At the ring’s center rises a colossal wall, climbing upward through every tier of Solomir until it disappears into the heights of the ninth ring. It reminds me of that city from Lord of the Rings—not just in scale, but in intent. This wall exists to be seen. It cuts across every ring, an unbroken vertical line reminding those below exactly who stands above them.
According to Himel, this wall was once a place of unity. The old Kingpriest would stand here and deliver sermons, and through some imbued magic his voice would resonate outward, carrying his words to every ring at once so all could hear. It was meant to be a shared experience.
Now it serves a different purpose.
Now it broadcasts Alaric’s ideals. His decrees. His prophecy of “cleansing” the world of evils.
As I move toward the place Himel pointed out, a message interrupts my thoughts.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Hey man, Vic said to message you. I just got in. Where you at?
I reply without slowing my pace.
{direct message} [Kyris]: I’m on the lowest ring. Vic said he’d help you plan things out. Listen to him and keep strategizing in DMs. I don’t think it’s wise for us both to be down here—if I get into trouble, you’ll be fine.
There’s a pause before his response.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Shit, that makes it sound like I should be there. But if you say so, I’ll follow your lead. You never steered wrong as guild leader. You have my trust. Good luck, Marcus. Message me right away if you need me.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Absolutely. Thanks, Scott.
Now that he’s online, more eyes will be watching soon. I need to find the dungeon quickly and investigate before that attention sharpens.
I briefly consider shutting off the stream, but the thought frustrates me immediately. My viewer count is already in the thousands. Going dark now would ignite Discord and Reddit alike, and that kind of attention would only make things worse.
I press on.
The dungeon sits dead center near the base of the great wall. A wide plaza spreads outward from it, paved in stone—and when I step onto it, I immediately notice something strange.
There’s no snow.
The moment my boots touch the tiles, warmth seeps back into my body. Not comfort, exactly—just relief. I spot others clustered around the plaza as well, lingering in the open space to soak in the heat.
This is the first time I see Alaric’s guard on the first ring.
They stand watch along the perimeter, their presence harsh and unmistakable. Some shove residents back with the butts of their spears, herding them away from the plaza. They ignore those kneeling in prayer, and those quietly speaking with priests gathered at the base of the wall.
Warmth for worship.
Servitude through basic comfort.
He all but forbade us from coming to the first ring. Did he not want this seen? Or did he simply assume no one with power would care enough to look?
The dungeon entrance sits near the base of the second ring’s wall, partially recessed into the stone. Guards stand posted there—but Himel promised he knew how to draw them away.
I move into position and wait.
After a few tense minutes, I see the signal we agreed on. The guards step away from their post, distracted. Moments later, several lower-ring residents approach carrying food for the prisoners.
I fall into line with them, wrapped in the robes Himel loaned me.
Inside, my ring flares with a notification.
[This is a restricted area. Outside viewers are not permitted.]
Shit wait, I didnt want to cut my stream. Thats exactly what I was wanting to avoid. Too late now though, I cant just dip back out and not be noticed. Ill have to wait till the lower ring attendants leave.
While it means no one is watching— it also means no one can verify what I do in here if things go wrong.
I leave the food carriers to their work and move quickly through the corridors, searching for anyone who stands out. The lack of interior guards confirms what I suspected: if there’s only one entrance, there’s no need to post anyone inside.
The cell blocks are carved directly into the mountain. The ceilings are low. The lighting minimal—just enough to see where you’re stepping. There’s no decoration here, no attempt at comfort. Only stone and iron and neglect.
I glance into cell after cell.
Frozen corpses. Emaciated. Left to die and be forgotten.
Then I hear it.
Heavy slow breathing.
I follow the sound down the corridor until I stop in front of a cell that is different.
Behind the cold iron bars lies a shaggy, furred form curled against the stone. I rap the back of my gloved hand against the bars.
The creature growls and stirs.
“Leave me, Alaric,” he snarls. “Leave me to die. I told you—I will not hand over my relics.”
“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” I say quietly.
The figure shifts, eyes reflecting the sconce light as he leans forward. He sniffs the air, congested, breath rough.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he rumbles. “This climate dulls my senses. I would’ve known it wasn’t Alaric by the smell if I could breathe properly.”
He studies me from the shadows, then rises.
His eyes climb…and climb…until he has to stoop to avoid scraping the ceiling. At full height, he would easily stand nine feet tall—a mountain of muscle and fur.
“I may be mistaken,” I says slowly, “but are you King Redmoon?” with a bit of a realization I try my luck.
He laughs—a short, bitter sound.
“Yeah,” he says. “King of what, exactly? My people are dead, captured, or scattered to the winds.” His gaze sharpens. “But I know you. Kyris. I’ve seen your growth. It’s why I sent Felkas to you. I knew you’d keep him safe.”
He sent him?
“You did?” I ask. “What is Felkas to you?”
He exhales slowly.
“He’s my pup. My only one still alive, if Alaric’s words can be believed. I won’t pretend otherwise—I know this is our shared dream here in Nod. But I didn’t expect to fall in love here.”
My mind stumbles.
“Wait… he’s your son? How is that possible? Felkas is in his early teens. We haven’t been in Nod that long.”
He moves to the bars and sits, fully illuminated now—a wolfen humanoid, massive and unmistakable. All the signs of a werewolf without the madness. Power without bloodlust.
“The tribes are different,” he says quietly. “Like dog years. We age faster. Even my mate’s pregnancy was shortened. I believe the faith system played a role in that—but I won’t get the chance to know for sure.”
His jaw tightens.
“Alaric’s puppets slaughtered my mate in front of me. My kingdom is gone. I have nothing left.” He looks at me steadily. “I’m just glad Felkas made it to you. Raise him strong.”
He stands and turns back toward the rear of the cell.
“Wait,” I say. “Why are you still captive? We can wake where we choose. Couldn’t you wake in your throne room—or wherever remains of your domain?”
He looks back over his shoulder.
“It has something to do with captivity,” he says. “Being imprisoned prevents us from waking anywhere else. If you stay here too long, it will trap you the same way.”
He steps away from the bars.
“You should go. Felkas needs to be safe—and that won’t happen if you’re in this cage with me. There’s no point trying to free me.”
A thought strikes me, cold and dangerous.
“What if… what if you died?”
He whirls, eyes wide, teeth bared.
“What do you mean?”
“If you die,” I say carefully, “you wake at your throne the next time, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he says slowly. “When my kingdom fell, I was killed once. I woke standing before my throne, just like the first night in Nod. They were waiting there for me with my mate. They held her captive and demanded my surrender. I obeyed and they slit her throat all the same.”
I nod, slowly. This man has been through so much.
“You have two returns left. If it works, you can fight again. If it doesn’t… you’re no worse off than you are now. Our territory is close. You could flee south to Sunhome. Rebuild. Be a father to Felkas.”
His eyes glisten. He blinks the tears away.
“What,” he asks quietly, “is your plan?”
“I stole a knife from the kitchens. You could—”
He waves a massive hand dismissively.
“No. If you’re thinking I should take my own life, I won’t. Nod or not, I can’t do that. If it’s going to happen, it has to be by your hand.”
I falter for half a second. Then steel myself. I am a King, I need to be able to do this.
“I’m… If that’s how it has to be…”
I draw the knife from where I hid it.
“Before we do this,” he says, calmer now, “there are things you need to take.”
He reaches to his waist and unclasps a satchel, threading it carefully through the bars of his cell.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
“This is one of my national relics. The other is inside it. Ever played Dungeons & Dragons? It’s like a bag of holding. Not infinite—but damn big inside, and nearly weightless.”
I take it, feeling the strange hum beneath my fingers.
“Alaric’s been trying to get me to give it to him since the day I was thrown in here,” he continues. “He learned the hard way you can’t take a relic from a king. It has to be freely given. When a king dies their final death, everything they own vanishes with them. Relics included.”
So that’s why.
“I think that was his mistake with the Clock King,” he says darkly. “He never got those relics. Tried torture. Bribery. Even killed some of my people in front of me.” His voice hardens. “That bastard is evil.”
He exhales and gestures toward the satchel.
“The second relic inside—I never figured it out. A necklace. Teeth and a beak. Never did anything for me. You’re smarter than I was. Maybe you’ll crack it.”
I nod slowly, still processing.
“If I don’t make it back,” he says, quieter now, “give them to Felkas. He’s my heir. He deserves our nation’s relics.”
“That’s… a lot,” I say hoarsely. “Thank you, Redmoon.”
“Garth,” he corrects. “Just call me Garth. That’s my Earth name. This king stuff never suited me. I just like the outdoors, man.”
I force a thin smile.
“I’m sorry all of this happened. If we work together, I’ll help you rebuild. We’ll bring an end to what Alaric’s doing.”
“Thanks,” he says. Then he squares his shoulders. “Now let’s get this over with before I change my mind. My regeneration’s strong. It has to be a killing strike.”
He presses his chest to the bars and points between his ribs.
I swallow.
The knife feels impossibly heavy in my hand. I’ve never killed a speaking, thinking person before. King or not, this is someone real. Someone with a life beyond Nod.
“Hey,” he growls softly. “Don’t back out now. You don’t have much time before the food runners leave. If this is happening, it’s now.”
I grip the blade tighter.
I line it up.
I press forward—sharp, deliberate—and drive it between his ribs.
The blade sinks deep.
I pull it free as he clamps a clawed hand over the wound and drops to his knees, blood spilling onto the stone.
“God,” he growls, teeth clenched. “That hurts.”
Then he looks up at me.
“Go. Put distance between us. Keep my son safe until I get to you.”
I stagger back, shaking.
“Yes. Of course I will,” I manage. “I hope to see you soon, Garth.”
I turn and flee down the corridor, rejoining the line of food carriers just as they leave the prison.
Once outside, I cut down an alley, stuff the robe and knife into the relic bag, and break into a fast walk toward the lift.
I haven’t gone two hundred yards when Seth’s voice booms across the sky.
[A KING HAS FALLEN — MOON-CLAW KINGDOM. REMAINING KINGS: 98]
What.
What the hell?
Did he lie to me?
Panic claws up my spine. If I’d known he was on his last life, I never would have done this. The guards hadn’t even checked the cells. It could have taken days for anyone to notice he was gone—after the summit, even.
Now the entire city is going to be on alert.
I slow my pace, force my breathing steady. Around me, nothing changes. No gasps. No panic. No reactions at all.
Do civilians hear Seth’s announcements?
I remember the cathedral—how time froze, how Cast and the others never noticed. The message must be only for kings and watchers.
That explains it. And now that I think about it, the message when I entered the dungeon. it explains why Redmoon had been offline for so long. This area is restricted to outside viewers. Alaric had created a space where the world cant watch. There is still so much I dont know, and cant understand how it works. I keep falling into that trap, all because things I have yet to find out.
I ride the lifts back upward slowly. Deliberately. No rushing. If only kings heard it, Alaric may not act immediately. Or he might already have someone waiting at the eighth ring.
A message flashes.
{direct message} [Thalos]: what the hell just happened. was that you?
{direct message} [LifelineV]: why did you go offline, and then right after redmoon is eliminated?
{direct message} [Kyris]: I’ll explain in the waking. It’s complicated, and I don’t know how the next moments are going to play out. Radio silence unless I break it.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Got it.
{direct message} [LifelineV]: Got it.
Holy shit.
This is bad.
I dig into the relic bag as I walk, checking the contents. When my hand goes in, I feel nothing but air and a faint electric tingle. When I think of the item, it’s suddenly in my hand. Magic.
I pull out the necklace. Twine, knotted tight. Animal teeth. One black beak—raven, maybe.
I stare at it, frustrated. I need information. I can’t keep surviving off instinct and blind luck.
Ahead, the fifth ring lift comes into view.
It opens—and thirty armored guards pour out, fanning into a blockade.
Shit.
They’re waiting.
Whether it’s for me specifically or to halt travel doesn’t matter. I duck into an alley and message Victor.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Vic, I need info now. Life or death. I have a king’s relic—necklace made of plant fiber, animal teeth, one bird skull. Any idea what this does?
{direct message} [LifelineV]: I knew going to the first ring was a bad idea. I’ll look, but you might need to hide and log out. Wake in the Dominion and prepare for retaliation.
{direct message} [Kyris]: I think I can salvage this. I need to get back to the eighth unseen. Looking for alternate routes—stairs, anything.
I search anyway, knowing it’s probably futile. Four more rings. No time to hunt emergency paths. Everything would be guarded.
Nearly an hour passes.
Then Victor replies.
{direct message} [LifelineV]: Something’s wrong with your stream—you’ve been offline. If you can still see this, I have a lead. Try putting a drop of your blood on one of the teeth. Use the bird skull.
I don’t hesitate.
I draw the knife and slice the back of my forearm. Cleaner than the palm. Easier to hide later.
Blood beads. I drip it onto the bird skull.
Nothing happens.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Vic what the hell is supposed—
The world warps and cuts me off.
Buildings stretch and tilt. My vision sharpens violently. Nausea rolls through me as my body stiffens, bones grinding into unfamiliar shapes.
I stumble, barely staying upright, and catch my reflection in a darkened window.
Oh my god.
Am I a bird.
I jump—and the reflection jumps too.
No mistaking it.
I have no idea how to fly. No idea how to turn back. No clue if there’s a time limit or a cooldown.
All I know is that I need to get to the eighth ring now.
The world doesn’t give me time to think. Time to learn how to fly.
I scamper up to the highest balcony I can manage with hops and flutters, and leap from the railing. Cold air rushes under my feathers—feathers—and my balance shatters. My center of gravity is gone, pulled somewhere behind my chest instead of beneath it. I pitch forward, wings flaring instinctively, and slam chest-first into a wall hard enough to rattle my skull.
Stars burst across my vision.
Pain registers late and sideways. Not sharp, not dull—wrong. Like my body can’t agree on where it hurts.
I scrape downward, claws—claws—screeching against stone before I manage to arrest my fall on a narrow ledge. Snow bursts upward in a fine white cloud.
I cling there, heart hammering so violently I’m terrified it’s going to rupture.
My lungs feel enormous, overfilled, like I’ve inhaled too much air and don’t know how to let it out again. Each breath whistles through a chest that’s deeper than it should be, ribs flexing in a way that makes my skin prickle with unease.
I look down.
Talons. Black, curved, gripping stone effortlessly.
I almost throw up.
Okay. Okay chill. Birds are not afraid of heights.
I force myself to look up instead of down.
Above me, the ring rises in a sheer sweep of stone and iron, the next lift station far out of reach. The eighth ring feels impossibly distant—an entire city stacked on top of another city stacked on top of me.
I swallow hard.
“Fly,” I mutter. “Just… fly.”
My wings twitch.
That’s new.
The movement is involuntary, like a reflex fired through a limb I’ve never owned before. Feathers ripple, catching the air, and the sensation that comes with it is information. Pressure. Resistance. Balance.
Something clicks—not understanding, but instinct.
I crouch.
Bad idea.
My muscles compress too hard, too fast, and I launch forward instead of up, skimming across the alley in a panicked glide that ends with me crashing shoulder-first into a snowbank. White explodes around me again.
Okay.
Less power.
I dig myself free and climb back onto the ledge, movements awkward but rapidly less so. Every second inside this form feels like my nervous system is rewriting itself on the fly, connections snapping into place whether I like it or not.
The city sounds differently. I can hear layers—wind threading through arches, distant voices echoing off stone, the low grind of mechanisms inside the wall. My vision sharpens again, colors separating into crisp contrasts, shadows resolving into shape and depth.
I spot guards.
Not near me—not yet—but moving with purpose along a higher street. They’re fanning out.
They’re looking for someone, for me.
I don’t have time to get good at this.
I just need to get up.
I turn my body sideways into the wind like it feels like I’m supposed to and let myself fall again—this time deliberately. Panic spikes as gravity grabs hold, but I don’t fight it. I spread my wings wide.
The air pushes back.
Hard.
My descent turns into a steep glide instead of a drop, momentum stabilizing me in a long, slanted path along the curve of the ring wall. I skim past balconies and ironwork, snow blasting back in my wake.
Wind roars in my ears.
I angle up.
Nothing happens.
I angle harder, forcing my wings down in a sharp beat that nearly wrenches my shoulders out of alignment—but it works. Barely. My trajectory changes, my glide bending upward at a shallow angle.
That’s it.
I beat again. And again.
Each stroke is exhausting in a way that feels expensive, like I’m burning something finite. My muscles scream protest, but the city starts to drop away beneath me.
I’m climbing.
Not soaring. Not elegant. But climbing.
I latch onto another ledge, talons scraping, and cling there long enough to gasp air and let the shaking settle. Below me, someone shouts. Above me, a horn sounds—a sharp, metallic note that carries across the stone. An alarm? They cant have realized what is going on just yet.
I push off again before fear can make decisions for me.
This time I don’t aim for the lift stations or the streets. I aim for the walls themselves—the sheer vertical faces between rings where banners hang and maintenance walkways jut out like scars.
I don’t fly straight up.
I zigzag.
Short climbs. Controlled glides. Grab, rest, launch again. It’s ugly, inefficient, and absolutely nothing like the soaring freedom people always talk about when they romanticize flight—but it works.
My wings start to obey faster.
My turns get tighter.
My landings stop hurting.
By the time I near the sixth ring, my panic has burned down into something sharp and quiet. Focus replaces it. Calculation. Distance and angle and timing.
I pass through a cloud of warm air and nearly stall in surprise.
Heat.
I glance down and see another plaza like the one below—snowless, glowing faintly with some unseen energy. Priests cluster near its center. Guards ring it outward, backs turned toward the people kneeling in the warmth.
Even from here, the symbolism makes my stomach twist.
I don’t slow.
I climb past them, slipping into the darker air above where the cold returns and the city loses its false comfort.
By the time the eighth ring comes into view, my chest burns and my wings feel like lead. Every beat sends pain flickering down my spine, warning me that whatever this relic is doing, it wasn’t meant to be used like this.
I don’t care.
I angle toward a quiet rooftop just inside the ring’s boundary and crash-land in a heap of feathers and limbs, skidding across frost-coated tiles.
The world lurches.
Feathers ripple. Bones grind again. My center of gravity slams back into its proper place like something snapping into lock.
I retch, hands slapping stone as my human body reasserts itself around me.
Cold. Familiar. Painful in the right places.
I curl forward, breathing hard, heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest.
After a few seconds, I force myself upright.
I’m back. Still alive.
And somewhere below me, guards are still searching the wrong places.
I wipe frost from my face and push to my feet, already moving. I don’t know how long that relic’s cooldown is—if it even has one—but I know one thing for sure.
I am never letting myself get cornered like that again.