"That guy... he was a wind elemental, right? Something similar to the Moon Elf, Isilra?"

The question came from the Second Night King, King Beta. The static charge of Gustalon's battle lust was still prickling against his skin.

The Nightwing race wasn't shocked by the existence of sentient elementals. On the Moonlight Continent, they weren't exactly rare. History was littered with elemental entities who had climbed to the absolute peak of the food chain.

"Correct."

"Peak Legendary rank," the First Night King, Nyx, nodded slowly. "And that aggression... that was the hunger of someone desperate to break through to the next tier."

Nyx was an Arch Lord at his peak. His perspective was vastly different from his younger brother, who had only recently ascended to the rank. Nyx saw the chessboard; Beta only saw the pieces.

"Brother, are you saying he saw us as stepping stones?"

King Beta's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flickering within them.

He was an Arch Lord. It didn't matter how special an elemental lifeform was; if they hadn't crossed the threshold into the Arch realm, they were lesser beings. For a "lesser being" to flex on a superior? That was a death sentence.

"Not a stepping stone," Nyx corrected, his tone mild and terrifyingly even. "A whetstone. He wanted to sharpen his blade on us."

"So, what's the play, brother?"

King Beta dropped the posturing and asked the real question. The room was empty now, save for family—the two Kings and their uncle, Grand Marshal Malachai.

"It's a bad hand," Nyx sighed, unfurling the recruitment letter.

The handwriting wasn't Orion's. It was elegant, feminine—clearly penned by Isilra on his behalf.

"The Champions Alliance didn't kick the Cult of Four off the mainland just to share the spoils. They want the whole pie."

"Unless we become insiders," Nyx continued, tapping the paper. "Like Staghelm City."

News of the wedding at Staghelm had reached the islands. Nyx didn't need a spy network to know the score: Isilra was the political sacrifice that secured Staghelm's safety.

"Are you suggesting a marriage alliance?" Beta asked, trying to read his brother's poker face. He hated how Nyx always spoke in riddles.

"Marriage?"

Nyx shook his head, a bitter, self-mocking smile twisting his lips. He wasn't laughing at the Alliance. He was laughing at the Nightwing race.

"Impossible."

"Political marriage requires leverage. It requires two factions to be somewhat relative in status, or at least have mutual interests. We have neither."

Nyx looked at his younger brother. Beta was strong, ambitious, and full of fire, but he lacked world-weariness.

"We aren't qualified to marry into the Champions Alliance."

"The reason is simple: We don't have a heavyweight. We don't have a Demigod."

Nyx was brutally realistic. If the Nightwing race proposed a marriage alliance now, it wouldn't be seen as diplomacy. It would be an insult. And the response to an insult from a superpower usually came in the form of an orbital bombardment, not a wedding ring.

"If we can't marry in, what about the Sea Race?" Beta blurted out. "They have a Demigod. We could seek their protection."

The suggestion hung in the air, heavy with desperation and lack of foresight.

"Brother," Nyx's voice dropped an octave, "you are an Arch Lord now. Start thinking like one."

"Do you have any idea what happens if we side with the Sea Race?"

Nyx's face darkened instantly, the calm mask shattering to reveal a storm.

Beta wasn't stupid—you couldn't be an idiot and reach Arch Lord—but he was impulsive. He was a reactor. Nyx knew his brother needed to hit a few walls to grind down those sharp, dangerous edges.

"Right now, the Sea Race is the weakest player at the table."

"The Champions Alliance and the Cult of Four are titans. If we join the Sea Race, we offend both of them simultaneously."

"And when the war heats up—and it will—the Sea Race will use us as a meat shield. We will be cannon fodder in a war between giants."

"We would die for nothing. Is that the future you want for the Nightwing race?"

Nyx practically roared the last sentence.

Then, as quickly as the rage appeared, it vanished. Nyx was a monster in his own right—he could flip the switch on his emotions instantly. Like a lion that roars to clear its throat and then goes back to sleep.

But the outburst did its job. Beta and Marshal Malachai were visibly shaken. Nyx held absolute authority here, just as Orion did within the Stoneheart Horde.

"My Lord," Malachai interjected smoothly, sensing the need to pivot. "Regardless of the variables, there is always an optimal path."

Malachai was old and cunning. He knew how to handle Nyx.

"We have two real options. One: Submit to the Champions Alliance. We keep our lives, and maybe our current territory."

"But the cost is vassalage. We become their supply depot. We provide resources, manpower, and perhaps even faith."

"And doing so puts us directly in the Cult of Four's crosshairs."

"Option Two: We join the Cult of Four."

Malachai frowned, weighing the words. "I have... reservations about this. I don't trust them. I worry they'll just throw us at the Alliance and the Sea Race as expendable troops."

"Furthermore, look at the map. I don't see any native Moonlight Continent factions thriving under the Cult's banner."

That was the kicker. The Champions Alliance had Staghelm City—living proof that they allowed native factions to exist and retain some autonomy. The Cult had no such examples.

"My Lord, is that why you let the elemental walk away?"

Malachai was slick. The question was a compliment wrapped in a probe.

"Yes."

"He was just a messenger. Killing him achieves nothing but satisfying a momentary urge."

Nyx stared at Malachai until the old Marshal looked away, uncomfortable under the heavy gaze.

"He represents the Champions Alliance," Nyx said softly, looking toward the door where the wind had vanished. "And the Stoneheart Horde standing behind him. We don't poke the bear unless we're ready to kill it."

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