The wind is ripping at my hair as the day crawls forward, and the height keeps trying to pull my eyes outward.

  Solomir never lets you forget where you are.

  Even now—especially now—when I’m kneeling at the end of the Priest’s Walk, with my hands bound and my knees aching against the cold stone, the city insists on being seen. Ring upon ring falls away beneath me in stacked terraces, each one a cut of pale architecture against the mountain’s dark ribs. If I look too long my stomach rolls, my mind trying to map the drop, trying to understand how much empty air sits between me and the plazas below. It feels like staring down into the mouth of the abyss.

  I do my best not to look.

  For the last two hours I’ve been kept here like a relic on a pedestal, positioned at the very edge of that monolithic spur of stone that juts out from the Eighth Ring. It is a walkway built for ceremony, not practicality—an arm reaching out over the world, as if Solomir itself wants to place its hand on the sun and grasp it.

  From this angle, Solomir reminds me of that city from Lord of the Rings, stacked tiers and walls and towers climbing to a peak where the crown sits. Except Minas Tirith was built to withstand armies. Solomir is built to withstand doubt. Every line is meant to point upward. Every path funnels people toward the Ninth Ring.

  Today, that gravity is aimed at me.

  The crowds gather at each ring’s central plaza—dense bands of faces and color circling the open squares where prayer is performed and warmth is granted. I can see them as shifting masses, smaller the lower they are, like the world has been reduced to a series of living murals. The First Ring’s people are a thin smear of movement far below. The Fifth Ring is thicker, more visible. The Eighth Ring’s crowd is closest, packed behind me at the beginning of the Priest’s Walk, held at a respectful distance by Solomir’s attendants and whatever unspoken rule makes these people obey without question.

  They’ve been quiet for most of the display. You can feel them like static on your skin. But their reverence has teeth. They’ve been trained to treat this walkway like sacred ground. They’ve been trained to treat the Kingpriest’s verdict like Solvael's voice.

  And I have been trained, for the last few days of my life, to understand that any reaction I give them becomes fuel.

  So I kneel, spine straight, face composed, eyes mostly lowered.

  This is where I die.

  Galoravad stands about a dozen feet away, comfortably in the space designated for the executioner. He doesn’t look bored. He looks delighted. Like a predator given permission to stop pretending it’s civilized.

  His armor is still the same detestable black-red-gold—heavy plates with ridges that catch light —but today he wears a new white cape. It is stark against him, like snow thrown over a battlefield. The cloth bears Solomir’s crying eye beneath Galoravad’s own sigil, instead of the sword we saw carved into the doors of the council room, the eye is alone. It is the symbol of their Covenant of the True Light, their right to judge.

  They gave him the honor of being the executioner.

  Of all the kings and queens here, he is the one who would enjoy it most. They might as well have handed him a feast and called it holy.

  He keeps looking over at me, smiling the way a man smiles when he has already decided what you are. He’s waiting for the foretold hour like it’s a festival.

  I refuse to give him the satisfaction of begging or breaking.

  Behind him, the Priest’s Walk stretches back toward the Eighth Ring’s plaza where the crowd gathers. It is lined with low pillars and silver-inlaid runes that glow faintly in the fading daylight, as if the stone itself is whispering prayers into the air. There are no visible guards on the walkway—no helmed soldiers standing with spears like you’d expect. Solomir doesn’t need them here. The crowd is the guard. The belief is the guard. The architecture is the guard.

  If I tried to run, I would have to run right back to Galoravad, and the waiting crowd at the Eighth ring. That or step off the end, and accept the fall.

  But I’m not here because I failed to fight.

  I’m here because I chose where the fight would happen.

  Alaric was here about twenty minutes ago, standing at the head of this walkway with the wind tugging at his robes. He declared my execution to his people in a voice that carried down to every ring. He didn’t need magic to do it. The Priests Walk was designed for this very thing. His city is built to turn one man’s words into law for thousands of ears at once.

  And after that, he announced those who had decided to become part of his alliance—The Covenant of the True Light.

  He said the name like it was a holy decree. Like it wasn’t something he invented in a room full of coerced monarchs and quiet fear just a few hours ago.

  Each king and queen who pledged themselves was given an article to wear—a token of the covenant. A sash. A pin. A cape. A ring. Something visible enough for the people to recognize from the plazas below, something bright enough to catch the eye from a distance.

  And watching him bestow one to Thalienne hurt.

  It shouldn’t have. I knew she would do what she had to do. I knew the geography of her kingdom compared to mine and Sethryn’s. I knew her situation was different. That she was watching Lucen and Alaric like someone measuring the distance to the nearest exit.

  But seeing the token on her—seeing her accept it with the practiced grace she uses on stream, seeing her smile for the crowd while her eyes flickered away from mine—made it feel real in a way that numbers and plans never do.

  She tried not to meet my gaze. She tried and she failed.

  For a heartbeat our eyes locked across the wind and the stone.

  I saw the pain there. Regret. Anger at herself, maybe, or at the situation, or at the fact that she couldn’t save me without condemning her entire kingdom. The mask she wears as Nyxleaf slipped just enough to show the real person beneath.

  And I didn’t blame her.

  That’s the sick part of this—Alaric has built a system where compassion becomes betrayal. Where survival looks like complicity. Where the moral choice costs you your people.

  He did that on purpose.

  After he finished announcing the covenant and my verdict, Alaric turned to me. The moment he did, his voice changed. It stopped resonating down the walkway. It stopped being a sermon and became something private.

  That’s when I realized our streams must have been cut again.

  No chat feed. No Outer Courts. No watchers hearing the words that mattered most. No record, except what he allows the world to believe.

  It’s strange how quiet it becomes when you realize the audience is gone. The wind is still there, the crowds still there, but the invisible pressure of being watched through a million screens vanishes. For a heartbeat it feels like relief.

  Then you remember why it was cut.

  So he can speak plainly.

  “You should have kept your mouth shut, Kyris,” Alaric said, voice low enough that only I and Galoravad could hear. “That chivalry of yours will be your undoing.”

  He wasn’t angry. He was almost… disappointed. Like a craftsman watching a piece of wood split against the grain.

  I lifted my head just enough to meet his eyes.

  “You knew I killed Redmoon,” I said. My voice came out steady, even though my throat felt like sand. “Why execute me and not put me in a cell?”

  Alaric’s gaze stayed on me for a long moment, measuring.

  “Because you are useful,” he said simply.

  It was the honest answer. Not cloaked in scripture. Not coated in mercy.

  “While I would rather have had you in my alliance,” Alaric continued, “I will gladly let you be the monster that I need.”

  He said monster like he was naming a tool.

  “People need a demon to hate,” he went on. “Something to focus on. A face to pin their fear to. You will be my Demon King.”

  The title was almost comical in its bluntness, except that he meant it. He was already crafting the narrative. He could probably already hear the sermons he would preach with my name in them.

  “My holy right given by Solvael to defeat,” Alaric added, and there it was—his god. His justification. His shield and sword. “Letting you run free after this ‘punishment’ will be exactly what I need to drive other kings to my side.”

  I could feel it then, the shape of his plan. It wasn’t about my death. Not really. It was about what came after. About making sure the world believed I deserved whatever he did next.

  “You will not have the time you wanted,” Alaric said. “There will not be a single day that you do not have to look over your shoulder. Not a day you can feel safe in the company of other kings. I will draw this out until my power is absolute.”

  He leaned slightly closer, his expression still controlled, still almost kind—like a priest taking a confession.

  “You wanted to gather information,” he said, and my stomach tightened. “To find my weakness. To see if it can be exploited. You thought you could play quietly in the shadow of my city.”

  His eyes held mine. Calm. Certain.

  “You will not have that luxury.”

  For a moment, I almost wanted to laugh.

  Because for once he was so transparent. He wasn’t hiding his cruelty. He was proud of it. He truly believed his ends justified every method. He truly believed that if the world was terrified enough, it would cling to him like a lifeline.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “You have made a mistake though, Alaric,” I said.

  He blinked once, slow, as if surprised I was still speaking at all.

  I kept my voice even. I kept my face composed. I refused to turn this into the spectacle he wanted.

  “You think I’m going to be your monster,” I said. “That I’ll be angry about this. That I’ll turn around and become the demon you want me to be.”

  Alaric’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. He expected rage. He expected the typical pattern: condemned men either beg or bite.

  I didn’t do either.

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “I won’t dance to your song like so many are willing to do.”

  I glanced pointedly toward Galoravad, who was still standing a few paces away, cape snapping in the wind, grin stretched wide.

  Galoravad’s eyes narrowed, amused that I’d dared include him in the conversation like he was anything other than the blade.

  Alaric followed my glance. His expression didn’t change. If anything, he looked satisfied to have his loyal hound waiting nearby.

  I looked back to Alaric.

  I didn’t glare.

  I didn’t spit.

  I let my expression soften into something that felt more dangerous than anger.

  Pity.

  “You strive for power you don’t deserve,” I said quietly. “And you think you’re righteous.”

  “There’s going to be a day,” I continued, “where you see I am right. You are the evil in this world. You are the thing you claim to fight.”

  His eyes hardened. The mask of the holy host flickered.

  “I haven’t figured out yet if you actually believe this,” I said, “if it’s your twisted sense of justice… or if you’re using it as an excuse to perform atrocities and call them miracles.”

  The contempt on his face grew, and for the first time I saw something raw behind the glow of his persona. Not righteous anger this time, but offense that I dare to call him the monster.

  Because righteous men can handle being doubted. Tyrants cannot handle being seen for what they are.

  “You were right about one thing,” Alaric said softly. “I do wish you would bite. I wish you would spit and condemn my actions loudly. It would sell the spectacle more.”

  He looked past me toward the city below, as if picturing the ripples.

  “That’s where I wanted Sethryn,” he said. “She would have made a cleaner demon. The pirate queen. The sea tyrant. The savage naga.”

  His gaze returned to mine.

  “You did throw a wrench in my plans by presenting the knife,” he admitted. “I would lose face if I claimed you found it after she discarded it. It would look too much like I wanted her to be the culprit, and I was ignoring outright evidence.”

  He wasn’t lying about that. One of the few times today he’d spoken something true.

  Then his eyes flicked down my body, and something shifted in them—an interest that made my skin prickle.

  “But you at least served two purposes for me today,” he said.

  I frowned, confusion breaking through my control for the first time.

  “Two?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, Alaric stepped closer. He reached down toward my chest.

  My breath caught.

  For a split second, instinct screamed at me to move—to jerk away, to stand, to break the manacles and put distance between us. But I didn’t.

  Because I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

  His fingers slid beneath the collar of my doublet, finding the twine and jute necklace hidden under cloth.

  The necklace I had kept close.

  My only escape route.

  My hand tensed reflexively, but the manacles bit into my wrists and reminded me how limited my movement was without choosing violence.

  “Wait,” I said sharply, the first crack in my calm. “Stop. I didn’t give that to you.”

  Alaric’s fingers tightened.

  He snapped the necklace free with a casual jerk and held it up between us.

  The twine swayed in the wind. The small objects at the end—unremarkable to any watching crowd—caught a glint of daylight.

  My stomach dropped through my ribs.

  Alaric looked at me and laughed.

  It wasn’t the polished laugh he uses in halls.

  It was deep. Malicious. The sound of a man enjoying that he just proved a point.

  “That’s what he told you?” Alaric asked. “He said I can’t take it without permission?”

  His eyes gleamed with triumph.

  “That only works if you are the original owner, Kyris,” he said. “Him giving it to you made that rule no longer apply.”

  My mind went white for a heartbeat, then flooded with heat.

  The necklace—Redmoon’s relic. The teeth. The thing that was supposed to be mine now, protected by Nod’s rules, protected by the idea that a relic can only be taken with willing transfer. I had believed it because I needed to. Because in a world like Nod, rules are the only thing between a king and chaos.

  And I had trusted a rule without testing it.

  My eyes darted from his face to his hand, holding my only guarantee of escape like it was nothing.

  I should have used it sooner.

  I should have transformed and left this lonely platform before Alaric came out to declare.

  I had time.

  I knew the hour wasn’t immediate. I knew there was theater involved. I had been kneeling here for two hours. I could have done it in the first ten minutes, slipped off before the crowd gathered fully, before the ritual became fixed.

  I didn’t.

  Because I told myself the rules held.

  Because I told myself my calm mattered more than my survival.

  Because I told myself I could endure this and still win later.

  Alaric tilted his head, watching my expression shift, savoring it.

  “That’s the problem with you,” he said softly. “You believe systems exist for everyone. You believe rules are meant to be fair.”

  He let the necklace dangle once more.

  “Rules are for the faithful,” Alaric continued. “For those who keep the world clean. For those who submit. For those who understand their place.”

  He looked down at me as if he was offering me a lesson.

  “You were never going to outplay me here,” he said. “Not in my city.”

  I forced myself to breathe.

  In. Out. Slow.

  I refused to let panic turn into spectacle. If he saw fear in me, he would feed on it. If he saw rage, he would use it.

  So I swallowed my anger and made it cold.

  “You’re proud of this,” I said quietly, voice steady again. “You think taking my relic proves you’re right.”

  Alaric’s smile widened.

  “It proves you’re naive,” he corrected. “And it proves you are not the hero your people want you to be.”

  His gaze flicked toward the crowd behind us, even though they couldn’t hear.

  “You don’t understand Solomir,” he said. “You don’t understand what people need. They need a shepherd. They need order. They need someone willing to do what must be done.”

  He held the necklace higher.

  “You killed Redmoon,” Alaric said, voice almost reverent now. “You thought you were doing mercy. You thought you were freeing him from suffering.”

  He leaned down slightly, close enough that I could smell perfumes on his hair.

  “You committed regicide,” he whispered. “And now you will die for it.”

  I met his eyes.

  “Then you should have killed me in that room,” I said. “Not here.”

  Alaric smiled again.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “This is better.”

  He gestured faintly with his free hand, encompassing the rings of the city, the plazas, the stacked terraces of worshipers watching from below.

  “This,” he said, “is instruction.”

  He straightened, his voice still low but full of certainty.

  “I will let you return,” he said, and my chest tightened.

  He watched my reaction like a man watching a trap close.

  “You have three lives,” Alaric said. “That is what you told them, isn’t it? You told your allies to stay calm because you can die and come back.”

  He shook his head slowly, mock pity.

  “You think death is a reset,” Alaric continued. “You think it is a delay.”

  He lifted the necklace, and the wind tugged at it like it wanted to snatch it away.

  “I will make sure it is neither,” he said. “I will make sure your deaths are lessons. Each time you return, the world will already be in motion against you. Each time you respawn, there will be new sermons. New decrees. New alliances forged from fear of your evil.”

  His eyes narrowed, and now the contempt was fully visible. The glowing mask was gone.

  “You will become what I need,” Alaric said. “Whether you want it or not.”

  My jaw tightened. I held it. I refused to snarl.

  “Or,” I said, “you’ll find out what happens when you push too hard.”

  Alaric’s expression sharpened with interest.

  “Are you trying to threaten me, when I hold all the cards?” he asked.

  He stared at me for a moment, and then his laugh came again—low, dark.

  “You still don’t understand,” he said.

  Then he tucked the necklace into his own robes like he was pocketing a coin.

  It felt like the last doorway closing.

  My escape route was gone. My last lever was gone. The thing I told myself I could always pull if things became impossible… was now in the hands of the man who built impossibility into his architecture.

  Alaric took a step back, and his posture shifted again, the holy host returning like a cloak being settled on shoulders.

  When he spoke, it was quieter still—almost intimate.

  “I would have liked you,” he said, and I hated that his tone made it sound sincere. “In another world. Another timeline. If you had arrived with humility.”

  He turned slightly, glancing toward Galoravad as if reminding him to stay ready.

  “You could have been a bright piece on my board,” Alaric continued. “You could have been the proof that Solomir can redeem even monsters.”

  He looked down at me again, and the pity returned, sharp enough to cut.

  “But you chose pride,” he said. “You chose to defy me in front of the others. You chose to protect the pirate queen instead of submitting to the righteous path.”

  I held his gaze.

  “No,” I said. “I chose to protect someone innocent.”

  Alaric’s eyes flashed, irritation slipping through his control.

  “Innocent,” he repeated, like the word itself offended him. “Do you think innocence matters when the world is ending?”

  He breathed out slowly.

  “That is your flaw,” he said. “You still think this is about fairness.”

  He turned away then, stepping back toward the beginning of the Priest’s Walk, toward the crowd and the ceremony waiting behind him. The wind caught his robes and made him look larger than he was.

  Before he went, he paused, half turning back.

  “One more thing,” Alaric said softly. “You should know what this will do.”

  I waited, forcing myself not to ask.

  He smiled.

  “Your execution,” he said, “It is not intended to break you.”

  He watched me with calm certainty.

  “It will sanctify me.”

  Then he walked away, leaving me kneeling at the edge of Solomir’s eighth ring with Galoravad standing nearby like a patient butcher, and the rings of the city stacked beneath us like witnesses.

  I sat there, and the wind tore at my hair and dried my eyes before they could even think of watering.

  And I realized my mistake wasn’t just trusting the relic rule.

  My mistake was believing Alaric needed the truth to control the story.

  He doesn’t.

  He only needs the shape of it.

  He only needs the crowd to believe that whatever he does is righteous.

  Now I sit here and await the hour.

  My death will be my reward for hubris.

  I should have tested every rule before betting my life on it. I should have tested that relic transfer with Thalos. I should have tested the boundaries of Solomir’s authority the moment I learned he could cut streams like threads.

  Damn it to hell.

  I keep my breathing steady. I keep my posture composed. I refuse to let Galoravad see me shake in anger.

  Because if Alaric’s entire plan is to make me into his monster, then the only move I have left—without my relic, without my escape—is to deny him the performance.

  And when the hour comes, when Galoravad finally steps forward with that detestable smile and that holy cape snapping behind him, I will die the way Alaric hates most:

  Not as a beast.

  Not as a demon.

  But as a king who refuses to kneel to his story.