Not because of the cold—Solomir is always cold if you’re paying attention. Not because of the stone, or the way the city stacks itself upward like it’s trying to climb into the heavens on sheer arrogance alone.
It feels wrong because the silence is gone.
When I wake in the villa, the first thing I notice is the familiar thrum at the edge of my awareness—the Outer Council ring, warm against my skin, alive with the constant pressure of being observed.
The stream is back.
Somewhere beyond the walls, beyond this mountain, beyond this false sky… eyes are on me again.
My viewer count ticks up as if nothing happened.
As if I didn’t walk into a dungeon and come back with blood on my hands.
As if an entire kingdom didn’t go dark at once, only to return to normal the next day like a theater curtain lifting for the next act.
I sit at the edge of the bed for a long moment, elbows on my knees, staring at the stone floor while my mind chews on everything I can’t say out loud.
Then I force myself upright.
The villa is already moving—staff in quiet urgency, the hush of silk and polished trays, clipped footsteps in hallways. Kings and queens don’t linger in bed when schedules are written for them. There’s always another set of doors to walk through, another ritual to perform, another audience to satisfy.
I leave my room without fanfare and find Scott in the main sitting room, loud as ever even at an hour that should be illegal.
He’s sprawled across a couch like he owns the place, legs kicked out, already halfway into some story meant for the stream. His ring glows with activity. Every time he grins, his watcher count spikes.
Thalienne sits in the corner of the room, posture relaxed, expression bright—too bright. Laughing at his jokes. Tossing out playful quips that land perfectly. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe she was exactly what she presents.
But thanks to Scott, I do know better.
Because her eyes don’t match the smile. They flick, measure, assess. Every laugh is calibrated. Every playful comment is a layer of paint covering the mask.
Sethryn stands near a window, arms folded, gaze fixed outward over the city. She isn’t performing. She doesn’t even pretend she wants to.
Her presence has the density of a storm cloud—quiet, heavy, and ready to break.
When she notices me, she inclines her head in acknowledgment. No smile. No warmth. But not cold either.
Just… honest.
Thalos turns when I enter, and his face lights up like he’s been waiting for the cameras to catch the moment.
“King Kyris!” he booms, arms wide as if he’s about to hug me in front of every watcher in existence. “Look who decided to rejoin the world of the living!”
A chorus of message pings pops in my peripheral, tithe notifications rolling in like coins clattering into a bowl.
—TITHE RECEIVED: GainsGoblin—
—TITHE RECEIVED: VioletVex—
—TITHE RECEIVED: Carapace_kid—
Thalos leans closer and drops his voice without moving his lips much.
“Private group chat,” he murmurs. “I made one. We can talk in there while we play nice out here.”
The ring gives a small pulse. A notification blossoms in the corner of my vision.
[Private Group DM: “Shopping Run”]
Members: Kyris, Thalos, Thalienne, Sethryn
I accept without reaction, noting that Thalienne is party to the conversation as well.
Outwardly, I give Thalos a look that says calm down before you fall through the floor.
Inwardly, I feel the smallest relief.
Thalos isn’t just playing around. He’s thinking. He really has grown a lot since our first day in Nod.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Streams are back. Guard presence is doubled. We can still move if we look harmless. Shopping run = cover.
{direct message} [Thalienne]: Agreed. Seventh ring gives us access to goods without the ninth ring eyes. Keep it fun. Keep it light.
{direct message} [Sethryn]: Fun is not my specialty. But I can pretend if it keeps blades out of our backs.
I glance at Sethryn as if by accident. She’s still by the window, but her fingers flex once, like she’s resisting the urge to summon a weapon that isn’t allowed.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Goals: information, supplies, and minimizing suspicion. I need a bag. Something plausible.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Already on it. We’ll make it look like fashion.
{direct message} [Thalienne]: Oh, it will be fashion.
Thalienne’s grin widens at nothing in particular, and she claps her hands together with bright, delighted energy.
“Okay!” she announces for the stream, voice like a bell. “Shopping day! We are going to the seventh ring because apparently Solomir believes in opulence the way fish believe in water.”
Scott laughs and throws an arm around the idea immediately. “If they’ve got anything worth buying, it will be there. And if they don’t? Then we’ll buy it anyway just to flex.”
Sethryn makes a sound that might be a sigh.
“I would rather buy weapons.”
Thalienne spins toward her like she’s been waiting for that line. “Oh, darling, we can do both. We can buy weapons and make you adorable.”
“I am not—” Sethryn starts.
“You are,” Thalienne says, cutting her off with cheer so absolute it becomes a weapon all its own. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Sethryn’s jaw tightens. Her eyes flick to me for half a second, like she’s asking whether I’m going to intervene.
I don’t.
Not because I want her to be uncomfortable, but because I understand the value of the mask Thalienne is putting on. If Sethryn is pulled into the performance, even begrudgingly, it sells the illusion that we’re just nobles enjoying the city. It keeps the guards bored. It keeps Alaric’s unseen attention elsewhere.
We leave the villa with escort—because everything in Solomir is done with escorts now after the commotion I caused on the first ring.
Two guards at first.
Then four, once we step into the main thoroughfare. A neat formation that pretends it’s for our safety while making it very clear we are not alone.
The seventh ring is warmer than the first, colder than the eighth. The streets are narrower, the buildings closer together, the people less polished. More trade, less display. You can feel the economy here—moving, breathing, scraping. This is the backbone of their economy.
It reminds me unpleasantly of how civilizations look when they’ve learned to survive under someone else’s thumb.
But the shops are real.
Not the curated luxury of the top ring. Real goods. Practical goods. Things people actually use.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Thalos strolls with exaggerated ease, waving at passersby, tossing comments to the stream like they are on a guided tour.
“So this is the seventh ring,” he says, loud enough for everyone. “Where the rich people pretend they’re normal and the normal people pretend they’re honored.”
Thalienne giggles, bright and effortless, then tilts her head toward a shop window where a set of ornate knives are displayed like jewelry.
“Ooh, look at those. They’re pretty.”
Sethryn’s gaze locks onto them instantly. “Functional?”
Thalienne loops an arm through hers before she can move. “Nope. We are not starting with blades. We are starting with clothes.”
Sethryn stiffens like a cat being picked up against its will. “Thalienne.”
“Come on,” Thalienne sings. “You’re always in armor. Always tense. Let me dress you like you’re not one bad moment away from stabbing a priest.”
“I am one bad moment away from stabbing a priest,” Sethryn says flatly.
Thalienne beams at the camera. “Isn’t she precious?”
In the private DM, Sethryn’s response is immediate.
{direct message} [Sethryn]: If she puts me in something frilly, I will drown someone.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Not me though. I’m too pretty to drown.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Let it happen. Better they think we’re harmless.
{direct message} [Sethryn]: You are complicit.
{direct message} [Kyris]: I am strategic.
Thalos and I break off toward the weapons shops, the kind that skirt the line of legality by calling everything “ceremonial” while every blade is balanced for killing.
The guards split off and two follow at a respectful distance—close enough to hear, far enough to pretend they aren’t listening.
Thalos leans toward me, smile still in place for anyone watching.
“Talk,” he murmurs. “You’ve been brooding since you came back online.”
“Because I don’t trust the timing,” I reply quietly. My eyes sweep the street. “Streams go dark when Alaric wants them dark. Streams return when he wants them to return.”
Thalos nods, still grinning for the cameras. “Yeah. It’s like he’s got his hand on the light switch.”
We step into a shop filled with oiled metals. Racks of spearheads line one wall. The shopkeeper bows too deeply, too quickly, eyes darting between our faces and the guards behind us.
“Honored lords,” he says. “May Solvael’s light guide your purchases.”
Thalos laughs. “May it guide them into my inventory.”
I drift toward a display of bags—leather satchels, travel packs, reinforced messenger bags. People who sell blades understand the importance of carrying them.
My gaze catches on one piece immediately.
Black leather. Thick. Well-stitched. Silver embroidery along the flap in a pattern that resembles looping vines—or possibly stylized runes, if you squint.
It looks expensive without looking gaudy.
It looks like something a king could plausibly buy as a “souvenir.”
“What’s that one?” I ask.
The shopkeeper’s eyes brighten. “Ah. That is a courier’s bag, my lord. Enchanted for transit. Protects delicate goods within from impact—glass, crystal, relic fragments. Keeps items from shattering when traveling by lift.”
Thalos picks up another bag beside it, louder. “This one looks like it could hold a whole tavern’s worth of booze.”
“Nothing breaks inside,” the shopkeeper repeats, eager. “Not easily.”
My fingers brush the strap. The leather is cool. Solid.
“Wrap it,” I say.
Thalos claps me on the shoulder like I’ve just bought a new horse. “There we go! Practical king behavior! The stream loves it!”
Not what goes inside it.
We rejoin the others an hour later.
Thalienne has Sethryn half-trapped in a boutique that looks like it was designed by someone who never faced violence in their life. The racks are full of soft fabrics and shimmering accents. The shopkeeper is nearly trembling with excitement at having a queen in their doorway.
Sethryn stands rigid in the center of it all like a soldier dropped into a flower field.
Thalienne holds up a coat—deep blue, trimmed with pale fur at the collar, fitted at the waist, practical enough to move in, but undeniably cute.
“This,” Thalienne announces, “would look criminally good on you.”
“I do not need to look good,” Sethryn says.
“You already do,” Thalienne replies immediately. “We’re just making it illegal.”
Sethryn’s eyes narrow. “Thalienne.”
[Tidehunter]: SHE SAID ILLEGAL
[LeafLove]: THAL WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO HER ??
[Tidehunter]: ocean queen about to be arrested by the elf court
[LeafLove]: wait no keep going actually
[Archivolt]: i blinked and suddenly this is the best crossover episode we’ve had
[Carapace_kid]: bro why does sethryn look like she wants to sink the entire mall
[Tidehunter]: that’s just her relaxed face ??
[LeafLove]: she’s like a very dangerous cat being put in a sweater
[LifelineV]: this is exactly how alliances are formed. historically accurate.
Thalienne’s smile doesn’t falter, but her voice dips just slightly—low enough that it sounds playful to the stream, and serious to us.
“People underestimate pretty things,” she says, adjusting the coat like she’s simply fussing with fabric. “Let them.”
Sethryn stills. The tension in her shoulders shifts—not gone, but redirected.
In the DM:
{direct message} [Thalienne]: If you look like a weapon, they treat you like one. If you look like a lady, they forget you can kill them.
{direct message} [Sethryn]: I do not forget.
{direct message} [Thalienne]: Exactly.
Thalos, for his part, is having the time of his life playing to his watchers—trying on ridiculous hats, flexing in reflective windows, making jokes about Solomir’s obsession with layers.
“Bro,” he says loudly, holding up a scarf long enough to strangle a horse. “How do you even fight in this? You’d get tangled and die.”
Thalienne laughs, sweet as sugar. Sethryn doesn’t.
[Archivolt]: So Just saying, Sethryn and Thalienne better stay away from my King. Hes taken.
[Carapace_kid]: You dont even know if he knows you exist, how can you claim the king so casually. they are at least in the game with him.
But when a small child wanders too close—one of the shopkeeper’s kids, peeking curiously from behind a curtain—Sethryn’s posture changes.
It’s subtle. Soft.
The kid stares at Sethryn’s scaled arms and webbed fingers with open curiosity, not fear. Sethryn glances down at them, expression unreadable.
Then she crouches—slowly, carefully, like she doesn’t want to startle the child.
“Cold day,” she says, voice quieter now.
The child nods. “Mhm.”
Sethryn reaches into a pouch at her belt—one of the few things she was allowed to carry—and produces a small coin. Not Solomir currency, I realize. Something from her own kingdom. Sea-stone metal.
She presses it into the child’s palm.
“Buy something warm,” she says.
The child’s eyes widen. “But—”
“Its allright.” she says softly.
The child nods quickly and backs away like they’ve been given a holy relic.
Thalienne watches the exchange with an expression that, for half a breath, drops the mask completely.
Compassion. Understanding.
Then she turns back to the camera and laughs again, bright and easy, holding up another piece of clothing like nothing happened.
I file it away.
Sethryn is tough. But injustice still gets under her skin.
Towards children especially.
After a few hours of wandering, laughing, buying small trinkets to sell the illusion, and watching guards stalk us at 20 paces, we finally return to the villa.
The moment the doors close behind us, the atmosphere changes.
Not outwardly—staff still bow, still smile, still pretend to exist only for service.
But inwardly, the four of us shift into a different mode.
Thalos follows me up the stairs like it’s the most natural thing in the world, talking loudly about some irrelevant nonsense—favorite drinks, best foods, how he should start a “Solomir spice challenge” for his viewers.
I play along, responding with dry comments just sharp enough to amuse the chat.
We reach my room and I enter first.
Thalos follows, still mid-sentence, voice carrying.
“And then you know what the priest told me? He said—”
He shuts the door behind us, still smiling.
Then, in the DM:
{direct message} [Thalos]: Do it fast. Ill keep the camera on me.
{direct message} [Kyris]: I know.
I move with deliberate calm.
The black leather bag is tucked under my arm like any other purchase. In the corner of the room, I pick up a folded sheet from the bed—white linen, crisp—and drape it over Redmoons bag as if I’m simply setting down laundry.
Thalos steps into frame intentionally, blocking the view of my hands with his body and his animated gestures.
Out loud, he says, “Bro, I’m telling you, if the conference is anything like last nights banquet, I’m gonna start charging appearance fees.”
I grunt. “You’d bankrupt the summit.”
“Damn right I would.”
While he keeps the stream’s attention, I wrap the relic bag careful, precise. I can’t let it flash on camera. Can’t let the wrong texture catch the eye. Can’t let the wrong embroidery spark suspicion.
My hands sink into that strange, tingling nothingness.
The air inside the bag feels like static before lightning.
I focus.
Knife. Robe. Necklace. That should be all of it.
I place the whole relic bag inside the black leather bag, every movement is controlled.
Thalos laughs loudly at something he’s saying, throws his head back dramatically, and for a moment the camera’s angle shifts just enough that I see my own face in the corner of the stream feed.
Quiet. Brooding. Controlled.
And underneath it… tired. So tired.
The items settle into the new bag like stones dropped into deep water.
I tie it loosely as if it’s nothing.
Then I straighten, slow, casual.
Thalos is still talking, still performing, still acting like this is just two friends in a room joking after a shopping trip.
Outwardly, the illusion holds.
Inwardly, the plan locks into place.
{direct message} [Kyris]: Done.
{direct message} [Thalos]: Good. If anyone asks, you’re obsessive about wrinkles.
{direct message} [Kyris]: But I am.
{direct message} [Thalos]: That’s my king.
I exhale once, quietly, and let the tension in my shoulders drop a fraction.
Not gone. Just… managed.
Because later today we go back to the ninth ring. Back to the Radiant Vestige. Back to the circle table where thirteen rulers will sit and pretend they are equals while Solomir watches from the walls.
And whatever Alaric is planning, whatever he’s searching for, whatever he thinks he can pry out of us— I’m going into that room with my secrets hidden better than they were yesterday.
I'm gearing up for the big final few chapters of this volume, and will be next posting on Monday off next week. These chapters are going to be a bit extra long, preliminary drafts are looking around 7k words each. Apologies for missing this Friday, but the volume needs to end on a high energy well edited beat.
Looking forward to getting into volume two, and I hope you guys are ready for things. Strap in and have fun.
Tesh