#Review - Carl's Doomsday Scenario by Matt Dinniman #Dystopian #LITpg

Series: Dungeon Crawler Carl # 2
Format: Kindle, 400 pages
Release Date: January 6, 2021
Publisher: Dandy House
Source: Kindle Unlimited
Genre: LITpg, Dystopian, Humor

"The training levels have concluded. Now the games may truly begin."

The ratings and views are off the chart. The fans just can't get enough. The dungeon gets more dangerous each day. But in a grinder designed to chew up and spit out crawlers by the millions, Carl and Princess Donut need to work harder than ever just to survive.

They call it the Over City. A sprawling, once-thriving metropolis devastated by a mysterious calamity. But these streets are far from abandoned. An undead circus trawls the ruins. Murdered prostitutes rain from the sky. An ancient spell is finally ready to reveal its dark purpose.

Carl still has no pants.

They call it Dungeon Crawler World. For Carl and Donut, it's anything but a game.

Carl's Doomsday Scenario is the Second installment in author Matt Dinniman's Dungeon Crawler Carl series. The Borant Corporation has destroyed Earth's surface structures and converted them into an 18-level dungeon for the galaxy’s most popular reality show, Dungeon Crawler World. Survivors become “crawlers” forced to fight, loot, and perform for an interstellar audience under a capricious System AI. 

Carl, a pragmatic Coast Guard veteran, teams up with Princess Donut, his ex-girlfriend’s prize Persian show cat, who gains intelligence, speech, and powers. They are joined by their growing menagerie and guided (sometimes reluctantly) by Mordecai.  Book 2 opens as the training floors end and the real games begin on Floor 3: the Over City, a sprawling, ruined urban environment with open-world elements, NPC settlements living out scripted (and sometimes sentient) storylines, and formal quests. 

Crawlers lock in permanent race and class choices. Carl selects the Primal race and the Compensated Anarchist class (leaning into explosives and unconventional problem-solving); Donut remains a cat and chooses Former Child Actor, securing lasting manager benefits. Their pet Mongo the velociraptor becomes a more prominent (and lethal) part of the team. They are quickly pulled into an undead circus quest, mysteries involving skyfowl settlements and falling corpses, political fallout from Carl’s televised commentary, and a cascading crisis that literally produces the title item. 

Carl’s first-person narration grounds the absurdity in dry, exhausted realism and gallows humor, while Donut’s theatrical, status-obsessed personality provides constant comic contrast and unexpected emotional weight. Their partnership—part found family, part odd-couple survival unit—is the series’ true engine. Donut’s growth from pampered pet to strategic (if still bratty) participant is handled with surprising care amid the chaos. The book excels at inventive game-system play. 

Class and race choices matter, inventory management becomes high-stakes improvisation, and Carl’s explosive-focused toolkit leads to creative, rule-bending solutions rather than pure power fantasy. The Over City’s shift to more open, quest-driven territory lets Dinniman explore NPC sentience, scripted backstories that can break, and the production machinery of the show (talk shows, sponsorships, corporate interference by Borant and other factions like the Skull Empire). 

The satire of reality television, corporate exploitation, and the commodification of suffering is sharper and more integrated than in the first book. Humor and horror coexist without canceling each other out. There are undead circuses, attack lemurs, battle giraffes, body horror, and genuine trauma, yet the comedy rarely feels cheap. Themes of friendship as resistance, agency within a rigged system, and the cost of staying human under spectacle land effectively. Also, Carl's little group gets an addition in the form of Katia Grim, who was part of Hekla's group. Katia is Icelandic Doppelgänger crawler, and former art professor. 

I haven't read any spoilers or any reviews for other books, but I think the Lucia Mar and Hekla angle is going to be a serious issue going forward for Donut and Carl. I also like that Mongo is becoming a bigger part of this group. Highly recommended for fans of LitRPG, dark humor, and high-concept SF/fantasy hybrids, with the audiobook especially worth prioritizing. Graphic violence, strong language, dark themes (including trauma, exploitation, and death), and crude humor. Best suited for adult readers. Readers who love the mix of LitRPG mechanics, dark comedy, inventive combat, and the Carl–Donut dynamic will almost certainly want the next volume immediately (The Dungeon Anarchist’s Cookbook).

1

Welcome, Crawler, to the third floor.

The previous level will collapse in 3 hours and
35 minutes.

We teleported straight from the greenroom to a long golden hallway reminiscent of the first hallway we had entered.

"Carl, look! We're outside!" Donut said, looking up into the air. Next to her, Mongo gave an uncertain squawk.

Sure enough, a dark sky rose above us, dotted with stars. A colorful nebula, reminiscent of the background image on Odette's stage, covered the sky.

The air still felt stale. I pulled my slingshot, aimed it at the stars, and I fired.

Plink. Sure enough, the rock bounced off the ceiling, about 25 feet up.

"It's an illusion," I said. "It's like that mall in Las Vegas. They make it look like you're outside, but you're really not."

"Well, that's disappointing," Donut said.

The walls and the ground were made of golden-colored bricks. A plush red carpet led to a familiar door at the end of the hallway. As we approached, the door opened on its own. A tall figure stepped out, and all three of us stopped.

A well-built, young, and disgustingly handsome man wearing a tuxedo waited for us. His skin was a dusky gray, and he had a short pair of devil horns jutting from his forehead. The man stood about my height, and he had long gray-and-black hair that was held back in a ponytail. A barbed tail poked from the rear of his tuxedo. A pair of black bat-like wings sat folded tightly against his back.

"Hello, Mordecai," I said, examining his new form. "Jesus, dude. Looking good."

"Wow," Donut said, looking him up and down. "I wouldn't kick you out of bed for eating crackers."

Even Mongo's customary screech sounded as if he was in awe.

Mordecai-Incubus. Level 50.

Guildmaster of this guildhall.

This is a Non-Combatant NPC.

Also known as the Gigachad of the Over City, Incubi are the male counterparts of the infamous Succubus. The smooth, seductive, and ultimately deadly Incubus can be identified by his stunning good looks, exquisite charm, and sensuous feet. They can only be found on the urban levels of the dungeon. They give new meaning to the phrase "hit it and quit it."

"Princess Donut, Carl, little Mongo, welcome to the third floor. The training levels have concluded. Now the games may truly begin," Mordecai said, bowing slightly. Even his voice had gotten deeper. He indicated for us to enter.

We walked inside, and the door closed behind us.

"Training levels?" I said. "For fuck's sake. You call those training levels?"

"Oh, thank goodness," Mordecai said once the door closed. He ripped the jacket off and pulled off the tie, unbuttoning the top three buttons. The jacket was odd, with a pair of long slits along the back to accommodate his wings. "I thought you two were never going to show up. I've been in this thing for three hours, waiting for you. I hate formal wear."

"The interview ran long," I said. "I take it the general public can't watch this part?"

"Nope," he said. "They'll watch you go in, and they'll watch you come out, but they don't get to see what's going on inside. It's like a jury room."

His room was exactly the same as it had always been, but he'd cleaned up even further. A pair of beds had magically appeared since the last time we'd been in here.

"Those are for the transformation, if required," he said. "Remember what happened with Donut when she took that enhanced pet biscuit?"

I swallowed, remembering the weird, gooey blob thing she'd transformed into before.

"So," Mordecai said, "have you decided who wants to go first? I suggest Princess-"

"Me," Donut said, jumping up on one of the beds. "Let's get this rolling."

"Okay, Carl, take a seat," Mordecai said. I sat in one of the chairs. Mongo jumped into my lap and squeaked, sounding concerned.

"Mommy will be okay," Donut said. "You hang out with Uncle Carl for a few minutes while I get some work done. Behave yourself."

The baby velociraptor settled into my lap. I suddenly felt uncomfortable having that many teeth so close to my crotch. If he bit me now, I didn't know what would happen. I suspected he wouldn't teleport away. Instead, he'd get frozen like Frank and Maggie had that one time. Hopefully, I wouldn't find out.

"Okay," Mordecai said. He waved his hand and a screen appeared floating in the air, like we were on Odette's show. "Your current race is 'cat.' This is a list of all the available races you may choose. It looks like you've been given 320 different choices. It is in alphabetical order, and you may click on any of them to drill down to a very specific set of details. Also, the system AI has narrowed it down to a set of three recommendations. We will spend the next hour or so going over these choices, and then I will-"

"I choose cat. Next."

Mordecai took a deep breath. "Donut, there are a few choices on here where you'll actually look mostly-"

"Cat. Final answer. Let's move on."

Mordecai looked at me. I shrugged. She'd made it clear from the start that she wasn't going to change. I was just happy she'd dropped the idea of me turning into a cat also.

"Okay, then," he said. "A message will pop up, and you have to confirm your choice by clicking on it."

"Wait," I said, a horrific thought coming to me. "It's not going to, you know, change her back to the way she was before, is it?"

"Too late," Donut said. She glowed for a moment. "I clicked it." She looked at her paw. "I feel the same."

"No," Mordecai said. He looked pointedly at Donut. "But it is important to ask questions like that. I made it so she actually chose to not make a choice. Nothing will change, but she will now have access to a few racial benefits she didn't have before."

"Benefits? What are they?" Donut asked.

"I don't know, Princess Donut," Mordecai said, sounding exasperated. "We never got to examine the cat choice in the menu. You'll be able to see when we're done. And you wouldn't have changed yet anyway. The change doesn't happen until the end of the process."

"Okay, Donut," I said. "We need to think carefully about this next choice. Let's see what the AI suggests. Okay?"

"Let's do this," she said. "Show me anything with the word 'princess' or 'queen' in the title."

"Okay, moving on," Mordecai said. A list of items appeared on the screen, though the list appeared to be much shorter than the last one.

Mordecai paused, his eyes flashing as he quickly looked over the selections. "Okay, Princess Donut. It looks as if you've been given 34 class choices. That's a pretty short list. In fact, it's the shortest I've ever seen, but I think that's a combination of your racial choice and a result of your stats. Your base constitution is still two." He paused. "No, actually it's four now, thanks to your racial choice of cat." He again searched through his unseen menus. "Oh, I see now. It's actually a combination of four things. You both also have that Desperado pass, which precludes several of the classes right off the bat. And Donut has that tiara on her head, which narrows it even further. But that's all right. There are still a few great choices on there."

"So what's good?" Donut asked, looking at the list. "Ohh, that one sounds cool. It sounds menacing yet mysterious and fun. I pick that one."

"Wait," I said, jumping to my feet. I caught the now-asleep Mongo in the crook of my arm and rushed to the screen. "Do not pick anything yet until we've looked it over carefully."

Donut pointed at something entitled NecroBard.

Mordecai grunted. "That's actually not a bad choice. It's one of the three recommendations."

I looked over the list. The only base classes available to her were Bard, Magic User, and Barbarian. Each of the base classes had a few additional items under them, including Necromancer, Wind Mage, and Warlock. The NecroBard subclass was listed under both Bard and Necromancer. There was also an Earth Class heading, and the majority of the available items were listed under there. Included on that list were several interesting items, including Feral Cat Berserker, Animal Test Subject, and Roller Derby Jammer.

I looked at the list of the three AI-picked recommendations. They were:

Artist Alley Mogul.

NecroBard.

and

Former Child Actor.

I said a silent thank-you to the game gods that they hadn't named the roller derby one "Derby Queen." She probably would've insisted upon picking it without reading anything. We'd discussed this, and we had a loose plan based on Odette's advice. But Donut was also prone to go off the rails from time to time.

"Donut," I said. "Click on each of the three recommendations so we can see the information."

"I'm telling you right now I am absolutely not choosing this one," Donut said as she clicked on the first choice.

Artist Alley Mogul.

This Charisma- and Intelligence-based class is the modern-day merchant. Using your superior artistic talent to entertain and entice fellow nerds, the Artist Alley Mogul travels the world to sell her copyright-infringing wares. While not particularly menacing physically, this plucky merchant is extremely difficult to hurt. Members of this class receive the following benefits:

+5 Dexterity.

Instant access to the level 5 Shield spell.

A 25% discount at all stores plus a 15% bonus to money earned from sales.

10% interest earned on all coins upon descent to the next level.

Level 5 Pathfinder skill.

Access to Enhanced Dodge, which allows the Dodge skill to train to level 20.

Level 5 Dodge skill. (Already obtained.)

Additional subclasses become available on the sixth floor.

This is an Earth Class. As an incentive to choose an Earth Class, you will receive a Silver Earth Box upon choosing this class.

Mordecai grunted. "That incentive is a little weak compared to what they usually do. It's usually a gold box and a couple stat points."

"I'm not surprised," I muttered. My eyes immediately focused on that Pathfinder skill. Odette had said I needed to find something with that skill. But we were looking for something else, too.

"Still," Mordecai said. "This is a very good choice for her. If she can get Dodge over level 15, she will be almost impossible to hit. And a 25% discount at stores is great, too. That'll be on top of the bonus she already gets from her charisma. Stuff will be half-price for her, and that's a huge deal. But most importantly, you'd have access to the Pathfinder skill. It'll make finding stairwells, shops, and guilds much easier."

"Yeah, no," Donut said. "Artist Alley? Really? Aren't those the nerds that like Star Wars and draw pictures of cats dressed like the guys from The A-Team and stuff?" She shuddered.

"It's a good choice," I said. "Let's look at the other two."

NecroBard.

This unusual class combines one of the most loved occupations with one of the most reviled. Necromancers specialize in magic related to raising the dead. Bards must choose an entertainment-based skill. Depending on this choice, whether it be singing, the kazoo, or storytelling, the resulting crawler will use this skill to either entertain, protect, or glamour both the living and the dead.

The NecroBard receives the following benefits:

Instant access to a level 5 entertainment-based skill of their choice.

Access to all membership-based clubs, regardless of current memberships.

Free rooms at all safe rooms.

A 10% mana cost penalty on all non-Necromancer or non-Bard spells.

Instant access to the level 3 Turn Undead spell.

Instant access to the level 3 Panty Dropper spell.

+5 to Constitution, Charisma, and Intelligence.

−2 Strength.

Additional benefits depending on entertainment-based skill choice.

"So help me god," I said, "I will abandon you right here and right now if you choose to take up the kazoo."

"I could play an instrument," Donut said, voice full of wonder. "I could be a singer!"

"We want to keep viewers, remember?" I said.

"What this description doesn't say is that a lot of the necromancer spells will be cast with her instrument," Mordecai said. "And that means she won't have to use spell points to cast them. That's pretty huge. Plus each instrument has a long list of additional benefits. This is a solid choice if you end up picking a DPS class. Something that does a lot of damage. She'll have a wide range of both protection and other support skills."

"Carl, look! I could get a harmonica!" Donut said. She'd pulled up the submenu of entertainment skills. She gasped. "Bongos. They have bongos, Carl."

"Harmonica? How would that even work?" I said. "You don't have thumbs."

"You don't need thumbs for the harmonica, Carl. Not if I get one of those neck thingies."

I had a quick vision of tiny Zev attempting to strangle me after I allowed Donut to take up a ridiculous instrument. "Please, let's just look at that third choice."

Former Child Actor.

This rare subclass is an offshoot of the Character Actor class. It can only be obtained by crawlers who have both received the Cut! achievement and have obtained at least one trillion views.

Once a spoiled brat superstar, then addicted to drugs, you have crawled back from the brink stronger than ever. You are ready for your comeback. This Charisma- and Chance-based class could go either way. You'll either rise to the top, or you'll be dead in a ditch in a week.

This unique Earth Class is based on the Bard/Rogue Jack-of-All-Trades subclass, but with a few distinctive differences.

In addition to the following benefits, the most distinct aspect of this multifaceted class is the level 3 Character Actor skill. This skill increases in level only upon descent to the next floor.

Additional benefits:

Immunity to all poisons and diseases.

Level 5 Cockroach skill.

+10 to Charisma.

+15% faster growth in all Charisma-based skills.

The Manager Benefit.

This is an Earth Class. As an incentive to choose an Earth Class, you will receive a Silver Earth Box upon choosing this class.

I watched Donut's eyes get huge upon reading this one.

"What the hell is the Character Actor skill? Or the Cockroach skill?" I asked. "And what was the Cut! achievement? I don't remember that one."

"I got it for being a good actress," Donut said. "When we tricked the goblin shamankas."

"Okay, but it doesn't explain what the 'character actor' part means. Mordecai?"

Mordecai didn't say anything for several moments. His lip was curled in displeasure. On that incubus face of his, it looked downright menacing.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble 

#Review - Eyes of Kings by Chloe Gong #Fantasy

Series: Flesh & False Gods # 3
Format: 400 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: August 4, 2026
Publisher: S&S/Saga Press
Source: Library
Genre: Fantasy

The action-packed finale to Chloe Gong’s New York Times bestselling Flesh & False Gods trilogy—inspired by Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra—brings readers the ultimate showdown for power among gods and men.

War beckons in the kingdom of Talin. On one side sits Calla Tuoleimi and Anton Makusa, and on the other, the recently dethroned August Shenzhi and Calla’s own predecessor Sinoa Tuoleimi. Neither will rest until the opposition is buried.

Calla assumed victory would be easy. She wears the divine crown after a violent coup, wielding the most powerful weapon in the kingdom. Then the provinces start to whisper of the old gods returning to earth, and suddenly the game board is flipped upside down.

Anton thought he aligned himself with victory. When he swore to serve as Calla’s general, he understood the battle they were waging. But he fears Calla is no longer herself with the crown. Rather, he fears that Calla is returning to who she once was.

August would sacrifice anything for victory. He has waited his entire life for the throne, and surrender is not an option. In the face of age-old immortals challenging his terrain and the possibility of betrayal from his closest and most cherished guard, he must be careful who he trusts.

Because when the war ends, there can only be one king.

Eyes of Kings, by Chloe Gong, is the Third and final installment in the author's Flesh and False Gods trilogy. Inspired by Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, it delivers a high-stakes showdown of power, betrayal, love, and divine forces in the kingdom of Talin. In Talin, people with the ability can “jump” their consciousness (qi) between bodies. The series centers on ambitious, morally gray characters fighting for the throne amid deadly political games, revolution, and personal obsession. 

By the start of Eyes of Kings, Calla Tuoleimi has seized power in a coup and wears the divine crown, with Anton Makusa at her side as general and lover. Opposing them are the dethroned August Shenzhi and Sinoa Tuoleimi (an ancient predecessor now in another body). War looms, the Crescent Societies push radical agendas, provinces stir, and the old gods begin returning to the mortal world. The world expands significantly here: body-swapping magic intersects with heavenly lore, sigils, and divine qi, raising the stakes from political intrigue to something more mythic. 

The kingdom’s history of erased conflicts and suppressed divinity becomes central. Calla remains a fierce, conflicted figure whose ambitions and identity deepen in ways that reshape her relationships and goals. Anton’s loyalty and personal losses drive much of the emotional core. August’s ruthlessness is matched by vulnerability, while supporting figures (including Galipei and others) get meaningful arcs. Multiple perspectives build suspense through overlapping secrets and revelations. 

Characters feel deeply flawed and human even as they wield extraordinary power; the corrupting influence of authority is a through-line. The book maintains the trilogy’s fast pace, pulse-pounding action, and twists. Political maneuvering, battles, and personal reckonings collide as old gods, radical revolutionaries, and rival claimants upend the board. Gong weaves Shakespearean echoes (ambition, loyalty, downfall) into an original framework of body-jumping, divine crowns, and class/provincial tensions. 

My criticisms include uneven pacing or density, some rushed or underdeveloped elements around major reveals and the gods’ introduction late in the series, and a tragic ending that fits the source material and themes but left me disappointed. Power and legitimacy are central: Who has the right to rule, and what happens when divine endorsement is stripped away? The story examines how ambition and idealism erode under pressure, the cost of revolution, history repeating across lifetimes, and the tension between personal love and larger political goals. It is bleak in places, consistent with the trilogy’s tone and Shakespearean roots, with limited “happy” resolutions.  

Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1
NOW

It started out of nowhere, suddenly and relentlessly, pouring from the heavens. An hour after the coup, the kingdom was awash with rain, its downpour concentrated over San-Er most heavily. Before the Crescent Societies had finished installing its people, the Rubi Waterway rose too high to bear, flooding the streets, pouring downstream and off the cliffs, into the sea. It was pandemonium.

But San-Er went on. Prizes needed to be reaped, palaces restructured. War had started, the capital its first hotbed for negotiations, and because Calla Tuoleimi wore the crown, she had opened a very limited window of time in which she could stake her claim over a kingdom that did not belong to her.

It’s been three days.

The droplets pitter-patter onto the window. Dawn breaks over the twin cities, and Calla stares blankly at the patterns tracing down the other side of the glass. She had commandeered a departed noble’s ground-floor quarters so that she could be quick if she was needed during the night. The south wing is usually better at letting in some light, but San-Er at the street level has always been a realm of darkness, even if it’s the Palace of Union. The second-, third-, fourth-floor balconies overhead crowd together to block the new day and most of the rain. Only the barest flush of blue-gray begins to crawl into Calla’s quarters, over her desk, her chair, her calloused hand splayed on the pillow.

Then her lover, his breath still deep with sleep.

Movement sounds in the hallway. Hushed voices, exchanging a new day’s instructions. Calla rises to her elbows, her silk nightshirt gliding against the sheets. The Crescent Society clerics have posted a group of their sworn members to act as Calla’s guards. For protection, they claimed. A show of support for their partnership.

She would be remiss to see their presence as anything other than a warning.

“It’s early, Princess.”

She glances over. In the dark, the lines and planes of Anton’s face—his true face, the one he was born with—are mere suggestions. The shape of his jaw, the tension in his brow. She locates each telltale mark by an innate pull.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks. She keeps her volume low, hidden under the cover of darkness too.

Anton yawns, scrubbing his face.

“I had a dream,” he mutters, “that San-Er flooded with the sea.”

When his eyes flutter open, the light in the room changes. Calla thought she was hallucinating when it first appeared. An hour after the coup, down came the rain and out poured a hazy yellow light from behind Anton’s black eyes. She turned him this way and that, trying to discern if it was a faulty bulb overhead or some trick of reflection. No one else could see it. Anton asked what was wrong, but Calla didn’t know how to answer. Tuoleimi yellow was her first thought. Why are you glowing Tuoleimi yellow?

“A worrying dream,” she says. “Though unrealistic. San-Er is too high above sea level.”

Calla’s hand floats up in the dark, brushing against Anton’s jaw. It’s scratchy, unshaven in the havoc of these last few days. When he smiles, his eyes crinkle, dimming the yellow. Since its appearance, she’s discovered something even stranger. Without really trying, she can pull from it. She focuses—a small, restrained breath to fill her lungs—and Anton leans toward her. He reacts the same way each time, as though by compulsion, and he’s yet to notice that Calla is responsible. The light dulls, sapped from its post behind his eyes. A pleasant tickle starts in Calla’s throat.

“Not the rest of Talin, though,” Anton says. His head droops into the dome of her palm. “Not Kelitu.”

Calla doesn’t pull for long. She breathes out, releasing her hold, and Anton responds by rolling away indolently. The light always comes back, in any case. It depends on how much she takes. The first time was an accident. She had breathed him in, and the crown on her head started to throb. His glow dimmed. Calla stopped, alarmed. After a few minutes, with Anton none the wiser, the yellow light was churning at full radiance again.

The next time, it was several hours. Calla had wanted to settle a hypothesis. She tucked her head into Anton’s shoulder while he stood surveying palace cleanup. A natural embrace; a gesture of comfort. Anton did not draw away, so Calla pulled, then pulled some more. Qi rushed into her body. So much qi. When she lifted her sleeves later, the scratches and bruises she had amassed during the coup were all healed.

“I don’t think Kelitu is flooding either,” Calla assures him.

Anton sits up. He doesn’t sense what she’s been doing to him, not then and not here. There has been no change in his manner anyway, no pallid appearance to suggest that she is taking away from his life force.

All the same, she should stop. He wouldn’t like it if he found out.

The Crescents at the door are still murmuring in conversation. For a moment, the both of them fall silent to listen, catching snippets about a patrol and the wall. Calla hasn’t been able to shake the Crescent Societies from watching her every move, monitoring what she does and who she talks to. San-Er has experienced violent upheaval. Calla Tuoleimi didn’t win the twin cities herself: she marched in after the Crescents already succeeded with their takeover. They want her to remember that.

But before the Crescent Societies can prove themselves lawmakers and leaders, they are criminals and cultists. Too much change is anathema… There will be wide revolt without Calla at the helm, without a visual and symbolic promise that San-Er’s factories shall continue to run, that coin continue to flow, that the millions living in this swell-tide of a capital continue to receive what they were promised as city dwellers. The Crescent Societies are unable to forget that.

“Today,” she decides, “we need to get rid of August.”

Anton is silent. He has his back to her now, so Calla cannot read his expression. Erratic rain strikes the window. She skates her hand along his bare spine—a soft touch, a reminder. He is warm.

“Is that wise?” he finally asks.

“You tell me,” Calla replies. “You’re my only general.”

“We have had very little time to plan. We would be going out with nothing but brute force.”

They have already waited longer than Calla wanted. It was a necessary interim to restore order to the capital, yes. The vaults were pried wide open. Employees who formerly worked under the Weisannas were paid a lump sum to stay put. Hands in the kitchen, eyes in the surveillance room. It was at Anton’s insistence—they needed a regiment keeping house, lest they returned after war was won and realized the capital had crumbled not from invasion but from sheer ineptitude. Water in the walls, water in the carpets.

The palace resumes operation and the shops open. The Crescent Societies have installed their people everywhere there used to be palace guards. Finally, at this point in time, a triage of the kingdom would focus not on the capital but on the tumor looming outside it, in the shape of August Shenzhi.

“We need nothing more than brute force,” Calla says. Her power thrums from the assertion. Starting from her crown, surging through her bones, spreading in her limbs. Anton turns around, his eyes still aglow, and she laces her hands together to prevent taking more.

“Eigi Province is too open,” Anton warns. “August’s camp could hear us coming and initiate evacuation. They have multiple routes out.”

“He won’t flee. If he has not yet moved from Eigi, he wants a confrontation.”

“Yes,” Anton says. “And isn’t that strange? He must know that he has no defense against the crown. Why stay put?”

Calla has mulled over the same question. In these few days, she expected to hear news of him fleeing north. If she were in August’s shoes, she would get away from the capital. He lost San-Er: that much is undeniable. But the provinces are open for the taking. Most councilmembers are dead. The generals will serve whoever can pay, and August is heir to King Kasa’s legacy. He ought to move fast and secure a fringe province before Calla has time to convince its yamen otherwise. Settle for the demotion and rule in Gaiyu Province or someplace alike. Calla spared him his life when he surrendered. He should be so grateful.

So why is he still there?

A low creak, by the door. The Crescents are leaning against it attempting to eavesdrop, and Calla’s hackles rise in retaliation.

“I want at least a hundred of them,” she whispers, her volume dropping lower. “And weapons. They’re already distributing weapons across the twin cities, so I know they have them.”

The crown is powerful. But she still needs the shape of an army. She needs soldiers who can clear the path, or else Calla will tire herself out on the collateral that August inevitably positions in front of her. Every Weisanna in San-Er has fled to join August’s camp. He will have hundreds of soldiers. The Crescent Societies are not trained to fight against them, yet they are her only option. Calla has no time to run recruitment.

“Bibi can make the request,” Anton whispers in return. “But this early—”

“Anton,” she interrupts. “We can’t wait. You wanted this. You asked for this.”

Calla only took up this mantle to get rid of August. What else could she have done? Eigi had been the end of the line. Despite every move Calla and Anton had played in the palace, the die was cast and August won. He’d had them hostage—at best, they would have been killed, and at worst, they would have been exiled into a miserable life with no legacy, no possessions. It was accepting that fate or it was waging war with everything Calla had.

A knock on the door.

“Your Highness,” one of the Crescents calls. “Are you awake? Can we be of any help?”

“I’m trying to say,” Anton whispers, “let me think on it. I can figure out a way to position it so that they’re not bristling to get rid of you.”

“It doesn’t matter how much they’re bristling to get rid of me,” Calla counters. Back and forth they take the cadence of lovers, disguising this talk of war as sweet nothings. “They couldn’t have taken San-Er if I hadn’t challenged August in tandem. They can’t turn against me until he’s gone.”

“So why are you trying to speed it along? August’s influence stretches far. You’ll need allies to get rid of the Weisannas and every palace-led chain of command across Talin too. There is an endless amount of work beyond capturing August.”

“Highness?” The next knock is louder, because the Crescents have heard Calla and Anton murmuring. The Crescents are worried that Calla will turn on them before they’re ready. If the clerics didn’t need to maintain some semblance of respect, they might have tried stationing their people inside the room when Calla and Anton disappeared for rest.

“The Crescent Societies are only good for combating August. They will be too difficult afterward,” she says. “I have the crown, Anton. Once August is out of our way, we’ll focus on the kingdom without Crescent Society nonsense.”

Anton shakes his head. “You promised to free the provinces from the throne,” he reminds her. As though there is any chance she has forgotten. As though she might want to break her oath. “You’ll need to raise your flags beyond San-Er’s wall, across the Jinzi River, then into the north. You’ll have to come to an agreement with every province yamen and secure the flow of their resources into San-Er. That’s when this coup ends, and not a moment sooner.”

“Yes.”

“Calla,” Anton says, “you are not taking this seriously.”

Calla kicks the sheets off herself. If she can help it, she tries not to replay the events of the coup. She’s been kept busy enough. But there will be a lull during their cleanup, during their scramble to restore the capital, and Calla remembers the spectators screaming when she slit the Weisannas’ throats. How close she had been to killing August then and there, but it had felt cheap, it had felt unnecessary. She does not want to regret that decision.

The longer that August hovers outside the capital, the more she does.

“How am I not taking this seriously?” she asks.

“The Crescents are all we have. You have to play their game.”

“I’m getting up.”

Calla throws one leg off the side of the bed, meaning to stand, but Anton grabs her other knee. His palm sears into her skin, each crease and divot palpable, each pinprick of contact a new channel of qi that Calla could pull from him.

“For instance, while they’re knocking on the door,” he whispers, “you should not be getting up.”

New voices have joined the conversation outside. More guards, all to report to their different clerics every maneuver that Calla Tuoleimi and Anton Makusa are planning.

“We’re not going to get away with pretending we weren’t muttering and plotting in here,” Calla returns. “It’s fine.”

Anton, in response, slides his hand up to her thigh and tugs her toward him. It is such a sudden, startling act that Calla doesn’t resist, her head hitting the pillow again. She raises her brow.

“Despite all that you’ve achieved”—his fingers tighten, slowly moving her leg, pushing one apart from the other—“you are actually a very poor performer.”

Calla can’t help her laugh. One sharp sound. “Really?”

“You are too used to being better than everyone else. Wanting more than everyone else and surpassing them that way. You don’t know how to deflect instead.”

Anton doesn’t give her a chance to protest. He pushes up the silk of her nightshirt. His mouth lands between her legs. The pressure is immediate—deep, volatile. Calla’s head tips back into the pillow, and entirely as he intended, she doesn’t hold in her profane moan. His fingers dig into either side of her legs held astride, and her hand comes up too, sinking into his hair for some attempt at managing his hunger.

The hallway has turned dead silent. A golden mist dances into the room. Its sheen casts the ridges of her knuckles into definition, serrated and bright while her fingers are spread wide, clawing for control.

It looks, almost, like its own sort of crown, set upon Anton’s head.

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