hurt,” he says.
“Tired,” I correct gently. “That’s different.”
He nods, though I don’t think he fully believes me.
I leave him there with Iskri, knowing the sablehound won’t let anything happen to him, and push myself back to my feet. The war room isn’t far, and if I wait too long, Thalos will come looking for me himself—and I don’t want to have this conversation sprawled on a mattress.
The corridors of the Bastion feel different now. Quieter. Heavier. Almost as the Bastion itself is aware that something fundamental shifted beneath it today.
The war room doors are open when I arrive.
Thalos stands at the central table, arms braced on its edge, studying a broad map drawn in careful ink and etched lines. It’s nothing like my sand map—no living movement, no instant updates—but it carries a weight of intention that my constructs lack. This is planning made physical. Thought made visible.
Fresh ink darkens the northern edge.
“Admiring the map?” Thalos asks without looking up as I step inside. “It may not move on its own, but it’s got a few tricks.”
I circle the table slowly, eyes tracing the borders of his domain, the curves of rivers and the harsh geometry of dunes giving way to darker, marsh-marked land. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
He grins and reaches for a cord hanging from the ceiling. With a sharp tug, a hidden panel slides open overhead, allowing a shaft of sunlight to pour down onto a suspended sun crystal. The crystal flares, refracting the light into a focused beam that sweeps across the map.
Where it passes, new ink blooms.
The swamp expands northward, details sharpening—paths, markers, faint sigils indicating movement. Seems I was wrong about his map.
“Scouts are already in the marsh,” Thalos says. “No long-distance way to communicate yet, so we wait for boots to come back. Old-school.”
I nod. “You’ll hear before I do.”
“Which reminds me,” he adds, glancing at me sideways. “You don’t have any listening posts set up in my territory. Your resonance network cuts off hard at the border.”
“I wanted to ask first,” I admit. “Didn’t want to step on toes.”
He laughs outright. “We’re allies, Kyris. If you’d done it without asking, I wouldn’t have blinked. Get your people set up. The sooner you can hear what’s happening here, the better. You should build a consulate here, or take an unused building near the Bastion. Have a representative stay here in sunhome. That way you will be able to send word to my capital with no need to make a trip.”
Relief loosens my shoulders a fraction. “I’ll send the orders.”
Silence settles for a moment, heavier now, both of us circling the same unspoken subject.
Finally, Thalos exhales. “Thank you. For today. For the worm. For the arena. For Boris.”
“I didn’t plan any of it,” I say. “That thing was… different.”
“Prime,” he agrees. “And since it died, nothing else has stirred. No new worm sightings anywhere in the dunes.” He taps the map thoughtfully. “My people are already harvesting what they can and mapping the tunnels it left behind. This one didn’t vanish like the others. Left a real wound in the earth.”
He straightens and meets my gaze. “You’ll get your share. Parts of the broodlord are being sent to the Dominion. And…” He hesitates, then smirks. “Boris wanted you to have the remains of his fourth head.”
I blink. “He wanted—”
“Don’t ask,” Thalos interrupts. “I just know. Call it intuition.”
I shake my head, a tired smile tugging at my mouth. “Helisti’s going to lose her mind.”
“That’s the spirit.”
We talk longer then, circling theories that feel uncomfortably plausible. Apex predators tuned to kings. Ashwings drawn to resonance. Broodlord to tremor. Hunters designed not just to threaten territory, but to test the king itself.
“And the were-tribes?” Thalos asks quietly. “Felkas’s people?”
I grimace. “If the pattern holds… their predator might not be a beast at all.”
“Human armies,” he says. “Like city-states in Civ. Independent powers meant to be absorbed or crushed.”
“Or to crush us, in Felkas’ case,” I reply.
The tension lingers between us for a few more heartbeats, thick and unspoken. Maps, monsters, missing kings—too much weight for one room to hold for long.
Eventually, Thalos exhales and claps his hands together once, sharp and decisive, like sealing a forge strike.
“Alright,” he says, forcing a lighter edge into his voice. “Enough doom and gloom for one morning.”
I glance up at him.
“You earned your spoils,” he continues, already turning toward the door. “And before you say anything—yes, the Huntmaster made damn sure of it. Arena winnings, materials from the fights, and a little extra on top.”
“For what?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
“For keeping Boris alive,” Thalos says simply.
“Come on,” he adds, motioning for me to follow. “Day markets are open, and I’ll show you the best spots before the crowds get thicker. Sunhome pays its debts properly.”
He pushes the door open, sunlight spilling in.
We walk at an unhurried pace, leaving the Bastion behind as the weight of stone and consequence gives way to movement and sound. The Sunforged guards peel off one by one, returning to their posts with respectful nods, until it’s just the two of us moving through the outer streets like ordinary men who happen to command kingdoms.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Ordinary—except Sunhome doesn’t let us pretend.
People recognize Thalos before they recognize me, and then recognition ripples outward like heat haze. Heads turn. Voices rise. Somewhere a child shrieks in delighted disbelief. The city isn’t screaming anymore—not like it did in the arena—but it still feels tuned to the same pitch, like a bell that hasn’t finished ringing.
The streets are fuller than I remember from our first tour. Not just busy—alert. Citizens cluster in little knots along corners and open courtyards, talking too loudly, laughing too sharply, processing fear through volume and repetition.
“…told you it wasn’t a normal bout—twenty minutes, and he stood the whole time—”
“No, no, he didn’t stand, he got thrown like a rag doll and stood back up anyway—”
“I saw the floor open. I saw the door. Four heads, gods above—four—”
Another voice, lower, roughened with awe: “Boris bowed. Like he was saluting. Like he respected him.”
The name hits like a bruise I keep pressing. Boris. The image of that severed neck flashes behind my eyes, and I have to force my jaw to unclench. I can feel Thalos clock the shift in me without looking.
The city is louder here.
Not the disciplined cadence of the military district, not the reverent hush of the Bastion’s inner halls, but something warmer and more chaotic—voices overlapping, footsteps scuffing stone, laughter rising in bursts that feel unplanned and real. The air itself is busy: thick with heat and scent and motion, and threaded beneath it all is the lingering electricity of we almost died today.
A merchant shouts from behind a stall stacked with sun-dried fruit. “Sun-bless Thalos! Sun-bless the Bastion!” He catches sight of us and his eyes go wide. He leans forward, voice pitching higher. “SUN-BLESS HIM IN THE FLESH—LOOK—LOOK, IT’S HIM—”
A woman slaps his shoulder hard enough to make him yelp. “Don’t stare, idiot. Let them breathe.”
But she stares too.
So does everyone.
I hear it as we pass—whispers chasing our footsteps like wind.
“That’s the southern king—”
“No armor. No—wait, yes, he had armor, it was like black flaming plates—”
“He fought the worm too. I swear on the Sun, I saw the blade glow—”
“Thalos was laughing. LAUGHING. Like he was smashing a barrel—”
A hawker elbows her way toward the front of her stall, holding up a small clay charm stamped with the Sunhome crest. “For luck!” she calls, too hopeful to be embarrassed. “A charm for a king who stares down monsters! Take it and the Sun will remember my name!”
Thalos gives her an easy grin as he walks, the kind that makes people stand straighter just because it landed on them. “Keep it,” he tells her, and flips a coin onto her counter without breaking stride.
The hawker snatches it up like it’s holy.
Behind her, someone laughs, breathless. “Even kings buy her wares!”
The rumor-mill swallows us whole as we move deeper. It isn’t hostile. It’s not even truly invasive. It’s just… human. People trying to wrap their hands around something too big by passing it from mouth to mouth until it feels like a story instead of a nightmare.
“…and then the worm—no warning—just erupted—”
“Not a worm. A Broodlord. That’s what the Huntmaster called it.”
“Huntmaster said it was older than the arena. Older than Thalos.”
“Liar.”
“I saw it take Boris’s head clean off. CLEAN. OFF.”
The last one is spoken with a crack in the voice, the memory fresh enough to bite. Someone answers immediately, furious—not at the speaker, but at the universe for allowing it.
“Boris is alive. He’s still alive. The Sunforged wouldn’t let him die.”
A pause. Then, quieter: “Three heads now.”
My chest tightens again. Three heads now. Like it’s a tally. Like it’s normal.
Thalos notices me taking it in.
“First time really seeing it like this?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Hard to appreciate markets when you’re dodging kaiju.”
He laughs, a deep, easy sound that turns a few heads nearby. “Fair. But this is what makes it worth protecting.”
[Archivolt]: this place feels REAL
[VioletVex]: sunhome looks like a vacation city omg
[Carapace_kid]: bro went from kaiju to farmers market
[ProteinPrincess]: LOOK AT THEM JUST WALKING AROUND LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE
[GainsGoblin]: Our King makes even normie stuff look good. FLEX KING.
The chat overlays the scene like a second layer of noise, but the real noise is the city itself—people still vibrating with the aftershock, pride stitched over fear like a patch on torn cloth.
As we walk, Thalos gestures casually toward different stalls, offering commentary that’s half tour guide and half proud host.
“Stone from the southern cliffs—good for heat retention. That one sells treated timber from the riverlands to the northeast; flexible but strong. Over there—see the bronze piping? Public works. Bathhouses, aqueducts, heat exchange.”
A pair of young Sunforged recruits stand near the piping stall, half-listening, half-gossiping. One of them leans toward the other, voice loud enough for me to catch.
“Boris never bows,” he says, as if sharing a sacred secret. “Never. Not to crowds. Not to hunters. Not even to Thalos. Today he bowed.”
The other recruit swallows hard. “Because the southern king didn’t try to kill him. He just… endured.”
I clock the pattern quickly.
He isn’t pointing out luxuries.
He’s pointing out infrastructure.
“You think like a builder,” I say.
Thalos shrugs. “Didn’t start that way. But when you realize people depend on you for water and shelter, priorities shift.”
I nod, understanding that more deeply than I would have a few weeks ago.
We stop at several stalls. I trade sun-emblem coin for bundled materials—treated stone, refined alloys, heat-resistant fabrics, civic-grade components to gift to my masons and artisans. Not flashy. Not exciting. But necessary. The kind of purchases that quietly change how a city functions months down the line.
Chat hums at the edge of my awareness, approving.
Behind a stall of woven rugs, an older man mutters to his wife, “He’s buying like he plans to build something.”
His wife elbows him. “Or like he plans to survive.”
Someone posts a string of hammer emojis. Another comments about “king behavior.” I don’t acknowledge it aloud, but I feel the familiar tug of Faith tighten slightly as the Watchers settle into the rhythm of seeing me build, not just fight.
Then we turn down a narrower lane.
The noise drops off abruptly—like we walked through a curtain and left the city’s roar behind us. The stall tucked between two louder vendors almost doesn’t register at first. No banners. No calls to passersby. Just a simple canopy of pale cloth and a low wooden counter arranged with… oddities.
[Archivolt]: oh no, back ally stalls
[Carapace_kid]: this is the magic shop isn’t it
That’s the only word for it.
The items here don’t match.
A coiled length of chain etched with unfamiliar runes rests beside a set of glass vials that glow faintly from within. A folded cloak of iridescent fabric hangs next to a stack of metal plates shaped in ways that don’t immediately suggest armor or tool. It feels less like a shop and more like a museum—things gathered from elsewhere, waiting to see where they belong next.
And behind the counter—
A small figure looks up as we approach.
He’s barely four and a half feet tall, built compact but strong, with powerful kangaroo-like legs folded beneath him as he sits on a low stool. His fur is grey, patterned with soft blue rosettes like a jaguar’s spots washed in moonlight. His ears twitch independently as he takes us in, eyes sharp and curious.
In his hands, he’s polishing a staff.
White-gold metal, smooth and flawless, catching the sunlight in subtle, almost liquid reflections. A white crystal crowns its head, faceted just enough to scatter light without blinding. The moment my gaze settles on it, something in my chest pulls to it.
Thalos leans in slightly. “Traveling merchant,” he murmurs. “Name’s Majaal. Showed up not long after Nod started. Comes and goes.”
Majaal hops down from his stool in a smooth, practiced motion, landing lightly despite the strength coiled in his legs.
“Kings,” he says, voice calm and measured, much deeper than I would have expected. “You walk heavy. That usually means trouble—or opportunity.”
[Archivolt]: I LOVE HIM ALREADY
“Bit of both,” Thalos replies easily.
Majaal’s gaze slides to me, sharpens, then softens again as if he’s cataloging something internal. “Ah. You’re the other one.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Other one?”
He smiles faintly. “The one who listens more than he speaks.” He extends the staff out to me as he speaks.
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I reach for the staff instead.
The instant my fingers brush the metal, it hums—soft and low, like a distant choir warming up. Not loud enough to draw attention, but unmistakable. The crystal brightens by a fraction, responding to contact.
Majaal’s ears flick. “Sensitive,” he notes. “Good sign.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Healer’s staff from the far north,” he says simply. “Catalyst and conduit. Needs a wielder of holy magic to do anything meaningful.”
I turn the staff slightly, feeling its balance. It’s lighter than it looks, perfectly weighted. Not a weapon, but not fragile either.
“I don’t use healing magic,” I say.
“But you might know someone who can”
Thalos watches the exchange with quiet interest. “You trust this guy?” I say to him
“I trust that he has things that we cant get nearby, other than that, I haven't decided”
That earns a short laugh from me.
“I’ll take it,” I say, setting the staff back on the counter carefully.
[GainsGoblin]: HE DIDN’T EVEN HESITATE
[LifelineV]: good instinct, might not have a use now, but that can be fixed
Majaal nods, accepting the coin without ceremony. “Inventory changes,” he adds casually. “Come back sometime. You may find something you didn’t know you were missing.”
I file that away, and make a reminder to come back and check later.
Before we leave, I hesitate, then turn back toward the small merchant.
“Majaal,” I say, catching his attention as he carefully wraps another item in cloth. “Do you deal only in objects, or… information as well?”
His ears twitch— interested. He looks up at me fully now, blue-spotted gaze sharpening in a way that tells me I asked the right kind of question.
“Information,” he repeats slowly, tasting the word. “Maps, rumors, trade routes, shifting borders. Those are… harder to carry.”
Thalos watches from a few steps back, arms folded, curious but silent.
“I don’t have much on hand right now,” Majaal continues, tapping the side of his head with one clawed finger. “Sunhome is still new to me, but I travel, I listen, and knowing what a customer wants is often more valuable than knowing what they can pay.”
A small, knowing smile crosses his face.
“Next time I pass through,” he adds, “I’ll bring what I can find. Roads, territories, unsettled places. Perhaps even notes on regions that don’t belong cleanly to any crown.”
That last part sticks with me.
“I’d appreciate that,” I say. “Very much.”
He inclines his head in a short bow. “Then I’ll consider this a standing request.”
I file that away, and make a reminder to come back and check later.
When we step back into the wider market, the noise crashes back in like a wave. The contrast makes my head spin slightly, but it’s grounding too—reminding me that the world keeps moving no matter how close it comes to ending.
Eventually, my arms are full, my sand sled heavy with goods, and the light has begun to soften toward evening. Thalos walks me back toward the Bastion, clapping a hand on my shoulder once before we part.
“Next time,” he says, “we’ll try for a visit without monsters.”
“No promises,” I reply.
Back in the guest chambers, Felkas is waiting near the window, Iskri sprawled protectively at his side. The boy turns when I enter, posture straightening as if bracing himself.
I kneel in front of him, bringing us eye to eye.
“I’ll be back in a few days,” I tell him gently. “For the summit. Until then, stay here. Learn. Rest. Be a kid.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I will. I want to be useful.”
I shake my head softly. “You already are.”
The words seem to settle into him, something unclenching in his shoulders. Iskri huffs approvingly, pressing his massive head briefly into my side.
When I finally leave Sunhome, the city glows behind me in warm gold and white, banners still fluttering as the day winds down. Shenzah pulls the sand sled with steady determination, the road stretching long and quiet ahead.
The Singing Citadel waits in the southern distance.
I check my reserves of faith and tithe, feeling the overflow from the days events. Hoping this is enough to activate my ring’s upgrade. I take one last look behind at Sunhome, and spur Shenzah forward to carry us home to the Dominion.