The alarm hits at six sharp, not a hum, not a resonance, just the ordinary rattle of my phone on the desk. I roll out of bed, bleary, the taste of desert air still lingering at the edge of my tongue.
The city outside is muted blue, pre-dawn half-light and the sound of engines waking. I shower, dress, pour burnt coffee into a travel mug, and try not to think about the Dominion.
On the bus, I give in.
Headphones in, stream open.
The replay banner flashes: [LIVE: BLACK SAND DOMINION – THE ASHWING FIGHT]. My own voice murmurs commands, calm and deliberate. The Sable Hounds tear across the dunes, light refracting off their glass-black hides. I remember the heat, the weight of the Chime in my hands, every heartbeat stretched into minutes.
I rewatch the battle from beginning to end. Each frame feels like a puzzle. I slow the playback, searching for weakness in the creature’s movements, how it banks, how it braces before it breathes, the subtle delay between the flare of its throat and the stream of molten dust. My voice in the recording calls for formations, timing the Sable Hounds’ dives; even through the detached lens, the coordination looks fragile but effective.
Archivolt: angle of descent is predictable, watch the shadow fall before heat plume.
VioletVex: notice it flinches at the smaller chimes, sound hurts it.
carapace_kid: yeah, it twitches when he hits low tones, not high ones.
I jot mental notes between heartbeats. The Ashwing is fast but not immune to rhythm, its wingbeats shift when sound bends under it, meaning resonance affects its flight. Its armor flashes amber at stress points, a few more coordinated strikes might have shattered the plates near its chest.
I scrub through again, focusing on terrain. The dunes near the ridge create wind corridors, if I can lure it downwind, its breath will scatter instead of focus. Every second of footage becomes instruction, a slow autopsy of survival.
By the time the replay ends, I’ve memorized the pattern. The fight wasn’t luck, it was data waiting to be organized.
It’s almost comforting how easily I fall back into this rhythm. Back when I led the Songbird Guild, I’d spend nights recording raid fights frame by frame, searching for tells and cooldown windows. Being guildmaster meant memorizing patterns, knowing when to press and when to pull back. This is no different.
Analyze, adjust, don’t overextend. If an opening lasts ten seconds, strike for seven and pull out before the counter hits. That instinct’s still there, quiet and steady. The same discipline that kept us alive in raids now guides me here.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
When the bus jerks to a stop, I pause the screen. My reflection ghosts over the still frame of the creature mid-flight.
“Next time,” I murmur. “We don’t run.”
The office hums like always, fluorescent lights, servers behind drywall. Screens glow with spreadsheets and ticket queues. I drop into my chair, open Outlook, and pretend to be human. My office, the server room, is three floors down. A lot of people call it the IT Dungeon. Around mid-morning, I get a ticket notification: a printer on the top floor has stopped responding. I sigh, grab my toolkit, and take the elevator up. The hum of servers fades into the sterile quiet of the main office as the doors slide open. Rows of cubicles, fluorescent lights, the faint smell of burnt coffee. I follow the ticket notes to a glass-walled room where a printer blinks angrily. A quick reseat of the toner and a reboot fixes it.
On my way back to the elevator, background chatter filters through the open space, weekend plans, someone laughing too loud, and a few voices talking about Nod.
“Did you catch the Cleric King’s speech last night? Guy’s basically starting a religion in there.”
“Yeah, man, he’s insane. His numbers are skyrocketing.”
“What about the dwarven king? His fortress that he is building looks unbeatable!"
the conversation fades as I reach the elevator. No one here mentions my channel, none of them even suspect they work beside one of the Hundred. And that’s fine. It keeps things simple. Between help-desk tickets, I scroll Reddit. The r/NodNetwork threads are chaos: speculation about how faith is being used by other monarchs, threads discussing how the Cleric King channels tithe to empower his warriors, and fan theories that devotion itself can alter a kingdom’s strength. I ignore most of it, focusing instead on clips of the fight, frame analysis, and chat discussions about sound and motion. Anything that might help next time.
By lunch, I’ve already drafted a dozen mental tests. Frequency thresholds, reflective barriers, sand geometry. The workday drags, but my thoughts stay in the dunes.
Mid-afternoon, the dull routine takes over. Someone in another cubicle laughs at a meme, the HVAC kicks on, my monitors blink.
I glance at my phone. Notifications: thirty-two missed comments, five new DMs on Discord, one from Scott.
Scott: You seeing this? My scouts spotted something in your north dunes. Looks like that dragon again.
Scott: You need a hand?
I reply quickly.
Me: Could be a false alarm. You had any trouble?
Scott: Nah, it’s keeping its distance. Doesn’t seem interested in my people.
Scott: But if you want, I can make a team. My people seem to be pretty heat resistant. Feels like old times, huh? Songbird Guild’s been itching for a proper raid since college, and I kinda miss tanking beside you.
Scott: We’ll show it what a boss fight really looks like.
I stare at the message and picture his grin, the same reckless confidence from college raids. Some part of me wants to say yes. Another knows the Dominion isn’t ready.
Me: Let’s wait. I’ll get word to you if it moves south.
Scott: Alright, man. But if it comes for you, you call me. Got it?
Me: Got it.
The chat ends. I leave the message thread open anyway, the faint glow of it like a tether between worlds.
By five, I’ve filed my last ticket and packed up. The bus ride home is quiet, golden light flashing through windows. I catch my reflection in the glass, tired, ordinary, unremarkable, and wonder which version of me the world prefers.
When I close my eyes, I still see the patterns, the angles, the rhythm of the Ashwing’s attacks.
The pace in Nod is picking up.
And I need to be ready.