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For an ambivalent few seconds, Gwen entertained the possibility of scuttling the ship with Void Sphere. After looking around the interior of the factory floor, she deemed the unethical impulse impractical, first because the factory-carrier was a modern Titanic with a segmented double-hull and secondly because she wasn't about making fish-food out of NoMs. "Let us return," she commanded the two men. "I've seen enough." Disbelieving Gwen would spare their wretched existence, the tottering Mages lead her back up the intestinal-tract passageways, plodding from the tomb-like interior back into the light. Once out in the open, Caliban huffed, displeased to be away from the reek of death and decay. "What did you find?" Alesia brimmed with curiosity. When she came close, however, her nose wrinkled. "Fuck'n oath, what was down there? You smell like Kraken guts." Despite the anxiety burning a hole in her belly, Gwen spared the patience to effect a cleansing Prestidigitation. "I found some shit alright. Gunther, I need your advice on this." "I figured as much." Her Tower Master appeared happy to help. "Was the hull too thick for our little sister?" "... Not that kind of help, though I certainly am considering it. So er— I found something downstairs..." Via Silent Messages, Gwen then communicated her discovery. "I'll take a gander." Gunther left her standing with Alesia while he took the two crew members below. The crew followed with complete obedience, instantly falling into place as her brother-in-craft's most ardent sycophants. "They tend to do that." Alesia brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. Her sister-in-craft appeared nonplussed by Gwen's horror. "Do what?" "Elevate powerful beings into mythoi then worship them," Alesia clarified. "Life in the sea is unpredictable. Brutality and power are privileged above all else. Gunther has got worshippers too, after a dozen campaigns in the Coral Sea. The island Mermen living on Moreton and Stradbroke think he's some sort of Sun Spirit. Despite diplomacy missions dissuading them, he remains the head of their pantheon." "So he's like Inti, but for Mermen?" Gwen recalled the grinning face of the amicable Prince of Peru. "Not in the sense of organised religion or Faith Magic." Alesia shook her head. "We're talking run-of-the-mill idolatry, spawns named after him, that sort of thing." "Hahaha, so there are Mermen named Gunther?" "And a Clan of Soldier Crabs on Christmas Island called Shultz." Alesia laughed in turn. "Don't make that face— I am completely serious. That's what happens when you leave survivors." "Surely the Scarlet Sorceress has a band of fishy worshippers?" "I am far too professional to leave enough witnesses to start a cult." Alesia glanced at the damp entryway Gunther had descended. "That and you need insurmountable power, something that will displace the Mermen's fear of the Deep Creatures that control them." "Like Krakens?" "Sure. And any number of similar beings. Oceanic Dragon-things, Deep Flayers, Whales, Leviathans, past the light zone, the deep sea may as well be the Elemental Plane of Water." "We're not at war with them, I hope? Cambridge says our beef is with the Mermen Dominions." "For now, though Gunther did mention there are enormous reservoirs of liquid mana under the crust of the continental shelf," Alesia said conspiratorially. "Enough to keep our manufactoriums fed for centuries." "But tapping those sources would lead to war?" "Who knows?" Alesia shrugged. "It would be a strange war if anything. We don't want their land, only the liquid mana— and they desire neither our land nor our resource, only our annihilation. Do recall that the Mermen think our Earth is theirs as it possesses far more aquascape than landscape. The Kingdoms believe we are no better than predatory beasts; amphibian aliens evolved to hunt them. It's just as well that we've got plenty of other resource nodes right now. Black Zones like the Elemental Sea and the Amazon have plenty of untapped crystals, Cores, and materials." While Gwen pondered the possibility of drilling platforms pounded into the crust to slurp up liquidised HDMs like soup from a straw, Gunther returned. "Interesting find." Her brother-in-craft cleaned himself with a cantrip. "That said, I don't think having your face imprinted on Mermaids is as madcap as you believe." "Are you saying the Mageocracy should be cool with it?" "It happens," Gunther said. "I wouldn't be surprised if NoMs somewhere have a shrine to you or Sobel either. Besides, what's happened has happened, so it isn't as though you can enact preventative measures now. Do you even have the time and means to delve for the truth in the dark?" "No." "Do you readily know why fishes are worshipping your SPAM face?" "Not really." "Do you command anyone with the expertise to carry out an investigation?" "Nope. Walken's busy, and Richard's still studying. Maybe Ollie?" "Then, don't worry about it." Gunther shrugged. "Whatever this is, it can't be worse than being the world-famous Summoner of the Shoggoth. I am not saying you should strike this incident from your mind, but that you shouldn't dwell out of fear. Leave the investigation to the professionals, report this to your superiors." "That's good advice," Alesia gave her two cents. "After your display on Anglesey, there was talk of what to do with you. You should thank your sponsors for keeping your detractors silent. The tattoo thing is going to turn some heads, but that's nothing compared to the clout needed for letting the Devourer of Shenyang fly around the world at her leisure." "I feel…" Gwen tried to grasp the disappointment in her heart. "Relieved, but not really?" "Well, are you cultivating a cult?" Gunther grinned at her. "If so, let me know. Else, let the Mermen be. What are you going to do if they start hollering your name? Spare the fish that bear your likeness from the tinning machines? Start an Undersea Union like that Void thing you're pushing?" Alesia burst into laughter. Gwen did not appreciate the humour taken at her expense. "Okay, so what do we do about these guys?" She pointed to the still prostrating sailors. "Nanang," Gunther addressed the bowed Third Mate. "Can the ship sail?" "With repairs, O lordship, we can manage coastal travel," Nanang answered. "The bridge is shattered, but we can operate the Engine Room by hand as Magus Song has spared the Enchanters." "Good, then repair the ship and prepare to sail for Singapore. Keep the fish below on ice. Once we're in port, I'll have someone collect them, and your crew." "We're not destroying the evidence?" Gwen raised both brows. "Of course not," Gunther said. "Why, do you have something to hide?" "No." "Then tell the world you are bemused by the discovery," Gunther said. "Put it in the tabloids. The more people know, the more diminished its significance." Gwen pondered her Brother-in-craft's advice, realised his wisdom, then nodded. "I'll put it in my paper, with pictures. And I'll CC up a quest for more information from the Shard." "Good girl." Gunther patted her head. "You learn quick." "And the crew?" "Their punishment cannot be disregarded, though a compromise isn't impossible. I can put you within ear-shot of Chief Arbitrator Kwok, but you must accept his judgement, whatever the outcome. Is that clear?" "Crystal." Seeing that Gwen was satisfied, the Tower Master turned from his siblings-in-craft, growing radiant as he rose into the air. A second later, an inspiriting wave of compelled worship bathed the trembling sailors. "Nanang, you're acting Captain until we return. If anyone asks, this ship, its crew and its contents are now under the jurisdiction of Magus Song of Cambridge, Class VI War Mage. Until we return, repair the engine and keep the Shielding Crystal stoked." "AT YOUR COMMAND." Nanang and his ilk wept with spontaneous affection, exhibiting so much passion that Gwen felt sorry for the mind-washed sods. "We live to serve, O Deva of Batari Sunan. "See how easy it is to be worshipped, intentionally or otherwise?" Alesia whispered beside Gwen's ear. "Say, do you think Gunther would look dashing in a priest's coat and collar?" "Dashing and celibate." "All the more fun to sin with…" "Strewth, you two." Gunther furrowed his brows at the grinning women. "Get changed!" Alesia squeezed Gwen's arm when Gunther stepped from the lower deck, strapped from chin to heel in a suit of Aries MK IV Dragon Skin. "So dashing..." "Dashingly excessive, don't you think?" Gwen fought down an impulse to laugh. Standing in his form-fitting golden armour, all Gunther needed were a pair of green pantaloons and DC would be sending Sydney Tower a DMCA notice. "Who are you supposed to be, the King of Atlantis?" "It's a bit much, eh?" Gunther flexed his Leviathan-scale gauntlets. "This is only the second time I've worn it. Would you believe me if I told you the design favours function over form?" "You're going to draw every Dryad on the island." Gwen shielded her eyes against the Dragon scales, each polished with a Mithril solution then Rune-carved to enhance Gunther's Radiant Aura. "You know how they like men and Radiance." "All the easier to lead us to Sufina," Gunther said, toning down his passive aura. "If you're that uncomfortable, I've got a normal suit of armour as well, standard military issue." "No, no." Gwen shook her head. "Think of it like this. We'll see you coming even in a dense jungle." Standing beside the Tower Master, Gwen felt her stylised Shen-teī cloth-plate had lost its lustre. Alesia as well appeared meek in her combat suit, despite it being visually titillating and dyed in her favourite colour. "Then let's not dawdle." Gunther's scales bathed the deck in light. "Gwen, do you remember where the Grot was?" "Sure." She produced her Omni-Orb. "I think." The trio had three routes to reach Sufina. One was to enter from the edge of the forest and trek their way toward the Dryad's Grot; the safest but the most time-consuming path. Another involved flying overhead until the Orb ceased movement, then dropping down spells-blazing to clear whatever critter or monster lurked below; the fastest route. The final method, curtesy of Gwen thinking of alter-world GPS, was to triangulate the whereabouts of Sufina's Grot by flying circles around the island and taking note of the Orb's directional changes. After that, the party could penetrate the tropical jungle by clearing an inconspicuous patch of forest a convenient distance away. After careful deliberation, the Apprentices chose the third route to avoid becoming bogged down by monsters hiding in the tall grass, furthermore repelled by running Desolation Aura on full-blast. Small, poisonous critters attracted to the warm flesh and blood of the casters would be naturally wary against an aura of all-consuming hunger. At the same time, monsters and Demi-humans strong enough to resist would know to avoid the trio. Ten minutes in, they found their first Dryad half-draped across a Banyan's fanned bowers. Upon sighting the invaders, the island nymph swung down on the tree's tendrils, her willowy hair a waterfall of flowers, her long limbs tanned Fragipanni stems bespotted with pale blossoms. In the Dryad's hair was a matching host of pink blooms, adding a dash of colour to the hard-bodied native. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. "You?" The Dryad's eyes alighted on Gwen. When the woman tip-toed forward, Gwen once more questioned the intelligent design behind gifting Dryads ginormous bolt-ons. "I know you." "We're here to see Sufina." Gwen raised both hands to communicate her peaceful intentions. "The Lady knows of your arrival, although..." The Dryad licked her lips. "Perhaps my sisters and I can entertain your companions on her behalf? Your last visit thoroughly seeded the grove." "Not this time. Our business is urgent and private." Gwen fought down a throatful of bile as she imagined a host of Hai-wrought seedlings skipping about the place. "If you could take us to Sufi forthwith, your kindness will be much appreciated. "How appreciated?" the Dryad made eyes at Gunther. Gwen had planned and rehearsed her next response, and so quickly produced a mote of Almudj's Essence. "How about a taste of paradise?" The Dryad's eyes widened, revealing the hard yellow orbs beneath the mossy lashes, both burning with desire. "Oh, you sweet thing, I could just eat you up." "The feeling is mutual." A jolt of Void Mana circulated through her Desolation Aura. Visibly, the moss and grass around her feet wilted. "Come." Gwen watched as the woodworker's wife stiffly obliged, evidently changing her mind. "Lady Sufina awaits. And I trust you not to renege on the reward." As before, the woods seemed to part, cleaving a path from the wilderness. Lead by their guide, the trio met no resistance, feeling both silly and overdressed. Some thirty minutes later, the woods attained a density akin to Amazonia. The number of Dryads coming out to watch them had also increased to about a dozen, each more nymph-like than the last, all making moon-eyes at the stone-faced Tower Master. The atmosphere grew incrementally more fragrant as well, becoming so thick with pollen and perfume that Gwen wondered if they had stumbled into a supernatural bordello. "We're in an arboreal sub-space," Gunther informed the two of them, his nose wrinkling. "Did you sense the change, Gwen?" "Yes. It feels like when I quested in Peru." Gwen felt thankful they came prepared after all. In a sub-space like this where distance grew arbitrary, anything could happen. "Keep your eyes peeled, and don't touch anything." "Right. Should I bring out Cali?" "No, let's just keep going. Allie?" "Gunther," Alesia whispered conspiratorially. "Check out the tits on that one." "I shan't." The wisest man Gwen knew walked on like a monk. Much to the trio's relief, their anticipation for a perfumed ambush proved unfounded, for the forest path grew gradually familiar, becoming akin to the sheave-strewn passage in their collective memories. "We have arrived." The Dryad withdrew beside her, drawing to Gwen's height. Gwen dispensed a tiny mote of her blessed Essence, then watched the wood-woman susurrate with joy as she retreated. "Oh my…" Alesia grew misty-eyed as she walked the landscape of their yesteryears. "This is Master's…" "I know." Gunther touched her arm. While her siblings indulged in the past, Gwen felt overwhelmed by an inscrutable feeling of familiarity, one that blended with recollections of her Master's Grot, obfuscating her attempts at elucidation. Her time to think was short, for after another stretch of dubious distance, the Apprentices of Kilroy promptly arrived at their desired destination. In front of a vined gateway, the unmistakable profile of Sufina stood beside the atrium of Henry's Grot. Spontaneously, the girls' eyes misted over, for though Sufina was a changeless being, the Familiar had nonetheless changed. During their halcyon Sydney days, Henry had suffered Sufina to assume whatever guise she coveted. Sometimes, when the mood was right, Sufina toyed with wearing Gwen's likeness, while other times, she wore Alesia's. Now, Sufina was herself— a flawless, peerless beauty, but one deeply entrenched in the uncanny valley of human-mimicry. Now, from her fiery tresses of mossy hair to her pale blonde skin to the dagger-feet stalks that made up her disproportionate lower limbs, their former "Mother" appeared the perfect creation of an otherworldly doll-maker. "Lady Sufina." "SUFI!" "Sufina…" Three separate namesakes emerged from their lips, each indicating the place the Dryad held within their hearts. To their eldest, Sufina was a feared matron, a mentor and a tangible manifestation of their Master's valour. Alesia, alternatively, saw Sufina as a mother of sorts, filling the void of womanly-affection in her formative years. As for Gwen, Sufina was a companion of her Master and her teacher, as well as a friend. "Children grow up so fast." Sufina's lukewarm response dimmed the fire in their hearts. "And what is this? Combat suits? Are we foes and not friends?" "Master taught us too well." Gwen bowed in an immediate attempt to thaw the icy atmosphere. "You're to blame, Sufi. The Familiar we know is, after all, a force of nature and a peerless princess of thorns. I wouldn't dare intrude on your domain without a certain conviction." "Do you fancy yourselves a match for me?" Sufina's hair lengthened, adding to her menacing air. "A Dryad Hierophant, now untethered from Henry, with the might of my Grot at my beck and call?" "Sufi…" Alesia stepped in front of her husband and Sister-in-craft. "Sufi, we would never hurt you. Ever." "Allie." Sufina outstretched a hand. "You always were the sweetest one. Come to Sufi, dearest." Their Sister-in-craft went to the Dryad despite Gunther tugging on her suit. "My child." The Demi-goddess of Abang cradled the murky-eyed Alesia close to her bosom with the infinite patience of a Saintess. When she gazed up at Gwen and Gunther once more, they could see the mocking defiance in the Dryad's eyes, as if to deride them for their faithlessness. "Sufina." Gwen felt her heart soften at once. Though she hated the uncertainly, she chose to err on the belief Sufina yet recalled their time together. "It's good to see you again. May we see Master?" "You may." When their mother-figure stroked Alesia's hair as one might soothe a kitten, their adult sister began to sob like a lost child, making Gwen's heart sore. "This way." The tunnel of roots the trio passed through wasn't a tunnel at all, but something of a pocket-space, the kind materialised by willing the Astral Plane into substance. When the party re-emerged, the scene that accosted Gwen was nothing short of dreadful. There in front of the trio lay Henry's garden. And there, under the leafy pavilion of a great Banyan with impossible autumn colours, sat a lone figure beside a vine-wrought table, occupying one of four chairs. There was a basket of manna bread on the table as well, sitting beside a trio of cups and a jug of what could only be Golden Mead. At the sight of Henry's propped-up body, Gwen felt every follicle raise in alarm. "Master!" Alesia pulled from Sufina and ran for the life-size diorama. Gwen attempted to retrieve their sister, only to be intercepted by her brother. "Let her be," Gunther said, shaking his head. "Allie needs this." "But—" "There's no Necromancy here," Gunther assured her. "This is Alesia's way of keeping a part of herself... alive, I guess. As for Sufi..." Gunther sighed. Gwen's chest rose and fell, ambivalent that her Master's body was being used as a prop. Meanwhile, Alesia reached Henry Kilroy's reposed remains in a matter of seconds. From afar, it would almost appear as if Henry was alive and receiving his second Apprentice. The implication of Sufina playing dolls with Kilroy's carcass made Gwen question whether Sufina's lingering sentiment should be extinguished after all. The dead must have peace, or so she was taught. Or was that a prejudice she had inherited from her previous incarnation? Logically, shouldn't a lucid Sufi trump all else? "Gunther, do you think…" "I somehow doubt we could." Gunther's eyes scrutinised their sometimes summer home. "There's a tangible difference about the Grot, do you feel it?" "I do!" Gwen nodded vigorously. "Doesn't it feel too... real?" "Aye, the sub-space here is unusually stable, more than even when Master was alive," Gunther agreed. "I don't think I can disrupt it even if I tried. Breaking out of here is going to take a lot more than a Mass Teleportation scroll." "Is Sufi tapped into the ley-line on the island?" "She's entrenched deeper than that," her brother-in-craft replied. "Something's different about Sufina as well. Dare I say she is possessed of a higher bearing than I had anticipated? She says she's a Hierophant-class, but that's a lie." Across the room, Alesia knelt, holding Henry's limp hands. To both Gwen and Gunther's chagrin, she kissed the dead man's palms, then placed the cold flesh against her cheek. "How do you mean?" Gwen shivered. "Like Golos to Ruxin." Gunther met her gaze. "Or… like the Yinglong to Almudj." Gwen's throat bobbed twice in quick succession. "My Essence can elevate Golos' chicks. Sufi has my Scale, maybe. Do you think..." "It's a possibility, but the Scale is yours." "I made Master draw on its Essence to help him recover from Sobel—" Gwen tried to recall a fuzzy past. "By which I mean, I told Sulfina to oblige in Master's stead..." The two peeked at Sufina, who was presently observing the father-daughterly interaction between Alesia and their Master's remains with immeasurable benevolence. It took a whole other minute for Alesia to take her place on the chair Sufina had set up, after which both Dryad and sorceress awaited Gwen and Gunther's arrival. The very idea of Sufina serving tea to three alive Apprentices and a dead man unscrewed her brain from its spinal stem, but what else could she do? Following her laconic brother, she arrived at the table, joining her sister as Alesia mopped up snail-trails left by overwhelmed eyeliners. "I am so glad Sufi preserved Master." Alesia dabbed the corner of her eyes. "To think I never saw Master again after that arch-whore tricked us out of the Grot." The two of them humoured their middle sister while Sufina flittered about the foursome, placing plates and forks, filling their cups with Golden Mead from the jug. "Drink," the Dryad commanded, her amber orbs holding captive Kilroy's wayward children. "Partake." Alesia took a bite of the manna bread, moaned softly with remembrance, then drank the mead. Gunther took a sip to wet his throat, then swallowed the manna slice wholesale by rolling the dough into a ball. As for Gwen, the moment Sufina's Golden Mead graced her lips— she found the source of her earlier befuddlement. ESSENCE! There were motes of Almudj's Essence in the Golden Mead, mixed in with the Dryad's life-force! To the others, the dew might revitalise their mind and body. But to Gwen, she felt akin to a stagnant billabong long cut off from a meandering estuary refilled by a thundering wet season. There was no doubt in her mind now that Sufi had kept Amuldj's keepsake. "You know, I dreamt of this moment." Sufina's voice came to them as though in a hazy daydream, filling the chamber with its echo. "Henry and our Apprentices, sitting under the shelter of my bower, drinking mead and breaking bread, speaking of things tomorrow would bring." "In this, I think you and Master's wills are one," Gunther said. "Our teacher's kindness enfolds us all, even in his passing." "But of course, your Master's gone," Sufina continued to speak. "But this moment doesn't have to be. Wouldn't it be nice if we remained together like this, forever?" The garden grew suddenly silent. Above the trio, the Banyan tree's accomodating canopy turned gothic. Sufina stalked about their Master's body until she cradled Henry's head against her bosoms. "Sufina." Gunther swilled the liquor in the cup. "I sincerely hope that was a passing fancy and nothing more." With her hands placed on Henry's shoulders, the Dryad's exquisite face looked down on Kilroy's most auspicious Apprentice. "Is that how a child should speak to his mother?" "Gunther doesn't mean it as a threat," Gwen intervened, realising she had to diffuse the situation before Alesia could add kerosene to the embers. "Sufi— you love us, I hope, and we all love you. We're not going to harm you, and I know you don't want to harm us. If you did, why go to all this trouble? Why put together this scene if you cared to hurt us? We can't humour your wishes, not exactly, but we can compromise." Sufina's expression grew pained. "Master's gone." The Tower Master's tone softened as well. "That thing in your arms is a cicada husk. Were it not out of consideration for you, Sufi, I would have cremated Master to protect his remains against Sobel and her allies." "Why are you here if not for Henry?" Sufina asked. "Respect, assurance and closure," Gunther explained. "That and we would like to enquire about Master's surviving Grimoires for Gwen's sake. We're also here for Almudj's Scale— if you have it." "The Scale…" "Yes." Gwen gulped, realising the moment was upon them. "Sufi, I understand what happened to me now, both during the Field Trip and while repelling Sobel. Almudj had made me his Vessel, and the Scale was my Conduit to my Patron. I need it back." The Dryad studied their youngest, her gaze landing on Gwen as though for the first time. "Henry had an inkling… but you were so weak back then, so insignificant and mewling. How could someone so meek be a Vessel to a Mythic? Your body would explode like an overripe melon." "I wouldn't say I am meek anymore." To illustrate her point, Gwen circulated Essence until her presence appeared magnified. Then, the formerly 'meek' Vessel cupped her hands as if in prayer, filling the void in-between with simmering, rainbow-hued Essence. "You see, I've hit a growth spurt of late. Care to check for yourself?" To the trio's relief, the Dryad nonchalantly sauntered from Henry's seated corpse to stand beside their youngest, conceding her earlier threat to the realm of impulse. With the bare bark of the Dryad's belly an inch from her face, Sufina cupped Gwen's hands with her long digits, then dipped a finger into the Essence puddle. The flesh of Gwen's palm tickled as a mossy mass of micro-roots kissed her skin like a host of dancing spiders. "Oh…" The Dryad's face grew flushed, causing the woodgrain beneath her complexion to darken. "This… the Elder One, and yet it isn't…" "What you're tasting is 'me'." Gwen grinned. "I've been cultivating Essence on my own. Do you like it?" Sufina placed a hand against Gwen's cheek. "What have you become, Gwennie? What would your Master say?" "I am a Void Mage, a self-sustained variant." Gwen affectionately wrapped her arm around the giantess' waspish waist. Unexpectedly, the Dryad's torso was warm and supple. "Master succeeded in me, Sufi. He has found his Omni-Mage, and I'm not even half as crazy as Sobel. My sanity is certified if you must know— I passed all my Mind Mage evaluations with flying colours. If Master were alive now, he would have no more regrets— Sobel aside, of course." "Sobel…" Sufina's lips curled into a snarl. "She's still alive?" "She is." Alesia hung her head in shame. "It took us some time to recover after Sydney." "When will I see the harlot's head?" "After Gwen's graduation," Gunther said. "We who are Henry's hounds will purify Master's legacy. Would you like to join us, Sufi? If you aid us with Tree Stride and Terraform, we'll make far better progress cornering Sobel." Sufina wasn't the sort of Demi-human who needed to breathe, but she sighed nonetheless in a humanistic manner. "I fear not." Both Gunther and Alesia appeared puzzled by her refusal. "I would have imagined you to possess more zealousness," Gunther commented. "But of course, if your feelings have dimmed…" "They have not." Sufina played with Gwen's hair, then left their youngest Apprentice to walk toward the Banyan at the centre of the grove where her Heart Tree rose up and above them. "And they will never diminish. Because of this…" At the Dryad's touch, the tree's bark parted, revealing a network of fibrous sinews tethered around what looked like a root-knot. When the Apprentices channelled mana into their eyes, they saw that the knot was roughly spherical and semi-transparent, with what looked like a pulsing bean of intense vitality inside an eggshell of tender green fibres. "The Scale!" Alesia yelped. "Eureka, Gwennie! That's your Scale!" Gunther's eyes glowed with diagnostic magic. "I don't think that's her Scale anymore." "I know." Gwen herself inherently understood the "Conduit" they now observed was no longer her keepsake, else the resonance she should be feeling would have filled her with unbidden euphoria. "I don't feel anything from it." "That's because it's waiting." Sufina steered Gwen toward the heart-tree of the Grot with a hand. "It awaits your awakening touch." "It is?" Gwen looked to Gunther for instruction. Finding none, she looked toward Sufina for elucidation. Sufina extended a lithe limb over the Heart-Scale, then let drip a drop of Gwen's Essence. The Scale pulsed. The Apprentices suddenly heard the roar of rough surfs eroding golden shores, soothed only by the bubbling silt caught between the peeping roots of mangroves. They smelled in their nostrils the hard clay and felt the fine sediment of the red soil baked until cracking by a harsh, cloudless sky. They tasted the brilliant fragrance of eucalyptus on their tongues, spicy, aromatic and enveloping. Then in their eyes, they briefly saw a pink lake of such largess that their feeble human minds struggled to encompass its full expanse. "There is always a Tree," the Dryad said, finding no unusualness in her aphorism, using no enjambments or emphasis, not even a lilting syllable to punctuate her point. "And there is always a Serpent." Alesia nodded, as did Gunther. Comparatively, Gwen's cognisance thundered with the force of an August storm whipping fields of cane into mass hysteria. "There is always a Tree." "And there is always a Serpent." In between her well-rounded ears, the Elf Queen's truth at the Tree of Tryfan trumpeted in her brain with the force of a Barbanginy. _Tree_. Serpent. _Sufina_. Almudj. _Holy fucking shit!_ Her mind grew riotous as her eye once more rested on the eggshell enveloping her Scale, now nestled in the womb of Sufina's Heart Tree. Did... did her patron Serpent just _knock up_ her patron Dryad?

Watching Sufina's waspish waist sway this way and that, Gwen wondered if she should have chomped down hard on that wiggling worm that was "The Accord". Perhaps then, she would be better equipped to comprehend this outbreak of Vessels, World Trees, and cheeky Serpents. Unfortunately, her present circumstance left only herself and her siblings to tackle Sufina's mythic-tier cuckoldry. Luckily, her nine months of accelerated tutelage had plenty to say about Dryadic reproduction, a topic she had reluctantly researched thanks to Hai sowing his wild oats. Through her self-study, Gwen had learned that from a "Human" perspective, Dryads and Nymphs made ambivalent foes. Some Groves savoured their men, releasing bow-legged survivors to spread the love by word-of-mouth. Others remained voracious for food and seed until inevitably attaining heat-death by Spellfire. Equally disturbing was Attenborough's New England Bestiary remarking that Nymph Groves remained popular destinations despite capricious chance-encounters. This was because Dryads that predated on mammalian males possessed morphic means to hyper-stimulate reproductive behaviour. In the aftermath, successful fertilisation of the pseudo-womb produced seedings for the communal Grove, whose future Dryads, when matured, would then retain their father's morphic specialities. Specimens mated with Wood Elves, for instance, had longer life spans and higher affinity for Druidic sorcery. Likewise, those coupled with Mages developed particular affinities or resistances, becoming capable of thriving even in hostile landscapes. On the Eurasian Steppes, especially-bred "Tree-Kin" of Green-skin war hosts became living battering rams thanks to Ogrish seed-fathers. As for Sufina and Almudj, Gwen could only guess at the strange fruit that may yet germinate. When the Bloom in White had informed Gwen that "There is always a Tree", Gwen had taken the Elf to mean botany. For someone with an informed understanding of ecosystems, it made perfect sense that terrestrial life began within arboreal biomasses, within which naturally-evolving food pyramids engendered civilisations that inevitably inspired the worship of "World Trees". For instance, even a careless browse of Peterhouses' library would reveal volumes wedged between Ice Giants and Frost Wyrms detailing the World Tree Yggdrasil. Two aisles across, leather-bound books told of Tenochtitlanians immolating human hearts to access the Axis Mundi: conduit-portals that linked the Prime, Positive, and the Negative via metaphysical tree trunks. In the reserve section for theology students, she would encounter Trees of Good, Evil, Life and Knowledge, each marking man's earliest genesis. And within those trees, more often than not, she would find dodgy serpents offering seedy figs to bewildered young ladies. Trees, Serpents and Women. Though Gwen herself was not religious, both her lives had instilled a distinct perception that serpents were not nice. Far from being beautiful or wise, they were wicked, vile, insidious things up to no good: always scheming to swallow the world. Comparatively, when Gwen turned to Demi-human charters, the academic purview of serpents grew kinder. In the story of the Nagī's Enlightenment, Mayuree's people told of Mucalinda, the King Snake of the Bodhi Tree who used its flesh and blood to defend Buddha until he attained transcendence. Likewise, in the untamed parts of the East Indies, priestesses burned incense to invoke Serpent-Sprites such as Adishesha the Wish Fulfiller and Kadru, the Mother of Thousands. Further north, the Elemental Sea was said to house a skyward tree harbouring an Elder Salamander whose summoner was an abyssal witch-queen. In codified lore, therefore— trees, serpents and women made a _ménage à trois_ as old as time, one in which Gwen suspected she now had a part. "Sufi, can you clarify?" Gwen indicated to Sufina's parroting of Tryfan's Serpent-Tree-Priestess tripartite. "Why do you need Almudj, exactly?" "I am confused as well." Alesia raised both hands. "Is that not Gwen's Conduit?" "What do you need, exactly?" Gunther swung his laser-like insight pointed toward the jugular of the matter. "Yes, let's start with that." Gwen gestured to the tendril-wrapped serpent Scale. "You are correct that this is indeed a Conduit belonging to the Elder One." Sufina motioned toward the shimmering object held hovering inside its veiny chrysalis. "As for what I am doing with it— the Scale is presently tethered to your Master's body, thereby preventing my animus from reverting to a primal state." Alesia's eyes grew large. When she spoke, her digits trembled. "Our Master's body still lives?" "Don't be absurd!" Gunther refuted Alesia's observation. "Not even Deathless Henry can survive the single most powerful Void Mage on Earth blighting his Astral Soul—" "His heart," Sufina interrupted their eldest. "I have kept Henry's physical remains… preserved through the heart." Gwen abruptly recalled the story their Master had told after Blackheath. "If I remember correctly. Master said his wife voided a whole heap of his organs, didn't she? You had to regrow the missing parts. Is that what you mean, Sufi?" "Correct," Sufina approved of their youngest' sterling memory. "Most of Henry's heart and his left lung, in fact, and the tissues and bones that had been damaged as well. All of it, I had replaced using my sap and sinew. In the three decades since, my roots had enmeshed every organ in Henry's body to prevent his flesh from failing. That was why your Master drank copious volumes of Golden Mead, you see. The mortal portion of his being lacked the means to keep my grafts satiated." "You were keeping our Master alive through flesh-stitching?" Gunther drank in a breath of cold air. "That's borderline Necromancy." "Considering it stopped your Master from dying, shouldn't it be Biomancy?" Sufina's lips curled mockingly. "You have to understand Sobel took those vital organs from his Astral as well as his physical body. There was no way to heal or regenerate what had been consumed. What Henry managed while dying was nothing short of a miracle and a testament to your Master's prowess." "A prowess that we are slowly uncovering, it seems," Gunther replied sardonically. "Still, nursing a soulless body blighted by a Void Mage isn't a feat attainable through brute-force vital injections. Is that why you need Gwen's Serpent?" "Its Essence was essential." Sufina did not deny that she needed Almudj's help, nor did she confess to receiving its aid. "Through the Rainbow Serpent's regenerative prowess, I was able to rejoin the voided Astral conduits Sobel had disrupted to prevent me from reviving Henry. By then, the essential part of your Master was long gone, but the lesser part of his being needn't perish. So long as his corporeal conduits continue to exist, the Familiar that accompanied Magister Kilroy through a century of service would not fade either." Gunther appeared to withhold his opinion. "Alesia? Gwen? What are your feelings on this?" "If you ask me," Alesia confessed. "I am happy to know our Master remains deathless, in a way." "Gwen?" Gunther grew grim. "I would like to know how my 'Scale' factors and continues to factor into this ordeal." Gwen could see that her siblings stood divided on the part of Sufina playing house with a lukewarm cadaver. "As for Master's remains, I want to give Sufi the benefit of the doubt. I mean, we owe Master our love and respect, but Sufi's been with Henry through thick and thin for longer than we have been alive. That and she'll lose the part of herself that we've come to love and admire if we take Master away. Ergo, all things considered, and my Scale notwithstanding, I am willing to bear the anguish of Master's remains... remaining." "Well said." Alesia pumped a fist. Gunther's tautly-clenched jaw muscles took several seconds to relax. "I see. Very well, I'll concede the point." "It's not as though you three could have taken Henry from me." Sufina gave them a disapproving look. "I am beyond the reproach of children." "Right." Gwen made a motion of moving the old matter aside. "Now, about my Conduit. Any chance I could have it back?" "Not without losing Henry." "As I suspected. Alright, I am all ears." "Unfortunately, the Essence I received wasn't enough to sustain Henry indefinitely." Sufina caressed the trunk of her Heart Tree. "I had to improvise by tapping the source directly." Upon hearing the Dryad's confession, Gwen felt another horrifying puzzle piece click into place. "Holy fuck, Sufi, you used Essence Tap on Almudj?" "Henry's variation is called _Spirit Tap_." Sufina appeared stunned by her accusation. "How do you know that spell?" "I played removalist at the holiday home in Tryfan earlier this year. The Elves then voided the lot." "That blooming arch-bitch untethered my home from Tryfan?" Sufina's smouldering amber pupils glowed with a dangerous light. "And Eldrin allowed this?" "I never met Eldrin..." Gwen said. "Do you know Sanari?" "A junior Hierophant of no consequence." Sufina sighed. "Who would have thought that even Elves suffered from a shortage of sentimentality. So much for never forgetting a friendship." "They said something about not wanting to keep the abode of a dead man alive in a living tree." Gwen tried her best to imagine Sufina giving the Bloom in White a tongue-lashing, desiring very much to be a Cali on the wall if that should happen. "Solana was very courteous. She even showed me her Heart Tree. Speaking of which, I must say, Sufi, on the way in, I sensed a significant overlap between that Grot and this one. Is that intentional?" If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. "Compared to Tryfan, Henry's Grot is centuries away from reaching the scale attained by the Elves," Sufina denied the similarities. "Unless your Patron lends us its life-force." "From Almudj?" Gwen's eyes moved from the coiled roots around her Scale to their grinning Mistress of Thorns. "How? Are you not drinking from the fount already?" "If you've learnt Essence Tap, then you should also know that usurping Essence from Mythics amounts to little more than parasitism," Sufina continued to drop bombs without so much a bat of her lush lashes. "Besides, even an Oliphant would grow annoyed at a persistent gnat. The Svartálfar never meant for Soul Tap to be subtle." With some reluctance, Gwen recalled that to utilise Sympathetic Life-Link with Gracie, she had to "Tap" Gracie's Astral Body. During their first attempt, she accidently went beyond 'just a tap', resulting in a soulful cry of existential agony from her partner— after which Gwen had to drip-feed Gracie an Essence-laced bottle of Maotai to bring her back from gibbering incoherency. Now she could see that Gracie's suffering ratified both of Sufina's claims— that of the viability of Essence Tap, and that of the regenerative properties of Al's Essence. "So, you want to create a channel between my 'Conduit' and the Grot?" "That and intercede on my and Almudj's behalf," Sufina stated blankly. "I can't imagine the Serpent is too pleased with me nibbling at its beard." Gwen grew momentarily confused. Wasn't it usually a serpent that nibbled on tree roots and not the other way around? She gestured at the tendrils. "And those roots are what you're using to tap Almudj's sap?" "Yes. All for the sake of your Master." Henry's youngest Apprentice glanced at her "Master", then fell into a contemplative mood, filling the ambiguous space of the Grot with her silence. Sufina and Almudj? _What would emerge from that?_ On the topic of her Patron, Gwen had uncovered only the obscurest volumes. Within these rare notes, researchers spoke of an Elder being that was male, female, hermaphroditic, androgynous and bisexual. Likewise, ambiguous records saw of Almudj as the bringer of life and death, drought and rain, sun and thunderstorms. Without Almudj, no rain would fall anywhere on Earth. Without Almudj, women's bellies would not grow ripe with fruit, and the monthly blood would not come. In a rarer manuscript, she had found a Pintupi folktale that spoke of one incarnation who had grown attracted to the scent of a trio of sisters, each a skilled singer of Dreamtime magic. At night, as a bearded black snake, Almudj then visited each of the sisters in turn, swelling their bellies with seed. When the women awoke to some surprise, they decided to carry the Serpent's children to term. These youth were then born with full mastery over the land's sacred rites and languages, raising a rocky formation in honour of their mothers. Disparate to the picture Sufina painted, however, the lore surrounding Terra Australis did not lack in Serpents, but rarely mentioned Trees. If so, would Almudj be amicable to receiving a Dryad? Though Sufi was flora, she was also fauna and a veritable fount of fertility. The foremost thought on her mind, however, were the possibilities brought to term by the union of snake and tree. In hindsight, what she had seen in Tryfan had hinted at a utopian end-game. To this end, Sufina, in usurping her Scale and illicitly pilfering from Almudj, had opened a window of possibilities previously deemed mythical. "Sufi—" she spoke at last. "IF I beg Almudj to forgive you and even lend you its Essence— what will I get out of it? What's my cut of the action?" "Gwen!" Alesia appeared aghast. "This isn't—" "Allie, Gwen's right." Gunther took his partner by the hand before she could further protest. "We respect Sufi— but not to the point of selflessness. If Gwen has to risk angering her Patron or leave her Conduit with Sufina, she would be giving up enormous potentials— one that will limit her development as a Void Mage and as a Vessel. Such a sacrifice must be balanced with equal gain, for our Master did not raise fools who thought only with their hearts. Besides, we have already compromised in gifting Sufi Master's remains. Her additional requests must be paid in full." "Think of it like this, Allie— We're all living in a practical world, and I am a practical girl," Gwen said musically. "And a Mythic is a girl's best friend. Sufi, May I see _my_ Scale?" The Dryad ran a hand over the coiled roots, causing the fibres to soften, distending the tendrils arresting the Scale until its shimmering self laid between the three Apprentice and their Master's slumped body. Gwen could see that at the very bottom of the palm-sized Conduit, a pulsing umbilical vine held the sacred thing aloft. "Good, I can still feel Almudj." Gwen hovered a hand over her Conduit, caressing the thing with her will. In response, the vivid Scale shimmered and flared, refracting the light like the petrol-sheen on a pigeon's neck. "Right, let's hear your offer." "Gwennie!" Gunther silenced his wife by arresting her fingers and gently kissing them. Sufina studied their youngest until Gwen grew uncomfortable, then began to speak. "I'll give you a safe zone." "A safe zone?" "Yes. Over the last century, Henry and I had uncovered much of the Hvítálfar's secrets— replicating, for instance— self-sustained pocket-Planes such as this Grot. Earlier, you said you met the Bloom in White, meaning you should know that Solana, Tryfan and Tyfanevius together maintain Snowdonia's sovereignty. Within this tripartite, Tryfan exists as the Core of Snowdonia, a great spiral of roots where all the ley-lines accumulate. By soaking up all ambient mana, it tethers the tumultuous Elemental forces around it in place— acting as a dimensional anchor." Gwen internalised the new diction, soaking in the Dryad's knowledge. "Equal to Solana, Tyfanevius is the Guardian, not quite as old as Tryfan, but older than Human civilisation. For aeons, the Green Wyrm has watered the tree with its Essence, while protecting its home from the aberrant things that crawl in the fissures where the spheres conjoin, hungry for entry into the Prime Material." "And then there are the Elves, sycophants of the World Trees before your kind had learned tools, much less Spellcraft. According to their elders, their ancestors were indigenous to another Plane but were lured by the fruits of the World Tree into becoming the Hvítálfar and Svartálfar. Solana, the one they call the Eternal Bloom in White, is one of the few surviving Hvítálfar carrying the blood of their Planar ancestors, whose bonds to Tryfan and Tyfanevius are bound by Accords older than any other living being on Earth." Gwen's eyes grew gradually glazed as the implication of Sufina's tale dawned. "So you're saying..." Her mind felt afflicted by a strange fever as the nibbles of knowledge she had gathered on the Elves, the Accord, the World Trees and the Serpents fell into their rightful places. To her present understanding, what their other-mother inferred was that the Prime Material possessed inherent fissures where bisecting Planes of existence bled over— hence the Gobs and Hobs and whatnot that kept popping up— and that here and there in their world were giant trees evolved to feed on energy leaks, thereby nixing planar instabilities by sucking up mana that, if left unchecked, would tear the fabric of space and invite non-terrestrial invaders. "Holy shit." Gwen grew dizzy with the euphoria of understanding. "I think I get what you're offering." "You do?" Sufina cocked her head. "Then what knowledge have you gleaned, little one?" "You're offering me an opportunity to downgrade a Zone's danger rating! Right? The area around a World Tree is safe from undesirables because in Tryfan's shadow, even if an Elemental pierces the veil, the World Tree would starve them of mana so that their extinction becomes natural and inevitable. That's why Snowdonia is always peaceful and never sees outbreaks within its borders, correct? That's why they freak when invasive flora like the Triffids pop up." "Yes," Sufina concurred, her yellow orbs growing soft and inviting, forcing Gwen's heart to skip a beat. "If ancient Almudj would be our Tyfanevius— then I invite you, daughter, to be as Solana to my Tryfan." Besides Gwen, Gunther's mouth grew equally wide. "Gwen, this is an incredible opportunity, one for which I can only feel envy." "Don't our Towers already do that?" Alesia demanded. "For what the Tree of Tryfan can maintain, you would need a superstructural Tower," Gunther said. "Whoa!" Gwen fought to keep her excitement in check. "Sufi. Let me confirm again. You're saying that you'll sedate a region for me, ala-Tryfan— in exchange for my guiding Almudj to you? That and make sure it isn't going to eat you?" "Only if the Elder One joins us." Dryad inclined her sculpted chin, her face the perfect creation of a master doll-maker. "I can't do this myself, just as I can't maintain Henry alone." "So many birds with one Fireball!" Alesia clapped. "Gwennie, say yes!" "Indeed, allow me to applaud your new opportunity," Gunther cut in. "BUT as your Guardian and brother-in-craft, I should advise a visit to the Tree of Tryfan to notify Lady Solana before you venture any further with Sufina. The two of you may appear to be in the know, but a little knowledge…" "… can be a dangerous thing," Gwen agreed. "I take it I am missing some key details?" "You are." Gunther nodded. "I am not a member of the Accord, so I can't say how the Hvítálfar would react if you decided to germinate a World Tree between yourself, Sufina and Almudj. As an parallel, I would not allow someone I can't control to erect a Tower in Australia even at no cost to Sydney." "Bah, they can react all they like." Sufina smiled prettily. "What are the knife-eared tree ants going to do? Send Tyfanevius against us? Your Patron will crush that wiggling Wyrm like a pillbug." "You say that." Gunther halted the Dryad from further tempting their red-eared, inexperienced sibling. "But Gwen has both friends and family in the Prime Material. The Hvítálfar of Tryfan may keep to themselves, but their reach through the Accord has permeated the Mageocracy and the Commonwealth for centuries. Unless you wish for Gwen never to leave the Grot or set up her tree somewhere in China, where there are no Elves..." Sufina shrugged. "Is that not agreeable?" Gwen's back grew clammy when she realised that, true to Gunther's words, the Dryad had indeed laid the groundworks to alienate her from her present world. "No, Sufi. I don't think I'll be too thrilled if I had to hang here with only Al, you and Master's corpse for company. But on that note, I will make a decision here and now," she replied to the Dryad. "I'll bequeath you the Scale for the moment, Sufi, so that you may maintain yourself. As for asking Almudj to intercede on your behalf— I am not in a position to make an educated verdict, and so I shall delay that decision until after graduation, or at least until I can draft a comprehensive Five-Year Plan and have it peer-reviewed…" "A sound decision." Her brother-in-craft gave her a curt nod before addressing their Familiar-mother. "With all due respect, Sufi, your gift is too precious to expend carelessly, and there are far too many variables in its expenditure. For all we know, it might open up an inter-species global conflict." "Or maybe the two of you are making a Troll Warren out of a Gob Hill." Alesia bit her lips. "Sufi wants to preserve both our Master and herself. It doesn't need to be complicated if you don't make it more complicated. It seems to me that Tower and power are the only ideas bouncing around in your heads. No wonder you two forgave Walken so easily. You're the same breed of animal." "And our Master was the best among us." Gunther's patience for his wife made Gwen blush for feeling agitated. "You're right— but Gwen's life is at stake, and it's her future that's up in the balance. Will you challenging her choice, Allie?" Despondently, Alesia shook her head. "Sorry, Allie." Gwen then returned to Sufina before Alesia could change her mind. "Sufi, is that agreeable to you? I'll need two more years before I can make an informed decision." Sufina glided across the sheave-strew floor until she stood behind their Master. Gazing at the three Apprentices, the Dryad gingerly dipped her chin. Gwen chose to interpret the ambivalent gesture as an agreement. "Alright, then." She forced herself to smile. "How about Master's Grimoires, Sufi? Any idea where Master hid his stash?" Sufina kissed Henry's head. The trio of Apprentices each delivered their most polite but sceptical expression. "Well…" Sufina leaned in until her bosoms pressed against the back of their dead Master's hair. With an elongated finger, she tapped the space between her globular bosoms, roughly where a woman might have her heart. "In here, I suppose." Gunther's brows furrowed. Gwen hoped Sufina did not infer that Dryads' had breasts for brains. "That's right." Sufina rested a hand on her hip. "Our baby bird better commit to a decision soon. Because when her Essence runs dry, I'll be forgetting far more than just your Master's life. All those spells he wrote for Sobel, all that knowledge he pilfered from Morden's Enclave and the Elven Accord— all that... Necromancy... would disappear from my Astral Soul, like—" Sufina paused in her search for a figurative expression. All Familiars struggled with the abstract— it was a hallmark of Elemental beings whose very existence were metaphors made manifest. "… like tears in the rain?" Gwen put forward a plagarised movie line. "Yes." Sufina placed her cheek beside Henry's, whose restful mien resembled a reposed Hypnos. "Or like the morning dew."

Her companions once called her the "Devourer". At first, the moniker was the product of good-natured humour because she ate enough for two men and yet had the frailest constitution among their party. Later, when they staggered out of the blight that was the Brisbane Zone, reality murdered the mirth. After that, the moniker took on an all-devouring life of its own. In every corner where the burgeoning post-Tide Commonwealth reigned, her husband ensured the nickname was never mentioned, and that she was remembered as the heroine of the hour. Outside of Humanity's cities, the infamy of the Devourer spread like flaming-tempests sowing wildfires, blazing north from the Saurian Reaches of far north Queensland down through the Coral Sea and onto the Shelf Kingdoms of the Mermen. Even when her notoriety reached its peak, the men of the Mageocracy attributed the credits she had accrued to her prospector for uncovering an unpolished gem— one that, once cut and mounted, could rival the Heart of Flames. Little did their "Friends" know that her wizened, deathless hubby had anticipated the outburst at the Brisbane Line since the evening he had found a half-wild child-sorceress hugging a dead dog's shaggy carcass. "Alfie" was the drained mutt's name, the sorceress recalled, and initially, she had loathed the kind, smiling Mage who had refused to raise her pup from the dead. As if mocking her forlorn recollection, the Arctic wind howled, encircling her lone figure like a pack of Frost Wolves. Here at the Earth's end, the Planes of Water, Salt and Ice grew salient as angle and distance muted the presence of Radiance and Fire. The cold did not bother the sorceress as she watched the ice crystals kiss her flawless snow-white skin. Now and then, when she did feel the cold and her body became aware of the absence beside her, she would wonder if her decision in Eger was the beginning of an end or the beginning of something beyond herself. Thankfully, the nostalgia lasted only a second. With a rising sense of self-caution, the sorceress suppressed her sentimentalities. Perhaps, if she still lived in civilised society, someone would accuse her with the worst crime a woman could commit— but what consolation could regret offer when there had been no choice? It was too late anyhow. Presently, in her depthless Soul Well, a million lingering shards from every being on Terra: Men, Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, Saurians, Mermen, Birdmen, Insects and Draconids; the once-living and the undying, the physical and the incorporeal, all churned in the Astral soup that was her Essence Pool, driving her onward. "Your Ladyship…" A lithe contour half-rose from the shadows formed by a low-rising sun that drew claw-like stretches of shade over the blighted landscape. The speaker was a Wight, a lieutenant in her loose organisation of peers; a faceless, murky ghost garbed in a cowl of anonymity. "Lord Sszrar reports that his Shoals are—" _TSSSS!_ The earth shook. Great plumes of abruptly superheated frost tore through the glacial sheets. Her conversation with the Wight was checked by a monstrous predator famed for brutal power bursting from the snow. As it emerged, the linen landscape seemed to move with it, shedding algae-rich permafrost as it rose to its full height. From a billowing maw, great gouts of steam huffed as its multiple hearts inspired action, filling its conduits with molten metal. As it panted, droplets of liquified earth fell from its charred hide, drumming the hard soil with instant beads of dirty alloy. Their intruder was an Emperor Ursine of the Magma subtype, a monster that should not exist in a place where Elemental Fire waned, and the frost ruled. "How uncouth." Besides the Witch in black, her companion Wight crouched in the shade of her erect figure. The Ursine were an ancient species from the time of Elves. Even an earthly variant commanded a respectable tier of power. A specimen so large and so dense with Elemental mana could possess enough prowess to warp the landscape. "Do take a civilised form." The sorceress frowned when her sheer attire flared and flailed from the heat. "You think it's easy to pierce through the Planes and emerge in a place as miserable as this?" A thundering voice boomed from the magnificent bear. Different to the susurrating Sylvan spoken by her companion, the Elemental speech of the Fire Sea were all hiss and crackle. "It's no reason to be rude. Know that soon, both the Dauphiness and our leader will grace us. I would not have either of them offended before we divide our rights and duties. How pleased might you be if your counterpart bursts through the crust riding a Dreadnaught Leviathan?" "Ho? Your sponsor has chosen to come out of the shadows?" The Ursine began to shrink until it was twice her height, reducing in girth until only a hulking, red-skinned, barrel-chested giant tattooed with searing mystical inscriptions remained. On his head, a long tuft of white hair stood tightly coiled in the shape of a turban, affixed with priceless ornaments wrought from gems and precious metals. Below his tapered waist, the Elemental's trunk-like legs ended in massive red feet clawed with obsidian. Where the Efreet stood, his bronze bangles smouldered, polluting the atmosphere with whiffs of nostril-singing sulphur. The Elemental cracked his neck. In the Efreet's molten-metal eyes, the sorceress recognised a smouldering thirst. "One would think you'd abhor mortal flesh," she mocked the creature's unnatural, inter-species impulse. "Little wonder you've yet to ascend, Lord Zodiam. For shame." "So long as we smoulder, we are slaves to the death-desire." The Efreeti Emir did not bother hiding his wanton impulse. "In beings with vital-forces as rich as we, the impulse for blissful oblivion parallels the lust for conquest. Such is the Elder One's will, is it not? As natural as the molten core of our home where the spheres conjoin. I am a man, and you, a woman— what shame should this one feel? In this, you may be unique, O Witch of Untamable Hunger." Before the sorceress could offer a riposte, a seaspray surrounded them, setting her dress to glisten and the Efreeti's skin to hiss and pop. "Correct, there is no equal to the Void Witch on all of Terra, not even in the lightless depths, O Emir from the Sea of Sand and Fire." The voice that joined them arrived as a cloud of congealing mist, growing more solid with distance until finally, an exquisite face materialised with a complexion the translucence of brilliant aquamarine. Their finned ally arrived as anticipated, her scales clad in the sheerest of gossamer. Unlike Human armour, the true daughters of the sea wrapped themselves in spirit-garments wrought from the skin of their beloved kin. In the deep depth where the weight of countless fathoms warped the Planes themselves, no physical apparel could be worn that did not impede the movement of the wearer. It was for this reason that a Mermen's most prideful possession was their highly-evolved body, each specialised for survival against the ten-thousand-and-one threats seeking to engulf the Sea-kin at every instance of their lives. As one, the two inclined their chins. Nin Gak was a youthful Priestess blessed by the Watchers in the Deep, a Dauphiness ruling over a billion souls and thus, worthy of their respect. But despite the Mermaid's adolescence, the sorceress and the Efreet knew better than to underestimate their bioluminescent companion. Where the Efreeti received their knowledge from their ancestors, the Mermen endured through their unseen patrons. Though Nin Gak's body was youthful, her mind may well be an instrument millenniums in the making. "We now await our leader," the Witch of the Void said to either of her lauded companions. "Milady. Our Lord has arrived." At her prompt, the obfuscated shadow beneath the sorceress stepped into the light. "This one shall now excuse herself." Abruptly, the female figure began to change. From underneath the cowl came the sound of snapping bone and transmuting flesh, then in one, agonising pull, the figure stood, removing the headpiece covering his face. "Lillybird," the man addressed the raven-haired sorceress with a faint, paternal smile. "I thank thee. And to our partners, welcome." "Emir Zodaim, Dauphiness Nin Gak, may I refer your attention to the architect of our endeavour—" the sorceress dipped her head at the knife-eared male standing straight as an oak. "If you wish to address our compatriot directly, he fancies the name Malakath." "A Ljósálfar bearing the name of a Svartálfar Elder One?" The Efreet's nostrils, which resembled the hungering orifice of carmine carnivorous plants, swallowed the air. "What are you?" "I sense that we are as fellow Vessels… but who is your patron?" the Mermen Priestess drank in the ambient mana, flaring her pink gills as the flow of slow-forming rime filtered through her transmuted organ. The Elf raised a hand to dismiss the creatures' invasive enquiry. "Well met, Princelings of Fire and Water." The Elf took a moment to stretch out his newly formed body. From the portions of their speaker not covered by the heavy-set robes, the Elementals could make out the man's lustrous blonde brows and Mithril-hued hair, marking the Demi-human as a "Light Elf", elder beings that hailed from the north where the sky-curtains danced, keepers of the old Lore. And as with all Elder-kin, it was impossible to tell his age. "Tis is a pleasure to meet thee both in person. It cannot be easy travelling so far from thy homes, especially thanks to that..." The foursome looked toward the horizon. There, set against a backdrop of an endless snowdrift, giant bowers stretched upward like vague fingers. "We meet today to attain assurance." Nin Gak's petite nostrils couldn't help but shrink against the icy air. "Both the Emir and I have committed an immoderate amount of our resources to your cause. The promises you've pledged— if it cannot be met…" "Have faith, good allies." The Elf's lips curled cruelly. "If not in me, then in the simplicity of the laws that govern the Prime Material Plane. If thou hast questions, I am but here to put thy worries to eternal rest. Be liberal, make thy minds known." "Then allow me to verify what your pet sorceress has sold us— by what means will you nullify the World Tree's divine protection?" demanded the Efreeti Emir. "I may forcibly bypass its defences, but for our lesser kin, the perimetry is near-inviolable." "The answer is simple, scion of the Ever-burning Flame, we shall draw out the Serpent to weaken its barrier," replied the Elf. "Without the Frost Wyrm, there shall be no absolute territory. Trees, even one from the beginnings of the world, are merely the material manifestation of order in a sea of chaos. Its trunk has existed since time immemorial, but it possesses no Ego, no will. It is a thing, an aggregate of power, a fount of mana, an anchor, that is all." "The Serpent will not leave the tree," Nin Gak reminded the Elf. "It is known." "Not so," the Elf said. "The Serpent can be compelled. If the Frost Flower of Lhîweth suffers, it has no choice but to battle the threats outside its barrier. That's the sole reason for its upkeep, after all." "How will you compel it?" The Efreet enquired. "Through my numberless minions." Nin Gak redirected the Efreet's attention unto herself. "I shall commit both of the Great Shoals under my leadership." This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it "And for that, thou hast humbled me." The Elf inclined his chin in thanks. "Though the long march may prove wasteful, rest assured that no loss shall be wasted in the end." "And this will bring forth the Snake from the pocket plane?" "If the Serpent does not emerge to purify the land," the Elf continued. "Then the dead will rule, and their World Tree can only wilt. Of course, two Shoals, or three, or four shalln't fathom the defences of an Elfhome guarded by a Serpent. For that, we have our Void Witch." "And I shall do my duty," the sorceress stated flatly. "Two Shoals, or whatever survives, together with the Tree's disrupted ley, should be enough to destabilise the Serpent's bond to Lhîweth, either through consuming it directly, or forcing it into dormancy— the latter, of course, is likelier than the first." "And even so, a World Tree as ancient as that will not bend nor yield," the Elf known as Malakath continued. "But tis no matter; its decimation was never our purpose." "Aye. We have agreed to crack the pillars of the Planes, not to fell it." The Efreet Prince agreed. "Indeed, though thy advantage will endure no more than a decade," the Elf spoke with a tone of regret. "Though overwhelming power may alter the elemental admixture of a place, the Tree is tenacious." "Whatever the outcome, your folk will have enough time to wreak havoc," the sorceress added her assurance. "It is strange to me." Nin Gak watched the sorceress and her Elf's impassive faces. "Both the Emir and I know what we shall gain from this endeavour. For myself, our people have always known that Terra was our domain and that these terrestrial 'Humans' must be exorcised like a parasitic barnacle. Zodiam's country as well, has been endlessly harassed by Humans, his kin reduced to Cores and made into weapons and ornaments— but what of yourself? Are you not terrestrial beings of this Plane? Where is your Tree, Elf?" "Tis a most intimate question." Malakath raised a hand in protest. "Forgive me. We art allies and compatriots, Dauphiness, not friends." "You say that, but I am committing two Great Shoals— that's four million souls sacrificed to the Void Witch so that we may cripple a sleeping, limbless Wyrm. Is that insufficient cause for trust?" "Aye, it is out of sincerity that we are here, risking our flesh." The Efreet smouldered. "I am with Nin Gak. Even if you lie, we would like to hear your reasons; else I cannot put it past my conscience to commit my tribe to this frozen wasteland." "Is the promise of conquest and revenge not persuasive enough?" The Elf chuckled. "We art sincere in our suit, O Emir, else your father would immolate mine immortal Soul for all of eternity." "I am an excellent judge, dear Elf," Nin Gak assured them. "Do you forget that I am the mistress of a thousand-millions. I can taste falsehoods before they manifest." The Elf shrugged. "Very well— though our snow-white Lilybird here has a far better tale to tell. Nevertheless, I shall speak of mine with as much courtesy as I can offer without the Accord rending mine soul asunder." The two Elementals remained unmoved by the Elf's aggrandisement. Assuming a faint hint of sorrow, the Elf pointed to himself. "This one rages against the chains that tether mine kin. I thrash and howl against the bindings of kismet." "You seek to escape the karmic wheel?" The Efreeti's pupils burned. "Are you an adherent of Undeath?" The Elf shook his head. "No Necromancy. Nothing so crude will free mine people," he said. "Did thou know that all Humans are born free? Their kind art blank slates, free to be whatever they desire, to succeed, or to fail. Yet we who art ageless sovereigns art bound by kismet. Be we Elf or Elemental, it enshrouds us, forces us into our respective places. The Álfar art tethered to the pillars of the Prime Material. However we struggle, imprisonment is our only reward." The Elementals furrowed their brows; Zodiam's bushy brows were twin gouts of bright fire, while Nin Gak's sleek scales crinkled and overlapped. "For thou whose birth was given purpose, it may be hard to imagine the frustration." The Elf laughed. "This one has had a few thousand years to ponder, after all. Can thou even imagine the frustration of such a thing? Living for longer than most civilisation has stood, agonisingly comprehending the limitations of thy sphere and its dumb Pillars— all is futility! If the Humans and the mortal beings art born free, then why should their betters be held in bondage? Why is this the sufferance of my tribe? For whose benefit and at whose command do we yield our sacred selves?" The Elementals stood in silence, clearly struggling to empathise with the Elf. When the Demi-human said nothing more, they turned to the woman. "Revenge." Her smile was effortlessly chilling. "I want the Commonwealth to bleed. I want their Mageocracy to fall. I want everything my husband had ever touched to turn to dust and ruin and ash. I want to see his beloved Humanity fed to the fishes." For some reason, though they had known the female for far longer than the mad Elf, their irrespective scales and hair suddenly stood on end. To Nin Gak, the sorceress' vitriol regarding her mate was utterly alien. In her palace, she would spawn her eggs in a pool, after which a host of Champions standing at the apex of a billion beings would fertilise her eggs. Then, as elvers, her children would cannibalise each other's potentials until a dozen Priestesses and Champions emerged as the next generation's successors. Conversely, Zodiam thought of the Sultanate's famed seraglio from which his mother came and the sheer number of adversaries whose Cores she had to immolate to attain the power she now wielded in the Brass Court. Female Elementals, be they Djinn of the Sky, Efreeti of the Fire Sea, the noble Marids of the coast, or the wily Shaitan hiding among the Sand Sea, all held grudges with an intensity rivalling True Dragons. If what the Void Sorceress professed was the truth, then the Emir could only worship the woman's malice. Passion, in his mind, made a female desirable. As his mother had shown, few appetites burned as bright and black as unbridled hate. "You would spite a mate by making his entire tribe pay?" Against the invading cold and the stabilising dimensions forcing his energies to disperse, Zodiam warmed his body with Elemental Fire, once more turning a healthy, molten orange. "Late... husband," the sorceress added. "He is with the Void now." The Efreet licked his lips. "But one's tribe..." "Elf or Human, we art outcasts now, beings with neither tribe nor home," the Elf interceded on his sorceress' behalf. "The Witch of the Void and I, we art the forgotten ghosts of abandoned conscience— the hollow ones— straw-stuffed Revenants belonging to a vengeful, spectral band. Does that satisfy?" Their audience showed neither compassion nor satisfaction. "No? Then call it revenge," the Elf conceded. "Why complicate a simple thing?" "Let us return to our prior topic." Zodiam chose not to dwell. "I now perceive the disruption to the region caused by our assault on the Tree. However, I do not understand how terraforming these frozen wilds will lead to the accomplishment of more enduring goals." "Hahaha, trust our kin of flames to grow confused at the power of water." Nin Gak laughed, then offered her summer compatriot a shot at understanding autumn. "Look around you, exalted Emir. Know that an enormous volume of liquid is stowed in this vast wasteland connected to the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Salt, Ice and Water. The disruption of the ley-lines, together with the proliferation of your kin, will be enough to return much of it to the ocean, for a time." "And?" "The overabundance of Elemental Water will cause Terra's Planar Axis to overcompensate," the Elf continued with an all-knowing serenity. "As the Axis Mundi seeks to rebalance itself, the dimensional instabilities that afflict the Prime Material with grow by three to four-fold. Mana Storms the likes of which the planet has never seen will afflict its equatorial regions. Quakes compounded by a recession of the Elemental Plane of Earth and the expansion of the Elemental Plane of Water will plague its diminishing shores. Even without Leviathans, Priestess Nin Gak's Shoals will be able to access the innermost reaches of Humanities' coastal cities. For both of thy folk, there shall be such access to thine Planes the likes of which has not existed since the Dragon Age." "Not to mention," the Human sorceress added to the conversation. "Dark and aberrant things long-hidden in the dark spaces between the Planes will emerge to feast." Zodiam cocked his magnificently wrapped head. "What of our Human allies? Their goals seemed self-defeating." "Humanity tis a strange, multi-headed beast," the eternal Ljósálfar answered the Elemental Emir. "Wouldst thou believe that a portion of Humanity desires this outcome? Tis insanity, but then again, such is human freedom. Within their warring tribe, our sympathetic compatriots have lost sway. For them, this blood-letting shall serve as a way to reclaim power. In their eyes, only by surrendering the good of the many can the few arise." "Recall that, unlike Lord Malakath's kin, Humanity is afflicted by impurity," Nin Gak explained to Zodiam. "Like our kin, they are split into mortal fodder and sorcerous predator. Presently, their leading echelon believes that the weaker humans should be protected and sheltered by the powerful— but our allies believe in the opposite." The Elf laughed. "Tis nothing so noble, sweet Priestess. Verily, they simply loath the sharing of power. Imagine if an Imp had the same say as your esteemed self, Lord Zodiam— because a hundred-thousand Imps made this one Imp their representative." "I would extinguish them all!" Zodiam sucked in a breath of frigid air, feeling his head throb from the frosty breath. "Precisely," the Elf nodded approvingly. "Long ago, our allies once held the reigns of power. Now deprived of their influence, they see no more merit in feeding their federation. For them, playing the Necromancer over a shattered carcass is preferable to permitting others to rule in their stead." "It's a fish-eat-fish world." Nin Gak shrugged. "The humans are the same as us in this regard, though they do try very hard to suppress what comes naturally to them, unlike our Void Witch." "Aye." The Elemental Emir laughed. "From the mana in her body, I can only say our vanguard has not held back for some time." "You flatter." The woman smiled, then looked up at the horizon. Awed by one of the world's old existences, the group allowed the conversation to fade. "We proceed as planned." Nin Gak was the first to concede. She had a lot to lose, but at the same time, her Mermen bred quick and food was scarce. "I do apologise for my impatience, but your air is murder, and my feet feel as though pierced by jagged coral." "Yes, we proceed." Zodiam flared once more, heating the frigid atmosphere around his polymorphed avatar. Unlike the Mermaid, what the Emir had in mind was the accomplishments brought by his success and his place in the line of succession once their father ascends. "By the Sultan's Mark, the Fire Sea shall not rescind its commitment." "Very well." The Elf bowed. "Thou hast mine word, O Lord and Lady of Fire and Water. Though in the aftermath, the Grove of Lhîweth may stand and the world's balance return— Humanity shall ebb as the receding noon-tide and thy time of reckoning will satisfy. Lilybird, canst thou escort our guests? This far from their natural abode, it is inconvenient for them to return." "Very well." The sorceress turned and swung her arm, splattering the broken ground of the tundra with tenebrous ink. Very quickly, the tar-like discharge blossomed into proliferating clusters of milling Hydras, eating into the earth until an intricate, multi-layered Mandala formed. "Mass Teleportation!" The sorceress finished the eighth-tier invocation before the Efreet's body could cool, burning the Mandala mid-night black with mana from the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void. Their august guests could hardly hide their aversion as an obsidian portal the shape of an elliptical gash connected the Prime Material and the Astral. "It's ready, Dauphiness Nin, Emir Zodiam, step this way—" The Elementals regarded one another. "Humans have a saying." The Efreet grinned at the Mermaid. "Ladies first." Unamused, Nin Gak stepped through the portal. Toward the sorceress, the Fire Elemental winked, then was gone, swallowed by the pitch-black Void. The remaining two individuals waited in silence in case their guests inadvertently returned. When no Elemental royalty re-materialised, they relaxed their guard and shut the portal. "Wights—" Malakath hissed at the shrinking shadows now that the sun hung higher. "How fairs the south?" From the distending shadow of the sorceress came the milling forms of the organisation's Essence-fed sycophants, some tall, some hideous, some short and others stout. All of them occupied Avatars consisting of vile, chimeric vermin fed with the sorceress' consumptive mana. "— The terraforming is on schedule— Emperor Sszrar sends— Six Shoals of his finest— for our southern endeavour." "His demands?" "He desires— every coast of Oceania," The shadow's speech jittered and halted, the lag in delivery an unfortunate symptom of the World Tree's dimensional pacification. "—Gunther Shultz—" The Elf looked toward the sorceress, who stood unfazed. "Tell the greedy whale he can have Sydney, Shultz, and whatever else he desires," the sorceress scoffed. "He's seen what can be accomplished when the desire for conquest overrules compassion for his creatures. Remind Sszrar that it is because he failed to commit the entirety of his forces that Sydney still stands. A Holy War must be paid in blood, that's the way of the world." "— the way." "Notify our sorceress if any changes should occur," Malakath dismissed the shadow before addressing another. "Speak, what of the Svartálfar?" "The Guardian—Sea of Trees— unaware," another phantom jittered, his movements like that of a faulty Golem. "—uncaring— insular." "That's Elves for you." The sorceress shrugged at her partner. "Were you expecting anything else?" "Perhaps," The Light Elf glanced at the ice tree on the horizon. "Though maybe not." "Are you certain we can't bring down the tree?" The woman wet her ruby-red lips. "The vitality there could be put to use on our next project, and the next." "Not without dire cost, Lilybird," the Elf declined. "A failure to defend the Tree is the problem of the Grove; as is the Serpent's pacification by a superior force. There are no eternal victors, for that which is bound to nature must ebb and flow, whether by interference, occurrence or chance. Mine kind will not act harshly to failure. BUT— if we fell a pillar, then the meddlesome Hvítálfar may put aside their split from the Svartálfar to cooperate. That would be a dire prospect." "If our involvement is discovered and our purpose fails." The sorceress chuckled. "Every Grove on Terra and their allies as well would hunt us down from the Prime Material to the Unformed Land. Is that not a direr prospect?" "We cannot and will not fail." The Elf faced his partner, his hard eyes growing soft. "Yes, tis dire, Elizabeth. I thank thee and love thee for thy labours." From Devourer to Revenant, one bloodless face observed the other. "Be very careful, Malakath," Elizabeth Sobel's voice was a whisper on the wind. "If I didn't know better, I'd say your Humanity is leaking."

The exit from the Grot involved enduring silence from Gunther and Gwen while Alesia said goodbye to Sufina with tears and kisses for their Master. When finally they emerged from the Grot into the natural light, Gwen inhaled the insufferably humid air with rare relish. Beside her, Gunther readjusted his Message Device, then informed them that they were several hours off— and that the time in Sufina's home appeared to pass slower than in the material world, a testament to Sufina's undiminished prowess. After that, the trio made for the thunderstruck Akimvrishka, where Gunther announced they would soon leave to attend to their duties as Officers of Sydney Tower, leaving Gwen behind to cater to the consequences of her compassion. While the ship conditioned itself for the voyage from Abang to Singapore, the siblings took a moment to bounce one another's thoughts against the forecastle. "If anyone can clarify all of Master's intrigues from his early years as Morden's ward to his last days with Sobel, it would be Sufina." Their resident Tower Master paced back and forth, pondering the new hand they had just been dealt. "All I can say is that Sufi is far too cunning a being for our little sister to wrestle by her lonesome self." "Yeah, I mean— if she can Essence Tap from Al, a legit Mythic," Gwen agreed by raising both brows in genuine worry. "For sure Sufi's got nasty tricks hidden up her canopy." "At least Master's safe," Alesia disapproved of her siblings' antagonism. "That counts for something." "Oh, of course, he's looking better than he had in years," Gwen remarked drily. "That's no joke either. I wouldn't be surprised if he got up and started calling our names." Gunther chose not to comment. "It's too bad we can't keep a closer eye on Sufi. Her sanctum is all but impenetrable by Divination." "Just as well. I mean, we're keeping our Master's condition between us, right?" "No worries there, what's there to tell?" Alesia scoffed with a snort. "Borderline Necromancy isn't exactly something to boast about." "I've no doubt Sufi can perform Necromancy if she inclined. If she has access to Master's conduits and spells, I don't see why she can't figure out a workaround for Negative Energy." Gunther leaned against the rails. "Your thoughts?" "My head is this big right now." Gwen mimed with her hands the act of holding an overripe melon. "That said, Essence Tap isn't Soul Tap per se. Its sorcery used by the Dark Elves. I am using it as a way to catalyse Greenkin Totemcraft, and my variant has been certified by The Shard. Granted they're similar, as both spells share root Sigils in their IMS conversions. The distinction is there; however, Professor Brown was very particular. With Essence Tap and Sympathetic Life-Link, we're going to figure out a way to help other Void Mages." "I meant the flesh-stitching," the Ex-Paladin corrected himself. "It takes a practised hand to instantly repair organs afflicted with Negative Energy, not to mention Void Mana. Did you know that it's far easier to manipulate Negative Energy than to neutralise it with Clerical sorcery? That's why the Necros are so adept at using Death Magic without catastrophic self-harm. I don't know anyone capable of performing such a feat as the Master had managed, especially when the surgeon is concurrently the dying patient." "He is 'Deathless' Henry," Gwen concurred. "A guy two centuries in the making has got unplumbed depth for sure. I mean, not even you knew about his Hungary adventures until the Chandler incident." "That's true." Gunther nodded. "Albeit Master never asked for our past either. I guess it's a little too late to regret not exchanging a few secrets. I respected him too much to keep digging." "What's your big-bad secret?" their Void sorceress grinned wolfishly. "Is it about your family in Europe?" "Do you have a good secret to trade?" Her Brother-in-craft regarded their smirking sister. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." "Oi! That's unfair," Alesia interrupted them. "You two know everything about me! I don't have anything to bargain with!" "You haven't told Allie about Europe either?" Gwen said incredulously. "That part of my life is dead and buried." Gunther met her eyes with caution. "As Master once said, I am not dwelling on the past, and neither should you." "And that's how we end up knowing nothing about our Master." Gwen grinned at her hypocritical brother. "What if our Tower Master had a secret fiancée in Europe?" "They better be damn good at Abjuration—" Alesia huffed. "Need I remind you it's YOUR Grimoires we're after?" Gunther gave Gwen a flick on the forehead. "If you want to know, we'll talk later. For now, I need to put contingencies for Sufina into place. Allie, we're leaving before our homewrecker causes any more trouble." "Aww, you've upset your brother!" Alesia laughed. Gwen smirked in turn. "Say hi to Surya for me. Tell Opa I'll drop in mid-semester if I can." "I shall." Gunther reached out and patted their youngest on the head. "Will you be fine with this lot?" "I'll send out the Familiars and the Dogs," Gwen assured her siblings. "Fair flight, Brother. You too, Allie. Take care!" With nothing else left to be said, the trio changed into their civilian attires. After the fact, the siblings embraced once more, then the husband and wife pair was on their way. Watching the diminishing pair of companionable silhouettes slipping through the air, Gwen couldn't help but think of Evee. She imagined the two of them as the same couple fading into the horizon and tasted an anticipatory sweetness on her lips. After a moment, however, her chest grew sore, and her mood grew strange, so she poured her feelings into her clamouring Familiars, furthermore whipping up a new pack of Void and Lightning dogs and their alphas, Astro and Buck. Presently, her Void Hounds had a hint of serpentine to their sleek heads and a low-gloss petrol-sheen attached to their oily bodies, making her wonder if the continued growth of her Essence-producing Astral Body had anything to do with the morphic detailing. Comparatively, her Lightning Dogs resembled little Ariels, shaggy with manes of stabbing electricity that anaesthetised her fingertips, but were otherwise related to the Wolfhounds found on the Highlands. "EE! EE!" Ariel cooed. "SHAA! SHAA!" Caliban was more interested in what lied in the belly of the ship. "Nanang!" she called out from the forecastle deck, summoning the third mate. Naturally, Caliban was now First Mate and Ariel, her handsome second-in-command. As for herself, she now assumed the role of the Captain of this Raft of the Medusa. The Indonesian skipper grovelled, albeit at a safe distance. "It's time," Gwen commanded the group who insisted on falling to their knees every time Ariel or Caliban passed. Strangely, the men and women felt less inclined to bend the knee for the Familiar's two-legged mortal Mistress. "Set course for Singapore!" "EE! EE!" Ariel gave the order for full-steam ahead. "SHAA! SHAA!" "ARRRROOOOOOO—" The hounds bayed. "Aye-aye, Lord Ariel!" the Third Mate relayed the Kirin's orders. "We should arrive at Singapore's coastal waters in ten hours!" At day-break, the Akimvrishka met a Coast Guard Cruiser hosting a mid-tier Mage Flight as they crossed the strait of Batam. Gwen flew out to meet the Mages, growing glad when they did not attack but proclaimed to be sent by Tower Master Lee at the behest of her Brother-in-craft. "We'll take it from here, Ma'am." Captain Chen saluted. "The Akimvrishka will be docked and decommissioned, its cargo inspected, re-valued and sold at auction. We'll credit your share of the CCs and HDMs for capturing the illicit vessel." "What of the crew?" she asked, mindful of her original purpose. "As a favour to the Devourer of Shenyang, there shall be a measure of leniency," the youthful Captain assured her, though Gwen knew her Brother-in-craft shouldered the real favour. "If they pass questioning, the crew can choose indentured service for five years, or try their luck at the public lashes. After that, they'll be deported to their Frontier homes once processed. Of course, we'll give the Mages a choice to work in Singapore if they prove obedient." "They would stay after all that?" Gwen watched the crew of the Akimvrishka and was surprised to find that the sailors appeared quite happy to be arrested now that they no longer had a meeting with the Mermen below the Singapore Strait. "We regularly recruit from the locals near the Java sea." Chen's gaze swept over the men and women bound with arcane-cords enchanted with a modified Lock spell. "Though it seems the Wildlands have had a talent boom of late if the pirates are soaking up Rogue Mages by the hundreds." "Is the fortress city not interested in enriching and securing the Javanese islands?" Gwen asked. "I wouldn't presume to discern our regional policy, Ma'am," Captain Chen apologised. "I will inform you, however, that the zone ratings for the regions of Sumatra, Kalimantan, and the Indonesian enclave changes with the currents; until there's a way to stabilise the region or purge it of Mermen, our city isn't going to get over-ambitious. The late Prime Minister Lee has our developmental plan mapped out, and under his legacy, we haven't misstepped so far. Is our arrangement for the crew acceptable to you, Magus Song?" Gwen took a gander at Nanang, their Third Mate. She had spent the night conversing with the Water Mage and his seamen, eventually coming to empathise with their origins and the culture of piracy that afflicted the Java Sea. From history, she understood that the continental coastline linking India, Myanmar, Thailand, Malaysia, Cambodia and Vietnam had seeded the island chains of the South China Sea from Palawan to Port Moresby. The Human settlements of the Javanese Frontier were a loose compilation of coastal settlers from the continents who had interbred with the Demi-humans of the South Sea. On those verdant and deadly paradise islands, men and women afflicted with scales, tails, fins and gills were commonplace in the Orange and Purple Zones. Closer to Singapore, only a handful of Green Zones like Jakarta or Kuala Lumpur were safe for unsullied Human habitation. As a measure against the unpredictable tides, the folk had taken up worship of Elementals— most often the land gods, other times local monsters with religion and beliefs derived from the mainland from which their diverse people had first arrived. In the decades following the Beast Tide, international recovery efforts had increased sea trade one-hundred fold, bringing food, education and technology to an otherwise forgotten colonial Frontier. It was because, as a result of the proportional increase in security and resources, the number of Human settlements in the South China Sea increased exponentially. "Yes." Gwen conceded that if she were to do something for Nanang, it would be out of mutual interest and not some half-baked compassion she felt by merely sharing a Maotai with the Mages to boost their chances at surviving the lash. "And the matter with the Mermen using my image?" "We'll lodge a report with the Tower," the Captain said. "As for the Homel Food Company, I am afraid you'll have to approach your patron yourself. The Mageocracy has limited sway with the Americans." "Understood. Thank you, Captain Chen." Gwen dipped her chin. "You've done well." "It is we who should thank you for gracing Singapore." The Captain saluted. "And for capturing these pirates. I am certain the information provided by the crew here will lead us to their caches and allow us to intercept their shipping routes. There have been ships missing in the South China Sea since February; we've no doubt more pirates are behind the incidents, perhaps even working with the Mermen." Stolen novel; please report. Gwen nodded. "Then I shall be returning to London. If there's anything else you need from me, the Tower has my offices' contacts for both Cambridge and the Isle of Dogs. One more thing though, may I donate the proceeds from the ship's inventory? Does the Singapore Tower have any Frontier aid programs for building schools, farms, medical facilities and so forth in the region of Java?" "We do, though that's outside my jurisdiction." "Then please inform Master Lee of my desire to see the lives of the survivors improved," she said. "It wouldn't do for their kin to take up piracy once more. If a city wants to nip the problem at the root, it has to start at the bottom with education and opportunity." "By your will, Magus Song." "Then you have my thanks." Gwen took a step back, her body drifting slowly into the air. "Please keep me informed." With the Captain nodding, her mind at ease and the Mages below saluting in awe, the Class VI War Mage zapped across the horizon as a blue-green streak of fulminating lightning, wiping the fate of the otherworldly refugees from her conscience. London's October was a relatively dry period of the year suitable for both summer and autumn attires thanks to its cooling, mid-teen weather. It was also the season when the city's deciduous trees transformed its emerald avenues into cosy fire. For her second international transit, Gwen's ISTC hopping proved uneventful, arriving and exiting Heathrow without so much as an inventory questionnaire from Customs, after which she made for the Isle of Dogs. In early October, the Isle had four projects under concurrent construction. With two months to go on her Fabricator hire, her Executive Officer Eric Walken had engaged the Red Citadel in talks to extend the lease— on principle, however; the Dwarves refused to allow precious Engines out of the Murk once the Debt of Haj-Zül was repaid. It meant that, if Gwen were desperate, then she would have to further the Debt by applying herself to the exploration of the Murk; a prospect that had grown grim of late as the Dwarves and the Human Adventurers delved deeper into the abyss. Of the projects, three were residential high-rises with commercial space below. The fourth was a twenty-storey business building and the first of the Isle's ambitious attempts at attracting government agencies to take up a long-term lease. From Lady Grey, Gwen had heard that Scotland Yard was looking to relocate from Victoria Street. In her old world, the Police Headquarters had eyed the Embankment opposite Westminster for their renovated headquarters near an address close to No. 10 Downing. In her present London, proximity to the Shard was far more critical than closeness to parliament, meaning if the building offered a low enough rental for a large enough space, the City of London may just take up her offer. For the Isle of Dogs, having a critical government department take up residence would officialise the newly revamped district as a second city centre and bring about an avalanche of business. In Gwen's plan, the influx of Mages would naturally gentrify the region and push out the NoM residents, who could make a tidy sum from selling their piecemeal leaseholds and taking up better residences in Greenwich and Charlton twenty minutes away, bringing advantage to all. Naturally, the rapid rise in land price and the ballooning of wealth would require her auditors to keep a keen eye on the Crystals flowing into and out of the Isle. Transparency was paramount for reporting increased economic activity she brought to the region; a key metric when haggling for additional permits. Arriving overhead above the ferry pier, she entered the Printing Press via the rafters, where a loft had been constructed to accommodate her unorthodox mode of entry. This late in the afternoon, the Press was a steaming, churning, screeching chaos of organised mayhem. From the delivery bay, Worker Golems piloted by trained NoMs moved barrels of unenchanted ink into the mixing room alongside four-legged Mitsubishi MK-Vs hauling paper rolls by the pallet. This late, the Dwarves were no longer a common sight, with most of them working in the deeper regions of the Press some six-storeys down from the ground floor, regulating the engines' mechanical and alchemical gut-flora so that the belts and rollers above could churn out circulation West Ferry vomited into London and beyond daily. In the west quadrant, where magical dampening had been put into place to hinder the noise, Gwen found Lorenzo and the editorial staff debating over the front page. Before entering, she took a moment to listen in to see what nastiness her team got up to in her absence. Within, Lorenzo voiced that Adventurers serving as front-line fodder for Murk Dives should be the centrepiece of the next edition. At the same time, his assistant, a war journalist Diviner called Wyatt Bennett, felt that the story would shed an unflattering light on their boss. "Gentlemen!" She stepped in without knocking. The Editorial Room, as per Lorenzo's demand, had an open door policy. "What ails my board of truth peddlers?" "Boss!" Lorenzo nodded. "Alright, Wyatt, ask her yourself." "Magus Song." Wyatt's expression appeared wary. "There's been unacceptable casualties in the Murk. The Dwarves still speak fondly of you, but the public's opinion of the alliance has taken a nosedive. Most of the Mages who came back from the Murk laden with loot in June now returned in body bags after encountering monsters of a higher tier than the Red Citadel had anticipated. The Dwarves have done what they can, and last I heard, they are securing a beachhead to building a new Forward Operating Citadel. Nonetheless, at minimum, a quarter of the first wave of Adventurer who went in did not return." "Yikes." Gwen grimaced. "My condolences, but I am involved, how?" "You aren't." Bennett sighed. "The other papers are saying it's all your fault, though." "I see." Gwen gave the matter some thought and realised there wasn't that much more spin to be spun. She was responsible for open trade with the Dwarves, and she did invite Human Mages to loot the Murk. From December to March, she had taken in the fame and the kudos, now, she should shoulder some of the blame. "Get some statements from the Dwarves and just tell it as it is. It's futile to convince folk who don't trust the sight of their eyes nor the words striking their ears anyway. Whether they're a vocal minority or a Cabal with a chip on their shoulder, leave the matter to Walken." "See?" Lorenzo grinned at Bennett. "You can trust Gwen to fight falsehoods with the truth." "Yep." Gwen gave her editors a confident grin. "For journalists, The Sun can't seem to heed the advice that one shouldn't quarrel with anyone who buys ink by the barrel. Don't despair, Magus Bennett, once our reach supersedes those yellow rags, I'll buy their devalued shares, and we can initiate a hostile takeover. The METRO will have the last laugh; you have my word…" "I'll be looking forward to that!" Lorenzo laughed as well, with the rest of the editorial department following more confusedly. "Anyway, I got a cool story for you guys." Gwen waited for the room to calm. With a casual invocation, she conjured up a few Illusion-empowered projections of pictures taken with a Lumen-Recorder. "Check out the tats on these…" In detail, she told the others of her discovery in the South Sea, then informed Lorenzo that for this incident to fade, they had to control the narrative. As she possessed the raw images and the first-hand account, she would provide them with some riveting interviews and theories, and they could be the ones to initiate the enquiry. "Excellent, I'll go and generate the Quests at the Shard right now." Wyatt volunteered. "Keep the rewards on the highest tier," Gwen advised. "If by some off chance someone does find out why the fish were wearing my face, I want to be informed pronto." The others agreed. With her impending infamy sorted at least for now, Gwen then visited Walken, finding the Magister buried behind a small mountain of accounts, files, contracts and reports. Walken's present office, now lovingly dubbed by the locals as the "Bunker" thanks to the Herald Sun, had recently completed an expensive leather and oiled oak renovation. "When are you coming back to do some real work?" The Magister demanded of the giggling girl watching him from the safety of the doorway. "Saturday," Gwen said. "I've got Lectures all week." "Ah, yes." Eric Walken nodded, appearing to recall that his boss was still a student. "How's Sufina? Did you retrieve the Scale? From the lack of changes in your general aura, I am going to say no." Gwen made her way into the office, searched around the polished facade and found the liqueur cabinet. "Aren't you a bit young for that sort of thing?" Walken remarked on her casually topping off a glass of Dwarven rum. "Care for a cigar to go with that?" Gwen took a swig, then topped the glass again once her body warmed up. "You correctly guessed that we saw Sufi and had a chat. After that, we made a deal." "Free to elaborate?" "Somewhat. I need your advice on something…" Gwen took a moment to gather her thoughts and to filter out what could be said and what to withhold from her business partner, then relayed what she could about Sufina's angel investment offer. Walken grew increasingly silent as she explained, then fell into a delicate mood. "… Shultz is right; you need to speak with the Elves. A private World Tree could become a Human-Demi-human dispute issue." Walken spoke after a while. "As for what London can offer, consult with the Marchioness of Ely. Don't worry about secrecy, and don't fret over the news getting out." "Why? Wouldn't privacy be better?" "This is one of those rare instances were the more people know of your capacity to establish a potential Green Zone, the less advantage they'll have over you by whatever means. As with your Void talent, you're a prize for others to win over. All you need to do is accept the best deal offered to you." "And if someone doesn't want to compete fairly?" Gwen grinned. "That's only to be expected here in London." "Then bring it up in public and let the world know." Walken grinned back. "You do have a newspaper, after all, one that's free. I look forward to the day our company offers lands partitions in a safe zone." "Hahaha…" Gwen sipped her rum. "You know it!" With her mind at ease, Gwen addressed her underground staff, dropped off Chinese souvenirs for her Dwarven Engineseers and Alchemist, then made ready for Cambridge. On her final tour around the Isle of Dogs, she inspected Evee's clinic-soup-kitchen-orphanage and spoke to some of the staff to ensure that whatever Elvia had left in her care ran swimmingly, then was on her way to report to Lady Grey. There was a lecture, Gwen recalled, set for the next morning— one that encompassed the very thing she now needed to comprehend: Contemporary Planar Theory. The "New" Museum Site east of Corpus Christi and north of Pembroke was a bit of a misnomer. It was a common misunderstanding for folk who hadn't grown up around Cambridge or had siblings talented enough to attend the prestigious college. Like the other sites in Cambridge, the New Museum, which was two centuries old, consisted of Spellcraft libraries dedicated to the study of Magical Theory. The inner court was home to august offices of learning like the Old Cavendish Building with its Regency facade, sitting beside the neo-Victorian exterior of Mond Hall, where Dwarven artisans once more graced. Its resident scholars were famous for carrying out breakthroughs in Spellcraft, serving as home to Meisters like Allenberg and Goulding, surnames synonymous with textbooks. Most famously, the site was home to the posthumously awarded Evoker-Conjurer Magi James Chadwick, discoverer of the "Mote"— the invisible, smallest unit of metric possible for mana. It was here in the McCrum Lecture Hall that junior students newly arrived for the Michaelmas Term had their first taste of Cambridge's free-range learning style— that and their first stickybeak at the leggy Devourer of Shenyang. "On the lore of Axis Mundi—" Magister Addison Andrews, first Chair of Cosmology and Planar Theory at Corpus Christi, persisted with her lecture, pointedly ignoring the eye-catching celebrity in their midst. At Cambridge, though there was no shortage of lords and ladies— the love child of the Herald Sun's back and front pages nonetheless remained a cause for distraction. The Void sorceress' daring outfit notwithstanding, the professor's professionalism was undeterred. "— Also known by folklore across the continents as the stem of the cosmos, the loci of the world, and simple 'The Pillars' by our Demi-human compatriots, exist as a metaphysical conceit tied to nature. For the academics among you learned in the subject, you will know that the idea is closely tied to current conjecture on the application of ley-lines. Such is because, across our known world, the understanding of Axis Mundi varies. Under the auspice of Christendom, we associate the Axis with trees— as in the Tree of Knowledge, at the centre of which lies Eden." The lecturer took a drink of water while the projected Illusion of a woman, a man, a tree and a cheeky snake changed "slides". "In the metaphysical sense, this is a localised belief. The Axis Mundi is, in reality, is akin to Conduits. Such Conduits form through the natural flow of energies between the Planes, derived by forces in a manner akin to estuaries, governed by nature and as such, bound by the laws of the Prime Material. For example, the Chinese have for thousands of years believed that their Middle Kingdom to be the loci of the Axis, though our history strongly disagrees with theirs. The Central Continent is a nation where trees are not venerated— likely because of the lack of Elves, or some other historical calamity. Rather, what they worship is something else. Magus Song, I believe you're well-acquainted with China since you're a Fudan alumina, what do you suppose replaced the Western tree in the Oriental psyche?" "Er…" a husky, alluring voice piped up. "Mountains? The Five Peaks?" "Correct." The lecturer awarded the girl with a happy clap. "Mount Heng, Mount Hua, Mount Emei, Mount Tai and Mount Huang. Each, unsurprisingly, is habited by?" "Elder Dragons?" "Correct again. Each is home to Wyrms— though that will be for a future lecture. Today, we explore the presence of Axis Mundi as folklore in Planar Theory. If we look toward regions where Elves have less impact on the cultural history of the world, Humans and Demi-humans seldom perceive of the Axis as a 'Tree'. The Japanese, for instance, believed that Mount Fuji serves as the loci ley-line for their island nation. The Teotihuacan tribe of the Aztecs built mock-mountain ziggurats and blessed them with Mage blood to attract the Quetzalcoatl to roost. The summit of Delphi, where the Oracle resides beneath the Great Olive Tree, as well, serves as a half-way example of such nodes." "What of Demi-humans?" a voice asked from the crowd. "In Demi-humans, the mythos of trees-as-Axis proliferate. If we look to the Spirits who dominate the Indian subcontinent through theocratic rule, then one may look to the sacred Bodhi Tree where the Magi Buddha attained Enlightenment. A radical example would be Temple Mount, north of the Fire Sea where the Elemental's sacred Flame Tree has torn open a gash into the Elemental Plane of Fire. Distressingly, the Fire Tree isn't a Pillar supporting 'our' Plane, but rather the Efreets' charred home. Finally, for the Were-folk of the Lower Niger Delta, who I am sure you've read about in the METRO, the Sacred Grove of Osun-Osogbo is yet another domain, albeit with neither mount nor tree but a low-lying rainforest. Concurrently, one should not dismiss human-made objects used for worship. The famous Pyramids, for instance, serve as 'Pillars' of Undeath that provide Necromantic mana to the Undead roaming its vicinity, as well as sustain the slumbering Pharaohs and their sleeping God-Priests." "Are our Towers… a part of the Axis Mundi?" the Devourer of Shenyang asked from the front row. "Excellent question." The lecturer's voice took on renewed energy as she fell into a familiar rhythm. "But that lecture is slated for week eight. First, let's continue our unpacking of Ley-lines and the pragmatic purpose of harnessing the Axis for the grand purpose of Human expansion!"

Gwen emerged from the lecture wholly impressed by the breadth and depth of knowledge demonstrated by the resident scholars of Cambridge. What imprinted on her the most was how the lecturer scholar framed each point of expertise with history and context, often from a multitude of cultural-racial perspectives. Though seemingly dry, these leys of reference acted as vectors within her mind, linking hypothesis and speculation to attain a new elucidation of the role she may yet occupy in the event of aiding Sufina's ascension, leaving her hungry for more. Once the lecture was over, a few brave freshmen approached Gwen to say hello and offer notes. Gwen replied with big smiles and handshakes, thanking them for their welcomes. On their Message devices, they exchanged contact details, making sure to flair their Colleges and professions. When others saw that the Class VI War Mage was amicable to such exchanges, a small line formed to greet her, only dispersing when one of the Beadles appeared to growl at the students, scattering them so that the next lecture could carry on. Once she extricated herself, Gwen made haste for Emmanuel College, where she was now late for her appointment with Gracie Hillbrook. Lucky for her, she had the privilege of flight. "Gwennie!" Gracie looked up from the data slate she was studying. "How was Singapore? Did you finish your quest?" "Things got somewhat complicated." Gwen checked the laboratory for signs of their instructor. Wen was missing as well, though that was because the soon to be Meister was touring the Colleges, giving lectures on the physiology of the Void Element. "Where's Maxwell?" "Lecturing." Gracie yawned, replaced the data slate, then took up another. "I am sorry to hear your quest didn't go as planned." "Things seldom go as planned." Gwen shrugged. "But it'll sort itself out. How are you feeling?" "Never better." The Void Illusionist passed her a slate. "My Elemental Affinity is almost at tier 5 now. The lower-tier spells take much less effort, and the drain on the higher-tier spells isn't nearly so taxing." "That's wonderful." Gwen had a look through the specs. "How's Conjuration coming along?" "I've got the theory pat-down." Her Void-afflicted compatriot paused. "I expect tier two isn't out of the question by the year's end. Forgive my rudeness Gwennie, but no luck on your Master's Familiar spell?" "None-what-so-ever." Gwen shook her head sadly. "Sorry to disappoint, Gracie." "I am already beyond thankful." The young woman motioned to her data slates. "I'd never thought I'd prove useful, much less have a chance at using my talents. It's all thanks to you." "No need to be humble with me; you're the one who endured." Gwen thought of the ashen Gracie after Gwen had muddled up an overzealous Essence Tap. That particular experience, Gwen figured, was one that aptly suited the hyperbole of 'worse than death'. "Have you settled into your classes for the trimester?" Gracie asked. "As a graduate of sorts, I can help." What the girl meant was that she had spent almost six years listening to lectures and studying the various courses Cambridge had to offer while serving as the college's resident guinea pig. Though her practical theory was unimpressive, Gracie was a capable administrator and scholar, even if somewhat bookish and unlearned. For the Void Sorceress who had not expected to live past thirty, academia was where she excelled. "I am taking Advanced Astral Theory and History, Foundations of Politics and International Relations, Contemporary Issues in Government and Frontier Governance, and finally Politics, Peace and Persistent Prosperity," Gwen recounted her courses. "No sorcery lessons?" "I'll be taking those privately, paid by CCs, though I'd rather attend practicals," Gwen clarified. "Are you keen to come along? Jean-Paul said he's all in if we're going to adventure somewhere. All we need is a Cleric and an Abjurer." "If you've got something in mind, I am in." Gracie nodded vigorously. "After Michaelmas?" "Between that and Lent," Gwen agreed. "I am thinking of volunteering up north, in Ireland." "Where Miss Elvia is stationed?" At Gwen's behest, Gracie and Jean-Paul had both met Elvia. As expected, the happy healer was wholly unaffected by the Void casters' Negatively aligned presence. When both grew enamoured with Elvia, Gwen affirmed a hypothesis where Negative Affinity Mages had a predisposition to enjoy the company of those with highly positively-attuned Elements. As for Gracie's well-placed speculation, Gwen could only laugh. "Or maybe the Murk. I feel a bit guilty for leaving it entirely to the Adventurers. I want to visit Hanmoul, as well." "The Dwarves would like that. I think Richard would like that too. More than going up to Ireland." Gracie paused. "I believe you told me the higher-ups told you to stay away from Ireland?" "Ahahaha, that's right." Gwen disguised her awkwardness with a smile. "Well, if you don't need a top-up, then I am off to see Dede, care to join me?" The sorceress shook her head. "I have to finish these before Supervisor Brown gets back." "Is it weird that we study under Max?" Gwen remarked. "While he studies us? And that's our graduation thesis— how to survive and prosper as a Void Mage?" "At least with Sir Maxwell as our Super, we're free to do as we please." Gracie possessed far more grace than Gwen. "And he's expert enough at everything to teach us what we need." A fact that was mostly true, Gwen conceded. Peculiar as the duck-rearing Magister was, Maxwell Brown came as advertised, an expert in more or less everything, a self-taught Omni-Mage in name and an ambitious magical discoverer of yet untamed frontiers. "Suit yourself." She looked around the laboratory once more, her eyes bouncing from instrument to instrument. "Alright, I'll be going." Cambridge. Emmanuel College. The enormous form of Dede the duck floating serenely on the school's now-infamous pond drew furtive glances from the freshmen who tiptoed by, some going as far as to weave illusions to hide their presence. Others walked taller, having already paid their tithes for the month, and so laughed and jeered at the juniors who confusedly retreated from the brimming waters. "QUACK!" the drake roared, sending a ripple of water to lap at the pool's edge. With only two powerful strokes, it approached the sedge and parted the stalks, drying itself as it waddled toward Gwen. "Hey, buddy!" Gwen patted the duck on the head. Compared to nine-months ago, Dede was now the size of a small horse or at least the height of one. Though he hadn't received an official weighing, some suspected the duck possessed a good ten stones of pure avian sinew and muscle beneath its vibrant feathers. As for the mallard's strength, Gwen had once seen Dede fish a work Golem that had lost control at the fish docks out of the water. In recent months, Dede had taken up crashing Mage Duels whenever they were held in the open, often subduing both contestants before extorting from them HDMs. When the students complained, they were told that the duck was a vital experiment the Magisters of the College were carrying out and if they wished their HDMs back— they should at least be strong enough to best a duck. Naturally, the instructors forwent the fact that Dede was now at minimum at the seventh or eighth tier, requiring a Magus-lead party of Single-School Mages to subdue. "Quack!" Gwen fed the duck a drip of her Essence. "You won't believe what happened." "Quack? QUACK! QUACK!" "Yep, didn't go well at all. Getting the Scale back just got crazy complicated." "Quack?!" "I know, I am disappointed too." Gwen sighed, finding solace in stroking the duck's back, wondering with a small mote of paranoia if that's how Almudj felt when dealing with her. "Quack!" Dede flapped its wings. "Oh?" Gwen looked up toward where the duck had gestured. "Your friends are back?" Above, she saw a host of crows, or perhaps Jackdaws. Once their eyes met, the dark-feathered avians quickly alighted around the duck, forming a circular murder. "Caw-Caw!" The leading bird was familiar to her, for the bird was near twice the size of the other Crows and had a keen intelligence about its eyes. "Caw! Caw!" Dede placed a wing over the raven. "You've become good friends, eh?" "Caw!" "Quack!" Ambivalent as to whether she should learn 'Speak with Animals', a second-tier Divination spell that took significant energy to master, she released her Familiars to benefit from the Empathic Link. "EE! EE!" "SHAA!" Across the pool, the group of freshmen that had been gawking at her gasped, some in horror, others in barely contained excitement. "Hello!" the raven bobbed its head. "So." Gwen made sure her skirt was tucked before she addressed the bird. "You're not Mage, are you?" "Nay!" The answer was no. When the Crow first began to talk, it almost blew Gwen's mind. When it appeared the Crow only knew how to say a dozen words, she had grown immeasurably disappointed. "Sure you're not a Familiar?" "Nay!" the raven replied with a negative. "So you're a wildling, here in London?" she knelt to inspect the raven once more, checking its leg for bands or Storage Rings. "And you don't work for a Mage?" "Ya! Ya!" The raven hopped closer, its eyes were as bright as polished Mithril, with both irises the colour of quicksilver. "What a beautiful bird." Gwen struck out a hand and slowly inched toward the raven. The raven leaned in and allowed the sorceress to pet its feathers. Its feathers, Gwen noted, had a metallic sheen, but the section around its neck and belly were incredibly soft and felt good to touch. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. "Quack!" Dede approved of her acceptance as she stroked the bird. "Alright, alright." Gwen calmed Magister Brown's favourite duck. "Here—" She gathered a mote of Essence. "Ya!" The raven took the mote, grew suddenly stiff for a few seconds, then danced happily by hopping about here and there, performing a little dance. All around them, the murder cawed, some flapping away, others joining in some unholy ritual by fanning their tail feathers. To Gwen, her goal was to give Dede a friend and companion. Originally, she had thought Dede would have picked one of the female ducks for apparent reasons. As it turned out, Dede was more of an inter-species fanatic with exotic tastes, not unlike a North Shore trust-fund kid with yellow fever. "… Just a mote." Gwen patted the duck. "We don't want Max in a huff now, do we? Your mate's going to live a long time, Dede. And she'll have no enemies that can outfly her." That last part rang true, for she had seen the enhanced raven in flight. Thanks to her Essence boost, the bloody thing was a streak of Void-coloured lightning. Having now reported to both sorceress and duck at Emmanuel, Gwen's errand concluded. Outside the college, Gwen checked her Message device. Seeing that both Petra and Richard had not responded, it was safe to assume the two preoccupied and she would be enjoying her butter chicken alone. Like herself, her family members' new lives at Cambridge had been full of enterprise. Petra, for instance, had taken up with the Dwarves, learning directly under Yossari after receiving the college's benediction for extra-curriculum credits. In the months that she had remained in London, she had not only picked up a fan club but also made a name for herself as the researcher of the Nephrite Spellcube, a systematic spell-stowing system surging in popularity among the junior Mages studying Enchantment. Hers was a much-desired outcome that aligned with Petra's original objective, for her Magus Thesis' submission was the founding of an "Enchantment-based Spell-storage System that increased the Versatility of Enchanters". Through her improvements to the project initially began by Wen, Petra's patented Spellcubes were now longer-lasting, easier to maintain, and more adaptable in the number, type, and Meta-magic they could capture. That an Enchanter could, upon taking on the mantle of a Spellcube user, replicate five-to-six instances of her party's spells, or begin the adventure with a trove of healing, restoration, detoxification and detection spells would also significantly improve the quality of life for Adventuring Enchanters— a Mage Class infamously restricted to either item-combat or illicit Mind Magic. The Spellcube, in Petra's words, wouldn't make Enchanters frontline fighters— but it would make Enchanters the most versatile School of Magic outside of Transmutation and Conjuration. But there was a caveat. Aside from needing an enormous VMI and a high Affinity, copycat spells lacked the intricacy of the original. For instance, an untrained Illusionist still had little to no control over the manifestation of an Illusion. Likewise, upper-tier Transmutation like Investitures and other polymorphic spells used by Mages without Affinity in Transmutation would end in spectacular and horrific deaths. Even Divination, when used by a non-Diviner, could drive a Mage insane with its flood of voices and thoughts, just as anything beyond essential healing of wounds by unguided application of pre-condition flow of Positive Energy would hasten a patient's demise. Petra's unannounced goal, however, was something Gwen understood to be quite controversial— the creation of Spellcubes that could be used by Non-Mages. It was with great irony that her cousin's unnatural ambition had its origins in Magister Wen, whose altruism gave way when a Void Sorceress fell into her lap. Whatever the case, Petra's goals were clear and within reach, and that was something to envy. Conversely, Richard's two trimesters at Cambridge saw the Conjurer take to London's social scene like a fish to water. Perhaps it was because her cousin had been reared by Prince's into the Old Boys' culture, or maybe he was simply that charismatic, Richard was already a junior vice-chair in one of King's oldest societies, with the motto being "All the King's Men", or "The most Exclusive Society of the Kinsmen"; both of which reeked of obnoxiousness. Of late, her cousin had passionately advocated her visitation of one of their stag parties, promising a bevy of men lusting to enter her service at the Isle of Dogs. To Gwen's knowledge, Richard wasn't joking either. To date, at least twenty of the junior staff at the Isle of Dog's various projects were members of King's College. If the trend continued until the Isle's final phase, she might very well be the figurehead of a newly formed "Old Dog's Club." For this reason, Gwen had felt the temptation to humour her employees. But then, inevitably, she thought about Evee still slogging through blood, shit and Spellfire in Ireland and the sheer hassle of having to smile and nod and pretend to listen to someone talk about their family or their magic as they licked her over with their eyes. When she thought of that, even her half-hearted interest waned. On the sorcerous front, Richard had finally surpassed a major Conjuration milestone, reaching the seventh tier of expertise by mid-September. Concurrently, with his Abjuration skills bottlenecked at five, her cousin considered between picking up Transmutation or Illusion. For a Water Mage, Transmutation was a staple School of Magic that offered everything from Advanced Spellshaping to body-morphic magic. On the other hand, even without Transmutation, Lea, Richard's Undine Familiar could double as a gateway, leaving Richard to exercise the School of Illusion. The latter's advantage was that water, being a soft-Abjuration element, benefited most from obfuscation, evasion and deflection rather than erecting hard-shield after hard-shield like Earthen, Crystal or Dust Abjurers. Other than that, Richard had taken out a small loan from the family bank, AKA "Gwen", to purchase an apartment in the Isle of Dogs. "Here is my home now," the land-owning Mr Huang had said with a smile. And Gwen had felt secretly very happy indeed. And so, inspired by her cousins, Gwen readied herself for the attainment of her long-promised slice of personal paradise, a domain she could mould as she saw fit to recreate some of that nostalgia from her long-lost homeworld. Peterhouse. The Old Court. From her dorm, Gwen primed her body for the nine hectic weeks of tutelage that would culminate in a slew of assignments and examinations. Thankfully, for the first year, the course content of her chose subjects of governance were all case study reports, wherein during her second year, she would have to engage in active field surveys. Of her courses, therefore, it was only Advanced Astral Theory and History that consisted of a written examination. That said, with her Essence-enhanced memory and her grandmother's Ioun Stone of Clarity, she felt confident her grades should satisfy. As for her remaining waking hours, she continued intermittent lessons with her tutors, as advised by Lady Grey, as well as her monthly meetups with her House Mistress to discuss concerns, progress, and to enjoy High Tea. Though the Marchioniness did not offer the selfless devotion of her Babulya, Gwen steadily received her bi-weekly dose of human affection. Overall, her planning had paid off. With the Westferry Print Works handed to Lorenzo and the Isle of Dogs presided over by Eric Walken and a growing battalion of NoM auditors, she had time to focus on academics and personal development, researching her Master's Tomes for other forms of potentially degenerate arcanistry. Shockingly, her planned peace lasted six weeks. Then, one cold November morning, while she and Gracie burned vitality and mana in the belly of an advanced Cognitive Chamber, trouble came calling in the shape of a Dwarf and a reporter. Her callers were Yossari Vildrenbrandt, Alchemist Master of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth and Dominic Lorenzo, who after hearing the Dwarf's request deemed it best that he accompanied the Master. "Gwen." Yossari was in a right tiff; her face was the colour of at least six slammed steins of finest stout. "Greetings from the Murk, Lass. I've got a Message from Lady Hilda. Think yer got sometime fer us?" "Always." Gwen bid Gracie to take a break, then mopped the sweat from her excited face with a towel. When Gracie asked if she should leave, Gwen bid the girl stay. Glancing at Lorenzo, she then addressed her Dwarven ally. "You look atrocious. Has something terrible happened?" "Aye." The Dwarf's shoulder's drooped. "A Deepdowners duo, newly arrived from Bavaria, has detained Hanmoul and Hilda. They're livid that she opened up the Murk to Human Adventurers and want to rescind the treaty we signed with the Shard. Hanmoul's people tried to reason with them, but they've got the Citadel rightly rilled up. The Guildhall's split in our favour— for now, though I don't know fer how long if the Iron Guard's Captain and our Deepdowner is absent from the council. Yer've met our nobles, haven't ye? Bunch of self-serving Murk rats!" "I thought we're doing well down there." Gwen cocked her head in mild confusion. "I mean, casualties are a thing of course, but you guys are down to the Deep Murk, aren't you? New Citadel and all that. More progress in a year than three decades." "Tis true." Yossari appeared sheepish. "The Deepdowners though, they would rather we never pierce the Murk at all than to do it with Human help." Conservatives, Gwen acknowledged with a frown, were as a species the same all over the world, superseding even the boundaries of the Planes. "Wait up." Gwen stopped the Alchemist. "If those buggers ain't from Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth and the Murk's under path is still being cleared, how the hell did they get over here to London?" "Using the Murk's upper strata Keystone Gates," Yossari explained. "They exist still, it's an old magic belonging to the Deepdowners. These Keystones work so long as Deepholm stands, that's also how we know our Ancestor's Halls still stands stalwart against the lurkers in the dark." "But they don't connect to Deepholm?" "Not anymore." Gwen considered her Alchemist's words. "Well, I am all for doing you favours, if you know what I mean." "Aye, I know yer mean the Fabricators." Yossari despaired. "Suppose that's why they took Hilda. They said she broke the Code of the Engineseers and the Artificer's Laws laid down by Haj-Zül Brumdahr by sending the Engines and their Seers to the surface and allowing their secrets to be studied by infidels." "They don't think I am owed a Debt of Haj-Zül?" "Not really…" the Dwarf's face grew scarlet. "They want to pay you off with Crystals, as they do with the subterranean Draconids around Deepholm." "Does it look like I need Crystals?" Gwen growled in a manner no less menacing than Ruxin. "It's not as though Dragons need Crystals either," Lorenzo reasoned. "In the eyes of these old, deep-down Dwarves, we Humans are no less prone to purposeless hoarding." "… I'll concede that point." Gwen rolled her eyes. "So, what do you want an outsider like me to do. Void these bastards and bring Hilda back?" Gracie, who was drinking her water, suddenly choked. "That is ill-advised!" Lorenzo interceded. "Gwen, you'd start a war between Bavaria and the Towers there. If you murder those Deepdowners, either the Shard gives you up, or there will be a multi-front civil war with the Murk." "Somehow, I doubt that." Gwen passed the possibility of such a conflict through a mental filter. "That would mean we'll be fighting the Murk Dwarves, and the Murk Dwarves have far more to benefit from siding with us than with the Deepdowners. As long as the Dyar Morkk isn't made accessible, no one's going home— meaning they'd be risking their current 'home' for the sake of a few expatriate preachers who can't even get them to their real homes. In my opinion, unless the Citadel Council gets taken over by religious fanatics, there's no way they'd choose all-out war." "Aye, well said, lass." Yossari appeared immensely impressed. "But there are fanatics fer sure; the only question is how many. We were thinking, how about a demonstration of yer powers like the one that so impressed Whurforlüm and Hilda? These Deepdowners, they've lived in their world of crystals and minerals for so long, they have no idea how powerful yer kin can be and how necessary yer all are in reconnecting us to the Dyar Morkk." "You say 'convince','" Gwen made a gesture like Caliban menacing prey in its spider form "Do you mean like this?" "Nay, not threatening the Murk rats." Yossari put up both hands. "Yer can frighten them by aiding us Purge a Dweller Den—" The Dwarf's bushy brows then wiggled. "— Yer could also diplomacy them with yer juice." Gracie's eyes grew as wide as hen's eggs. "Mistress Yossari." Lorenzo cut in. "Our young lady isn't that kind of sorceress." "She means Essence Maotai," Gwen assured Lorenzo that Yossari had the best of intentions. "Get em licked and they'll give Hanmoul and Hilda back?" "If they can't be convinced even then." Yossari's expression grew dangerous. "Guildmaster Ironførge's patience isn't infinite. We Dwarf's don't lust after warring— but if war sits on yer like a flatulent Greenskin..." Gwen mulled over this piece of information for a moment more, matching in her mind what knowledge she had gained about the Dwarves in her many months at Cambridge. "Yossari, I think it's got to be something else," she said. "The stakes are too high for these Deepdowners if they're just here to bugger with our Adventuring arrangements. These full-plate maniacs travelled via the surface, the very Vadam thing they hate just to tell the Red Citadel 'no humans'? That's ridiculous." "Lass, I wouldn't hide anything from yer." Yossari's voice took on a serious tone. "If yer suspicious, there's no obligation ter come. We're 'mates' whether yer wants ter help Hilda or nay." "Of course I'll help," Gwen told the Dwarf. "My Void Mages and I need a good stretch after so much time cooped up inside the Cog Chambers. Lorenzo, what's your take on this? How about you, Gracie?" "I think it's good publicity," Lorenzo said. "That said, you might have to ask for some favours from Lady Grey or Astor. They're both involved with parliament, have business with the Dwarves, and possess direct access to Lord Ravenport. The Duke of Norfolk is in charge of the Foreign Affairs Office and will have a far better lead on why these Deepdowners are here now of all times." "Dickie, eh?" Gwen realised she hadn't thought about the man for some time. Such was the peace offered by London that her mind focused only on her studies— that and the act of rolling her investments to fleece the City of London of tax incentives. "Gracie?" "I am happy to help," the girl said nervously, though her eyes were bright and anticipatory. "I've always wanted to go on an adventure outside of London." "Nice. I'll go and see Lady Grey then. Yossari, you want to come?" "I shall await yer decision at the Printing Press." Yossari shook her head. "The lidless cave here makes my head spin. It's worse than the knife ear's forests. There'll be rewards, Gwen— if you succeed, Lady Hilda will owe yer a great deal, and her family tapped into rich seams in Deepholm." Gwen laughed, as did Lorenzo. More than Crystals, both knew how urgently Gwen needed those Fabricators to keep up the speed of development on the Isle. Without the Dwarves' aid, her projected timetable would stretch out by three-fold. "Alright." She patted the Alchemist on the shoulder. "We'll get to the bottom of this, Yossari." "Aye, lass, I knew we could count on yer!" Yossari gave her a big hug around the waist. "Can't wait ter see the look on those blasted Deepdowner's faces when yer deploys yer beasties!"

Evening descended on the Isle of Dogs. In the not so distant past, not a single soul would stalk the streets of Millwall at midnight lest they were fleeing from a muddy mugger or a vermin-infested hostel. Now, there was an enormous flow of folk, both Mages and NoMs, loudly meandering their way through the boisterous stalls. Unlike the usual markets catered toward farmers selling their produces or Mages who sold Enchanted trinkets, the "Millwall Night Market's" focus was unsanitary comfort cuisine of all kinds catering to the twenty-four-hour construction schedule. Once past the entryway, the smell of coffee wafted through the frigid air, joined by the ambient scent of newly installed heating elements blasting the crowd with diffused radiance. Past the beverage stands positioned for quick sales, the town's favourite street foods lined the first few rows, luring in customers with the scent of sizzling bacon and melting sour cream on steaming potato. Deeper inside, the sound of fryers turning raw fish into crispy fingers of delectable white flesh joined the glooping of hot soup pouring into waxed cups. Pie stalls by the dozen, each no larger than a van, sold an array of baked goods from the home kitchens of the residents, adding to the income of sons and husbands who invariably worked on the construction site. On this evening, while the Isle's insatiable mistress looked into the possibility of an incursion into the Deep Murk, Richard Huang, Eliot Cox and Luka Spencer relaxed after a long day of labour. Thanks to Richard's connections, the duo, together with others from King's, worked to complete internships in the most-advertised private infrastructural development district in London, one that expanded exponentially thanks to the aid of Dwarven engineering overcoming both shell and mud. Each of the Mages had already survived the baptism of combat; what they needed now to qualify as administrator Maguses was the experience to assuage the scepticism of their Cambridge Supervisors. Of their present meal, Richard had ordered the Fishermen's Pie, a local delicacy made by an old matron over on Tiller's Road who usually sold out before her cart could make it past the ferry. Naturally, Richard had charmed the baker, and so she habitually reserved a pie for the "nice young man" on Thursdays. Eliot stuck true to Fish and Chips, being a faithful Londoner. Finally, Lukas settled for a plate of farm to table sausages swimming in greasy gravy, a decision he now regretted because the stall owner, a Mr Dobson, was better at selling bangers than he was at making them. Presently, the trio was watching the locals put on a shit show. The street theatre involved a party of security officials, likely not from Millwall, Mudchute or Cubitt Town, albeit outfitted correctly, having a chat with the dubious sausage-seller. "Don't be a bore, Dobson, the Late Night Opening Surcharge is 3 HDMs, clear as day," shouted the leading Mage, a Transmuter of sorts with a wand knocking by his knees. From the smoke-ring at its tip, the man was no stranger to using it. "You know the drill." Dobson, the purveyor of Luka's mystery meat, appeared wholly indignant. "Bollocks, ye lot collected th' late-night supervision fees just yesterday! I gave ye two HDMs!" "Who told you to open past midnight?" The Transmuter had a face that only a mother could love, and that's assuming the mother was an Orc. "You know this." "I did not!" The owner moved a hand over to the tongs that had been sitting in oil. "Oi, oi." Another fellow, a Fire Mage from the looks of the mana carelessly leaking from his body, lit up a finger with a mote of fire. "Don't get testy now." "You're charging what, a quarter LDM for a plate of sausage." The Transmuter dipped a digit into the bubbling gravy without fear for the heat, stirred the watery sauce, then watched the oil drip. "And that's not even including mash and whatever this slop might be. Is that even potato? It looks like flour..." "That's good feeding, that is!" Dobson was indignant. "At that price, that's cutting me own throat!" Richard's lips curled. Luka pushed away his plate. What puzzled the trio was that these "Security" wore the blue-black uniform of the locally contracted guards looking after the labourers and workers flooding into the Isle of Dogs. "I didn't know thugs wore uniforms," said the Ice Mage to his companions. Gwen's cousin let loose a low snigger. "Where've you been, Luka? It's only natural that the biggest thugs wear the flashiest uniforms." "What are these guys? They look like the guards the boss hired." "They're from the private security firm Magister Walken engaged to keep an eye on the NoMs," Richard said. "Sentry Holdings? They're certainly taking some liberties." CLANG! A tray of gravy struck the floor, flooding the cold night air with the delicious smell of melted fat swimming in a savoury soup. Somewhere, a crow cawed, likely offended by the sound and smell of spilt offal. "Jesus, Dobson, the amount of lard in that thing." The Transmuter lifted both hands. "Bloody slippery, eh? Just slipped off the cart. You should secure the load before you hurt someone and cause some damage. If that happens, it'll be another 8 HDMs. I mean, look at your stall, there are a dozen health violations at least." The stall owner's face turned the colour of duck liver. Besides Richard and Eliot, Luka stared in horror at his half-eaten, sawdusty bangers. "Should we do something?" Eliot nudged Richard. "This isn't going to do the Isle any favours." Richard told his friend to hang on. "Fine. Here." Dobson appeared to have made up his mind. Reaching into his apron, he produced a stack of greasy LDMs and threw it down in front of the Transmuter in a fit of frustration. Perhaps it was by choice, or maybe by chance, but the stack of bundled paper and crystals landed in the still dissolving pot of lard. "Pick that up, NoM." The Transmuter's expression lost the amicable, mocking mirth. "Do it now." "Just leave me alone," the stall owner growled. "I am trying to make an honest living here, ye bastards—" CRASH! Before the man could finish, the Transmuter-in-uniform launched a kick that sent the cart of profane sausages surging forward until it struck the rail preventing visitors from falling into the Thames. The top half of the cart snapped off entirely, breaking free from the frame to tumble into the river, sending the bangers downstream to poison unlucky fishes. "Consider that an official warning," the Transmuter said to the sausage sizzler with a scowl, his face full of sadistic satisfaction. "Next time you sell meat that comes from God knows, we'll be less lenient." The stall owner took a deep breath. Richard could see Dobson was shaking from head to toe as though he was the one that had just taken a dip in the Thames and not his sausage cart. He could fight, of course; the hot air of courage was free. Unfortunately, against a team of Mages, he would be slitting his own throat. "You can't do this," the man said quietly. "The Devourer won't allow it." The hoodlums broke into scattered laughter. "We're the security here, old man. If you want to file a complaint, you can take it with Mr Smithen. Now pick up those crystals and clean them." "You think you can do whatever you want…" the sausage seller spoke as though in a trance. "You're wrong, here is the Isle of Dogs." The Transmuter's patience evaporated. But before the man could loosen his shock wand, one of his companions held him back with a pat on the shoulder. "Mr Dobson is free to do business, or not, Jared. Don't over-complicate a simple thing." The Transmuter shrugged off his friend. "Count yourself lucky, NoM." The stall owner had more mouth to deliver, but the older man who spoke up silenced him with a look. "I think that's enough, Mr Dobson. As we said, the Isle of Dogs isn't a good place for NoMs, not anymore. There's good money to be made if you choose to leave, and a businessman has to spend Crystals to make Crystals. I hope you understand how fleeting opportunities can be." Dobson's eyes remained downcast. The Evoker retrieved the money with a Mage Hand, cleaned the LDMs and notes, then stowed the lot. "Sell your home, go to Greenwich, find a wife and pray one of your kids Awakens. That's the best you can hope for." With the theatre now at an end, Eliot turned to Richard. "Who is this Smithen?" "I am assuming the guy running the security company looking after the Millwall Market." Richard dabbed the corner of his mouth. "But how does someone this dirty get past Walken? Or is our Magister complicit? Nah? A few HDMs? Even ten-thousand HDMs, wouldn't be worth Walken's meagrest effort. The situation stinks like overnight oysters if you ask me." "What're are you thinking?" Luka's tone grew worried. "Something very entertaining." Richard grinned. "As for now, they've won my curiosity." An hour later, the trio from King's lurked outside a recently refurbished apartment converted into a commercial unit for office space, listening-in via Richard's Familiar and a Scry Scroll. After watching the same crew shakedown a dozen stalls, they now had a decent idea of the men's modus operandi. Outside the converted residential building, signage depicting the logo for the "Sentry Holdings" was displayed prominently. There were even flyers they could take from a concrete box transmuted into the stonework. To the residents, on the surface at least, the security firm appeared entirely legitimate. Inside, on the second level, Lea hovered in her mist form, invisible and silent, observing the events inside the soddy office. "Here's our take for the evening, Sir." The Transmuter emptied his Storage Ring of LDMs, notes and HDMs onto a countertop presided over by a burly Mage in an ill-fitting suit. "That much?" The man whistled. "That's a lot of sparkles for a food market run by NoMs." "Their clients are mostly Mages," Jared explained. "Transmuters, Conjurers, Enchanters, white-collars and builders. The Devourer pays well." "Any trouble?" The man known as "Smithen" cocked his head to study his underlings. "No one spoke up?" "Nothing so far." Jared slapped his chest. "We're all battle-hardened, Sir. A single look from one of us and those desk jockeys would go soft at the knees." "You were not followed?" "We triple-checked," the older Evoker assured their leader. "Good. Do be careful you don't run into the Devourer, and stay away from the Dwarves." "Goes without saying, Lieutenant." The man growled. "Sorry, James," the Transmuter apologised. "Force of habit." Smithen rapped the table with his knuckles. "There's too many Crystals here." If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. "Too much?" Jared appeared puzzled. "If anything, they've got more." "Take too much, and their business won't survive." Smithen materialised a cigarette. Beside Jared, their Fire Mage ignited the fag's tip with a slick flick of the wrist. "We're shearing sheep... You're butchering them." "… Sorry, Lieu— Smithen." Jared half-saluted before he stopped himself. "Shall I return the money?" "No need, but stay low for a bit," Smithen declined. "Tell the men to stand down for a few days as well, take some rest and relaxation. If you want to work, reinforce Team Two and Six while they clear out the rest of the undesirables in Sector Seven, Canary Lane. I want the whole street sealed and sold by the end of the month. Is that clear?" "Too easy, Sir," another voice commented from behind their leader. "This beats hunting monsters any day. Who'd have thought there's so much HDMs in civilian property development." "Watch your mouth," Smithen snapped at the voice from the back. "You better get your mana conduits wired together, Cater, or someone is going to take a giant shit on you one day." "Sir! Yessir!" The man saluted while the other laughed. "Dismissed." With the conversation over, Richard commanded his Undine to withdraw, concurrently terminating one of the several Scrys he just happened to have stowed, because that's what any respectable Mage would have on their person at all times. "Thoughts?" he asked the others. "Act natural; we're just passersby." "Military Unit? They look like a platoon to me. Not a Mage Flight, maybe grunts returning from the Frontiers?" "It's not unusual for ex-military Service folk to work security," Luka agreed. "Bit unscrupulous though." "You fellers don't see what they're doing?" Richard regarded his two bookish companions. "They said they're trying to get the NoMs to sell their properties." "So?" Elliot appeared puzzled. "All the NoMs are trying to sell at the moment." "You think those folks are buying land at the market rate?" Richard snorted. "I bet they can turn around tidy profit auctioning those properties. After all, if all the NoMs are selling, then the market's oversaturated, but if you can hold onto a few to push back redevelopment, there's a lot that suddenly comes into play." His companions made faces of elucidation. "Okay, are you going to… deal with them?" The hesitation in Eliot's voice was because after working beside Richard for nearly a year, he and Luka had come to acknowledge a particular side of the talented Mr Huang. When it came to his cousin, the Water Mage was a two-legged Dire Hound. And like a good hound, when it came to their Master's property, Richard Huang was the sort whose cruelty attained apex inspiration at the slightest provocation. For instance, during the earlier months of the Isle of Dog's excavation, the trio of Questing Mages had caught a group of river thieves stealing construction supplies. Within hours, Luka and Eliot saw their friend in a whole new light. It was like another Richard whose heart was as black as his jet-like pupils suddenly rose to the surface and took command. The same afternoon, the formerly tight-lipped thieves gave up their contacts, after which a root-network of dealers, traders and dodgy drafters was exorcised from the parkland expansion project. Later, Richard had even received a commendation from Scotland Yard and a personal endorsement from Magister Walken. "My public practice of Magic Licence is too low-tier to deal with these." Richard regretfully shook his head. "Besides, if it's just some corrupt employees, I can drag them before the Arbitrators. Our little theatre troupe there has higher ambitions, or so it seems." "If they're all ex-Military Mages, then yes." Luka nodded. "Typically, Mage units are broken up and sent to different cities and Frontiers specifically to prevent this sort of thing." "You have to admit, it's a novel way to farm HDMs," Elliot agreed. "Fleecing NoMs is one thing, but gutting them out of their homes? Who'd have thought such a thing was so profitable?" "Something to be nipped in the bud then." Lea materialised behind Richard, hugging her Master by the neck and making the two Cambridge Mages blush with her teasing eyes. "Lea says Smithen keeps a Storage Ring full of documents. Probably the accounts to show his employee lest these army dogs eat more than their allocated fill. For now, let's find Dobson and gather a few more witnesses for Magister Walken before he slits his own throat out of desperation. If we're going to clean house, I want the place scoured down to the foundation." Cambridge. Peterhouse Deer Gardens. "Would a mere ten days of absence suffice?" Lady Grey replaced her cup with a clink. "The Dwarves are inviting you into the Deep Murk; there are horrors there rarely documented with abilities beyond what the Bestiary has recorded." "Which is why our team will be a good fit," Gwen replied with complete confidence. "Caliban is extremely versatile, and I can bore through the ground with its Wyrm form if the need calls for it." "Don't fret. I am not opposed to your desire to give our Dwarven allies a helping hand, nor doubting your abilities." Lady Grey answered with the pose of a swan. "Can you concurrently pass your semester though? Even with an extended exam block?" "Not a problem," Gwen promised. "I'm well ahead on my governance courses, and I should be able to catch up on missed lectures for Planar Theory through recordings. As for Spellcraft— I need field practice, anyway." "Recordings?" "Some of my new friends have volunteered to Lumen-cast the Lecture. Magister Andrews has consented on account of my work with Magister Brown." "Of course." Lady Grey nodded. "New friends are good. Who will you be taking with you?" "Myself, Gracie and Jean-Paul," Gwen said. "I am bringing Richard as our Abjurer and Petra as our utilitarian member. Except for Richard, we all need to put in some field exercises and collect statistics for our spells." "Your Cousin, the Mind Mage?" "Yes, but she hasn't use Mind Magic for a while." "MM is a useful skill to have." Lady Grey smiled serenely. "Very well, how do you hope to keep Gracie safe?" "I'll borrow a Golem Suit if I have to, but I think we should be fine." Gwen recalled Gracie sweating in her comically ungraceful armour. "Unlike our unfortunate compatriot-Adventurers, we've got upper-tier Contingency Rings and, with the new Forward Operating Base they've erected, we should have working Divination Towers as well." "What manner of Monsters will you be anticipating?" "Elemental creatures of the Murk, of course— but Aberrants as well. Maybe Cali's getting a new form soon." "That would be a troublesome encounter for an adventuring party." "Less so for us," Gwen laughed. "Between Jean-Paul and me, we've got something upward of twenty Hounds and three Familiars. Richard's has Lea on double duty Abjuration as well. Together with the Dwarven Iron Guards, we're a veritable expedition, hahaha…" Lady Grey chuckled politely, though her steel-coloured eyes remained wholly serious. "Don't underestimate the Murk, dear. The Dwarves' military is no less than ours. Theirs has been a generational struggle, and I don't see why the addition of three Void Mages would make their task any easier." "Noted," Gwen answered thoughtfully. "I'll be careful." "One more thing." The Marchioness of Ely waited for Gwen to settle before making her point. "If you wish to put the Dwarves into your debt once more, it will need to go through the Foreign Affairs Office. We can't have rogue War Mages haphazardly pulling their weight in the Murk now that official diplomatic ley-lines have been ratified. Put in a report through Ollie at least. Have you spoken to Dickie of late? Or has Dickie found someone to speak to you?" "Not at all." Gwen lifted a brow. "Does the Duke of Norfolk have business with me?" "As a matter of fact, yes." Lady Grey chuckled. "He's been asking about you." "Er…" Gwen felt the sheer fabric on her back grow suddenly clammy. "Any reason? I haven't Consumed anything or made any significant asset acquisitions. Is this about the tattooed Mermen? That's not my fault." "Tryfan wants to know when you'll be visiting." The Lady smirked. "Their Chief Warden, Eldrin, was expecting you as early as March, and then you simply disappeared." "The Hvítálfar? What do they want now?" "They did give you access to your Master's abode, dear. And you came home laden with loot, no? There's the Accord, of course, though that's hardly important if like Gunther, you plan to stay well away from the central continent. That said, you're not Gunther or Alesia. The foundation of your Void resistance, alas, is married to the quintessence of that which the Elves hold dear. Moreover, thanks to Sufina's offer, you would have to consult with our long-lived friends sooner or later. Perhaps it is wise to lend them an ear?" "… Right. And what's Dickie's part in this?" "He's our liaison," the Marchioness reminded her. "As a part of his duties, Lord Marshall Ravenport oversees the Department of Foreign Affairs. Not as an elected official of course, but as an overseer of sorts for the Crown's interests." "And Her Majesty is interested in this?" "The House of Windsor is a stakeholder, yes." Lady Grey inclined her chin. "So I would take every precaution. You've done a great deal very quickly, Gwen. All the more reason to step lightly, because the more you've gained from the Mageocracy…" "…The more I have to lose." "And the more your allies and family has to lose," the Lady affirmed her fears. "Life anywhere involves 'give and take'— what you need to remember, Gwen, is that if you are to give— then don't be shy when the time comes to take… neither the Elves, the Crown, or the Shard are tight-fisted when the need is dire." "I think I understand," Gwen returned the Lady's inference. "How do I schedule a meeting with the Elves?" "You have an outstanding invitation to Trawsfynydd," Lady Grey reminded her. "Shall I leverage a favour for you? Some support from The Shard and the Duke for your second visit to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth could do wonders for publicity even if you need nothing else." "Please." Gwen grew glad she came to visit her mentor. "Thank you, Milady." "It's what Henry would have wanted." Maxine Loftus willed away the tea set. "And it's the least I could do for someone who has turned my dog kennel into some of London's most desirable new addresses." When an ecstatic Gwen arrived at the Isle of Dogs a day later to find Richard, she was instead invited into the Bunker by her cousin for a meeting with her Executive Officer. Together, the two relayed the antecedents of a dastardly ploy to undermine the Isle of Dog Redevelopment Project's betterment of the local NoM's finances. "… so it seems they're from the Militant Faction." Eric Walken swirled the Devonshire tea to mix in the milk. "And they're here with two express purposes. One, to make a quick snatch and grab off the local NoMs, and two— to sell our leases to bidders from their Faction, likely with some goal of achieving a measure of influence within the Lease Holder's voting council." "Not surprisingly, the Barlow Group is providing the funds," Richard appended Walken's explanation. "And I have it on good word that the Exeters are involved in the upper echelons of this infiltration program. Do you have a feud with them?" "I don't even remember their first names," she explained. Once the heat drained from her brain, Gwen tried to make heads and tales out of the hidden crisis that now afflicted her regional development project. The idea that someone somewhere would seek to profit from her deeds was entirely within expectations. In her mind, so long as potential profiteers tapped into the crystal seam without endangering her operations, then she would welcome the competition. What Walken and Richard uncovered, however, was no different than some carrion grubs digging at the roots of her HDM tree! "So, you want to deal with the Dwarves first, or deal with this?" Richard asked. "Magister Walken has some ideas." "Eric?" Gwen's voice was icy. "Your advice?" "That depends on your thirst for satisfaction." Walken eyed the young sorceress within whose body swirling motes of Void-tinged mana rose and fell. "How vengeful are you feeling, and how high do you want this petition to go?" "First, I want to nip this in the bud," Gwen said, repositioning her legs to relax her waist before her body grew over tense. "With extreme prejudice." "Alright." Walken replaced the porcelain. "You want to Void the thieving hand privately, humiliate the culprits publicly, or both." "Both." "I had a feeling you would say that," Eric Walken remarked drily. "Very well, I propose we allow our perpetrators to hang themselves first— after that, we'll make a big stink and go after their employers." "Explain yourself." "The Militants are trying to coerce land from the NoMs to resell," Walken explained. "But we handle the contracts. First, we'll add a clause to all future contracts especially outlining the voiding of a lease with stiff penalties when it is obtained through unscrupulous terms, such as intimidation. I've included something similar in Section 11 already, though, with help from my associates from the Shard, we can ensure the new clause is well-shielded from all litigious enquiries. After that, I'll have the auditors go over the sales and record every transaction, where the HDMs are coming from, where they're going and so on." "At the same time," the Magister continued. "I'll have these military thugs tagged and their dealings put on file. The NoMs might suffer for now, but we'll do our best; informing NoMs of our plans would not do them any favours— it may endanger them instead." "Agreed." Gwen nodded. "We can make it up to them after." "That's right," Walken agreed. "Through evidence-gathering, we'll build an internal case, and then I'll have an Arbitrator we can trust at the Tower set up a case file. I've spoken to Lorenzo, and he says Cabal Number Five might be interested as well, considering the Isle is an infrastructural project for the City of London and any time the military tries to tap into civilian coffers, the Crown grows very upset indeed. Officially, England can't have Mages going around fleecing NoMs of their hard-earned luck. A narrative like that, if left to fester for long enough, would be akin to dismantling the Commonwealth." "But we're putting the story on the METRO anyway." Gwen's grin grew cruel. "Since we're both the victims and the investigators." "Oh, of course," the Magister smiled with teeth. "The best way to get those in power to move is to embarrass them— not enough to enrage, but just enough to nudge them in the right direction. When their reputations are at stake, you'll be amazed how fast those sluggish politicians can move." "… Speaking from experience?" "That's uncalled for." Walken rolled his eyes. "But I am sure you can imagine the fallout when Lorenzo puts the title 'Rob the Poor and Feed the Rich— Militant Greed Knows no Bounds.' on every paper in London." Gwen licked her lips. "How do we know it's the Exeters behind this?" "The offending military units 'retired' here to London come from Militias under the control of their House, mostly returning from the Niger Delta," Richard explained. "That and I think they're taking an extra cut on top of whatever the Barlow Group is trying to accomplish— typical entitlement if you ask me." "Their infiltration is my responsibility," Walken apologised. "The security company came as recommended, and the other areas they patrolled reported positive outcomes. I'll be questioning Magister Vorne when the time comes and give you a proper answer." "No one reported the coercion?" "The Night Markets enjoyed a low level of criminality," Walken said. "Of course, now we know why." "Yeah, all the criminals went out of business once the mob moved in." Gwen rolled her eyes. "How do we want to deal with this in the future? I have a feeling this isn't going to be an isolated occurrence." "We'll use this incident as a public warning," Walken said. "Go and build up some momentum with the Dwarves, get your name circulating through the paper again. When you return on a chariot of infamy once more…" "… We'll close the net." Gwen cackled wickedly. "New headline— 'Rats out to Play when the Mistress is Away.'" Richard laughed. "And afterwards, we should deal with these Militants in public out of righteous anger in defence of our NoM citizens. If anyone else wishes to fleece the IoDRP, then they should beware of our Devourer who descends with dark hair. For though she brings Crystals, she also eats men like air!"

_Khorok Umgor_ , or the "Obsidian Caverns" in the Lingua Franca employed by Humanity, was the deepest established Murk outpost from Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, some two hundred meandering kilometres from the Citadel's gates. Presently, it served as the forward operating post of Red Peak's push into the Dyar Morkk, the low-ways by which the Earthen folk had for generations travelled to and from Deepholm. In recent months, they had come close— very nearly piercing the Murk to touch on the vast earthen veins hollowed out by the Axis Mundi's flow of ultra-dense energies. The Dwarves' rapid progress was because the "deep" held many treasures considered priceless up on the lidless world. Take, for example, the veins of Orichalcum that appeared now and then, long hidden by the tectonic shifts of Terra's crust. Only the Dwarves knew how to safely tap the maximum volume of raw metal from the golden ores to sell at-cost to the Adventurers who then returned to the surface with loot worth a dozen times their salary and employ. Despite its dangers, the Murk was an untapped treasure trove providing secretive and rare ingredients that the sorcerous casters of Himmseg desired. Take, for example, the peaceful but deadly Myconids, whose spores and stems made for potent potions of illusion and fantasy, or the Core of an Evil-Eye, an apex predator as ancient and intelligent as Dragons, only aberrantly twisted by the energies of the sub-spaces between the Elemental Planes. Both were prime examples of death and danger for the wayward Adventurer— but should a Mage be successful in their suit, they were also career-making feats that would set a Mage for life. Then there were the Aberrant beings, malformed things with pallid skin and no face, with only a mouth of yellow teeth and acidic saliva. Some say that they used to be lucid and native inhabitants of the Murk before the Black Dragon destabilised the Planes, others say they had always existed but hid in the grey spaces between the Astral and the Elemental. Either way, these creatures unique to the Murk offered little in the form of usable, salvageable material, but at the same time possessed indescribable abilities wrought of raw chaos, propagated by survival. Sometimes, they appeared as ravening swarms in the tens of thousands as bulbous, Gob-like "Gibberlings" with arms and legs and no eyes, roving from place to place, eating and evolving until they attained their full humanoid form. When left unchecked, they melded into a Behemoth, a misshapen titan of spindly legs and fleshy carapace crawling its way up from the depth, smashing Golems and crushing the Citadel's etched walls. Most Aberrants, when they died, had their swollen-body erupt into toxic ichor, making fallow an entire region and forcing its inhabitants to relocate. For this reason, both in appearance and behaviour, the Aberrant creatures of the Murk belied Human logic and Dwarven attempt at subjugation. Khorok Umgor, therefore, was an absolute necessity for both Human and Dwarven expeditions into the Murk, for this far down, the only light and food suitable for consumption was what the pioneers could bring on their persons or in their rings. Even water became a rare resource because once delineated from the Elemental Plane, what could be conjured consisted only of sulphuric sludge that had to be neutralised and distilled. And it was here that Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt, scion of Varekan-Kül, Bringer of the Lumen, was made hostage by her ambitions. For many months, her gamble on Human ingenuity had paid its dividends in rare Earth minerals. Understanding both Humanity's drive and its greed, she had told the Guild to sell all collected ore and mineral back to the Adventurers at cost, ensuring that the next wave to arrive would be twice as greedy and ten-times in size. And for a quarter of an earth-cycle, that had worked. Unfortunately, just as the expedition progressed close enough to the first ley-stone of the Dyar Morkk, the Keepers of Umgor èron Varèkan arrived to throw a wrench in the Golem's gearbox. As with her and Ebren, the senior Deepdowners came as a pair. But Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh were far older than herself and her partner and held much higher positions in the hierarchy of the Keepers. Their Citadel, Umgor èron Varèkan, the "Cavern of Enlightenment", was one of the sacred places of learning built and maintained by the descendants of Gul-Zūh, the chief arithmetician among the Seven Ancestors. Within its vaulted halls were kept the holy rites of Machine-Life that gave vigour to the Dreadnaughts, the Dwarves' most capable defenders. Hilda wasn't sure if Zairic and Zethoag arrived because they had felt a shift in the Elemental Plane of Earth that signalled the Red Citadel's imminent success, or if they had come to execute some nefarious design— but the pair did assume near-immediate control thanks to the all-too-willing nobles. That, Hilda confessed, had been her misgiving. With Gwen's intrusion unbalancing the status quo, she had pushed the Nobles and left them little to no dignity, heaping upon them the shame of the Citadel's stagnancy. Unlike those greedy Murk-Dwarves, she had endured enough— if she had to be daring, or as Ebren would say, radical, then so be it. That was what had set off the nobles— that and her giving away the extraordinary resources the Humans had uncovered so that the Nobles wouldn't have an excuse to stay and loot. For losing their lode, the greedy, entitled cogs must have felt her actions were personal. _Clang! Clang-Clang!_ "—Skrrrrrark!" "SKAARRRRRR—" Outside the newly built keep, the sound of claw scraping on metal and spells erupting on carapace continued to fill the outer courtyard with a choir of ultra-violence. Her Iron Guards, supported by the Human Mages, fought with heart and soul against the aberrant, spindly creatures of maimed flesh as they scaled the walls designed to form a killing field for Spellswords and ranged spells. Fire, Ice, Lightning, Magma, all forms of raw elemental power smashed into the pallid bodies of the jittering beasts dashing madly for the warm flesh sweating inside the sealed cavern. Though they were trapped inside Khorok Umgor and cut off— Hilda reminded herself— they were far from helpless. Concurrently, deeper within the keep, the Foundry Engines continued their work, chewing up the cavern's interior and spitting out girders of iron to grind out the resources the Citadel's defenders required to keep fighting. So long as their numbers kept up, help would arrive and a bigger, better defended Forward Operating Base would be there to greet their allies. That or they would eventually dig their way to safety. _CRASH!_ The gates toppled, though that too was within the Engineseers' designs. Within the "shattered" wall, its metal plates were interlinked by woven cables that instantly ensnared the maddened Behemoth making its entry, turning its body into a living stopper that prevented its allies from skittering past. "FIRE!" came the cry of Dwarven Captains stationed in the inner courtyard. "Lancers, Concentrated Fire! Drain yer batteries then prepare fer Hand-ter-Hand!" The Golem-suited Iron Guards opened up with both the Spellwords on their arm and mounted on their back, turning parts of the mesh-gate contraption red-hot while other spells pierced the Aberrant Behemoth with missiles of mote-sharp obsidian spikes. _BOOM! BOOM—BOOM!_ The Magma Missiles, each etched with explosive runes, erupted into ten-thousand jagged splinters, shredding through the creature's innards and taking the animals behind it with equal gusto. "They're retreating!" The Citadel's Diviners broadcasted from the Møsvian's Chamber of the Watch down in the fort's belly. "Clear the field! Ready for another wave! Human Mages, go and rest. Iron Guards, check equipment and replace your ammunition! Take the injured down to L3 Infirmary. Repairs at Station L2!" Hilda looked away from the projection of the battle on the wall and back to the ancient map in front of her. More than the fight, she was frustrated by her kin. Why did Zairic and Zethoag show up now of all times, and why are they so desperate to stop the Red Citadel from rejoining the Dyar Morkk? She could understand their ire, but even so, to leave an entire Battle Group isolated and unprovisioned? _Ding!_ "Captain Bronzehorn," she answered the Missive. "Battle Report." "The Human casters are burnt, and we're short on Magma crystals," came the voice of Ebren in her Communication Crystal. "Quartermaster Legg says the excavation isn't keeping up and our fuel supply's near critical. The seams here are suitable for settlement, but not for protracted combat." "I see…" Hilda had no solutions against hard arithmetics. She and Ebren could escape this hell if they wanted, but that would mean abandoning the five hundred or so of her Kinsmen here, including at least forty of Hanmoul's most elite Iron Guards, and the sixty-odd Mages who had taken up semi-permanent residence in the Murk. For now, the Deepdowner could only hope that her allies arrived before they had to fight the Aberrants hand-to-hand, gauntlets to claw. That— and something smarter didn't lurk in the Murk, awaiting its chance. The work residence of The Duke of Norfolk, Lord Marshall of Britain and its military forces, rested between the Chief Whip's Office and the Clerk's Chamber, generously lit by a waist to ceiling window overlooking the Old Palace Yard. Though the suite itself was large, it was made small by the portraits of Ravenport Patriarchs of the past, each a holder of the title. In the centre of the abode, seated upon the thumb-thick carmine Ursa skin-rug, sat an enormous desk both physically and metaphysically representing the imposing weight of the Office of the Earl Marshall, eighth of the Great Officers under the Crown. To the suite's right was a series of perches, richly lacquered, upon which several quasi-magical ravens perched, relics of an earlier age without Divination Towers and now acting as the eyes and ears of the Goddess of Secrets bunkered below Westminster. Above the fireplace, another relic of days bygone, a set of ornate armour, triple-Enchanted from under-layer to polished cuirass, set below a Helmet of Truth Seeing, besides of which sat a Shield of Warding and a Smiting Hammer still stained with oxidised gore from the Spellfire Treason of 1605. The bloodstain was said to belong to one of the chief conspirators, and though validity could no longer be obtained, the story remained. It was in this august office now that its holder, Mycroft Ravenport, pondered the overzealousness by which Morrigan executed her duties of late, lacking complaint and possessed of a hyperactive efficiency that made him wonder if he had accidentally left out pints of blood, possibly after a nasty paper cut. For his next appointment, he was to consider a request from an old colleague, the Marchioness of Ely, one of the several surviving lines with a lineage as ancient as his own. Hers was a history based on academia, a testament to the foresight of the first Marquis of Ely; the man who leased the bulk of his lands to a group of despondent scholars fed up with the peasantry of Oxfordshire's calls for witch-hunts. The matter was regarding a pet project of hers and his— Gwen Song of Cambridge, who was revolutionising the Mageocracy's methodology of weaning future Void Mages. Through a series of serendipitous encounters, the sorceress had survived then acquired a means to hybridise Shamanistic sorcery and Svartálfar Essence magic into the Imperial Magic System, utilising her bricolage-Affinity to enable what no Void Mage had ever attempted— to share vitality with a bound subordinate. The experiment carried out with Gracie Hillbrook was a gamble, but one that came to fruition when the Illusionist could finally practice spells of her own accord. It meant that future Void Mages, should they risk having a small chunk of their Astral Body "Consumed" by Gwen Song and added to the Devourer's burgeoning Body of Essence, would no longer fear self-annihilation. With enough practice, they too could attain the Affinity equilibrium required to utilise sanctioned Necromancy for sustenance. As for Maxine's present petition, their sorceress was going to the Red Citadel of the Dwarves to accrue favours, and she wanted him to make it official. Arguably, a tier 6 War Mage should not saunter their merry-own self into war zones for personal favours, but Gwen Song was a private citizen with the designation of a War Mage and not the employment of one. It meant that though the girl might be restricted from many things, she was not by law forbidden from acting. The girl was still green— an honorary Magus and a city-killer, but laughably, a pupil. But a "student" with a net-worth measured in millions of HDMs— Ravenport cautioned himself. And the war potential of an upper-tier Magister-led platoon, and she possessed enough connection to Elves and Dwarves to take a walk in their abodes and be welcomed for it. Unbidden, his head throbbed. Barely a year had passed— but in his mind, it felt like he'd been hearing about the girl for a decade. Indeed, she made the back pages more often than not, and the METRO was more than happy to its mistress in the public eye. In the beginning, he imagined that the lass would be bound by her investments in London, only now she appeared to be dragging the city into the next century by sheer will, brutalising the toes of anyone who barred her path. "Caw!" A raven shook him from his gently disquieting reflection. "Caw! Caw!" "Tell the Blackrod to send her in," Ravenport informed the raven. The bird bobbed its head, then snuck back into its cubbyhole. A moment later, the heavily stained doors opened with a yawn, revealing the Blackrod in his plain sable robes, stepping aside just in time to unveil a girl wearing far too little for winter. "Magus Song." The Duke of Norfolk made the motion for her to enter, his brow creasing a little. "Welcome to the Marshall's Office." "Milord Norfolk." The girl curtsied expertly, waited for himself to grow comfortable, then sat. This show of manners surprised Ravenport, more so when her poise and stance proved nearly faultless. Someone had done a very miraculous job with etiquette, he thought. There was a world of difference between this and the girl who had eleven months ago stepped into his car with half-a-mind to duel him. Unfortunately, English modesty had yet to infiltrate the Frontier lass' fashion sense. Invariably, it was impossible to avoid the unnecessary volume of flesh the girl left exposed underneath her grey tartan skirt; a sight made poignant by the visitor's chair deliberately placed apart from his table. In his eyes, though the girl was fully covered from neck to waist in a charcoal blouse, it was a feign modesty that made her lower limbs positively exhibitionist. If Charlene had ever worn something like this— they would likely need to have a stern word in private. Nonetheless, the Void Sorceress did well to distract him from his worries. As a Negative Energy Mage himself, he was unused to seeing their kind so hale and healthy, lacking the pale-pallid hue of faux-Undeath. Fighting an innate sense of fatherly disapproval, he met the girl's vivid and demanding irises. "Do you know our plans for the Red Keep, Magus Song?" He decided not to waste time on pleasantry. Maxine was unlikely to reveal to the girl the topics discussed in the House of Lords. "I was not informed," the girl said. "But I could guess." "Can you now?" Ravenport's fingers joined to form a contemplative wedge. "Do tell." "I imagine London dreams of integrating the Red Citadel's resources into its transport infrastructure through direct trade and sharing of technologies and Spellcraft." The Devourer made her hypothesis. "Now that the Dwarves are once again roaming the surface, they've become a problem. A capital city can't rest easy knowing that a major military force lies within Teleportation range of the city, so the threat has to be neutralised through either hard or soft power." "Not bad." Ravenport mulled over her answer and found her insight satisfactory. "A bit bookish and oversimplified, but sound." "… Did I miss the complications caused by the Shard's Factions?" "You did," the Duke of Norfolk acknowledged the girl's quick-wittedness. "Indeed, the Factions have their special interests, and it is difficult to find a compromise when ideology comes into play. That said, sometimes it is best to let things happen naturally, and just as you brought the Dwarves into our fold, so you should bring them closer. I am aware that you are acquainted with one of their Deepdowners?" "I am." "And was this intentional?" Ravenport allowed his pleasure to show. "You do know that speaking to one is ' _Vadam_ '." "Yep. Ollie told me." "Ollie?" "Ollie Edwards." "Ah, Magus Oliver Edwards. A promising young man." Ravenport recalled the reports composed by the sleep-starved Illusionist. He also recalled the elfin young man with a bright future had a dire case of balding, which was a rather strange ailment, considering the resources Cambridge candidates could access. "How did you commune with one so amicably?" Ravenport asked, curious as to how the girl managed the feat. "… I rather not say." The girl's cheeks took on a hint of colour. "The circumstances were not proper." "Curious… this Deepdowner is female, yes? Hilda, first daughter of Grand Engineseer Kül and Matron Hildenbrandt, each the respective heir of their ancient Houses." "Right. But that's the first time I've heard of it," Gwen readily confessed. "Heard of?" "Her name." "You don't know the Deepdowner's name?" "Not her surname. I called her Hilda or Hildy…" Ravenport didn't know whether to be impressed or disgusted; after nine months of reports on the girl, however, he felt a strange kinship for her bumbling tomfoolery, which somehow always seemed to turn out alright. "I see." He took a moment to compose himself. "In your opinion, 'Hildy' is open to the Mageocracy's intervention in the Murk?" "Absolutely." Gwen nodded. "She's a conservative, but she's fully aware of why the Red Keep hasn't made progress in thirty years. As things stand, they're losing more Dwarves than they're breeding from their limited population to the expeditions, so it's either eventual annihilation or taking a gamble that Human greed can push through the dark to tap into the Dyar Morkk." "The Dyar Morkk." The Duke of Norfolk leaned forward. "The veins of the Elemental Plane of Earth from which transit can be made safely across the planar boundaries, utilising no additional advanced Spellcraft or Magitech than mechanised transit and if one had patience, one's own feet. It's a resource in which the Mageocracy is very interested." "It'll reduce infrastructural costs for transportation and Teleportation by ten-fold." The girl nodded. "But it belongs to the Dwarves, does it not?" "A crude way of putting it." Ravenport crossed his fingers once more. "Understand this, girl. A natural resource doesn't 'belong' to anyone by right. The owner is merely he or she who has the power to keep it." "Are you telling me to rob the Dwarves?" The girl looked shocked. "The Dwarves have lost the right to the low-ways," the Duke explained with patience. "Think, for example, of our predecessors over in Italy. Rome in the days of Augustine possessed the largest network of roads anywhere in the western world— but when the Holy Empire contracted, what do you think happened to those same roads?" "Abandoned?" "Appropriated," Ravenport said. "They became the arterial highways of trade between the splintered nations of the bygone Roman Empire, each section owned and maintained by feudal lords for their benefit only." "I can see the benefit, but the Dwarves are going to go ham…" the girl appeared hesitant. "I mean, I understand why us using it is better than letting it rot. But then again, how are you going to help me if I say yes?" "I will officialise your visit as a War Mage." Ravenport put his plan into motion with complete awareness of the risks he took. "The Crown will prepare official documents. You'll be going into the Murk to save our citizens and stabilise the region for safer adventuring, as well as lend a hand to your personal friends, Hilda and Hanmoul. With an official sponsorship, no one in the Red Citadel, not even their Deepdowners will dare detain you or prevent you from taking necessary action to 'protect our kin'. Whatever atrocities or mistake 'our' Warmage might make, I shall shoulder— whatever gains you make, conversely, will be to the benefit of the Mageocracy." "Diplomatic immunity, eh? And what if I start a war?" "Impossible, unless you raze the guildhall or Consume the Deepdowners in plain sight." "… are you saying…" The girl's eyes widened, a reaction that pleased Ravenport. He felt a small satisfaction, like observing the first carvings of an intricate sculpture taking place. "I could do away with one in an alleyway? Chomp-Chomp?" "The Dwarves have their factions as well." Ravenport laughed. "The Deepdowners have their place at the heart of Dwarven society, but the perils of power are the same anywhere and everywhere. Their priests of knowledge aren't living in the vaulted halls of Deepholm, and yet they still wish to rule? It's terrifying how ignorant conservatism and tradition can be." The Devourer gave him a strange look. "I see. I'll take your advice into account. Anything else?" "Yes, actually." Ravenport cleared his throat. "Gwen, can you please report to Trawsfynydd at your earliest convenience?" "… Why?" the girl dared to ask. "You are expected." "They can't come to see me?" The girl huffed. "I am busy. Tell em I've got Dwarves to help." "If you wish, I can arrange it so that Master Warden Eldrin comes to see you." Ravenport could see the girl's stubbornness. However, as a father to a very wilful daughter, he understood young women and their rebellious phases. "In that case, the state will be involved, and hours of the unnecessary ceremony will transpire before you speak in private. By private, I mean that your topic of discussion will be on the record." To Ravenport's surprise, his intimidation did not appear to have the effect he was anticipating. Instead of baulking, the girl crossed her legs, took a few seconds to unwire her brain, then smiled. "Say I do the Office of the Duke a favour and go see the Hvítálfar, what's in it for me?" The Duke of Norfolk held back on stating that it was her duty. "And what does our Devourer desire?" "I need a favour for the future," Gwen said. "It's not much, and I promise it will be to both our benefits." Ravenport studied the girl's intelligent eyes, trying to read past the swirling mana turning her irises a brilliant shade of amber and green. A trap? The girl wouldn't dare, and Maxine wouldn't allow it. Even if the girl succeeded in inconveniencing him temporarily, his retaliation wouldn't be something she could handle, at least not without leaving the Mageocracy for good. "I am willing to entertain the idea," Ravenport confessed. "But the Office of the Lord Marshall does not draw blank cheques. Can you clarify?" "Well, you know me." The girl smiled infectiously. "I am an ideas person, and so I have great ideas involving an alternative way of funding a Divination Tower network. I am confident it will work, and my investors will shoulder all fiscal responsibilities, at least until we have a working example, at which point the Mageocracy may wish to buy-in. What I want, Dic— Milord Ravenport, is a nod from you at the right time so that I can be left alone to make it happen. If you can do that for me, then I promise you that you and the Grey Faction will have first dibs on investment opportunities." "A communication… business?" Ravenport tried to imagine such a thing. "You want to compete with the Towers?" "I could tell you, but then we'd be business partners," the girl said calmly. "Our trust is fragile. I am still recovering from the trauma caused by your son." Ravenport ignored the contraction in his chest. "Never get personal," he warned the girl with a pearl of silent wisdom becoming of his station. "There is an unspoken rule of engagement among the nobility, and that's you never go after one's family. Once you cross that line, any conflict that might see resolution becomes a free-for-all unto the destruction of one party or the other. It's why your cousins can enjoy every opportunity at Cambridge and why your healer's free to do as she wishes." "… noted." The girl must have realised she had misstepped. "It's nothing personal. I apologise for my ill-humour." "Nothing personal?" Ravenport once more studied the girl, searching inside himself for some sympathy that might have emerged over the months. What he found, the Duke of Norfolk realised— was wariness. He couldn't read the girl, not entirely, which against a teenager was an absurd prospect. Yet, here she was, an enigma in an immodest dress— a Void-filled silhouette with unplumbed depth. "I mean, we are not personally acquainted," the girl said. "We've spoken less than a dozen times, and you promised you wouldn't hold Edmund against me. I wouldn't say our interactions are entirely positive." "Hmm." Ravenport wondered if he should have held that particular Sword of Damocles over the girl, but chose concession for now. Whatever happened, he would have to see if she could indeed work a second miracle and usurp the Dwarves' secret passageways for the Empire's use. For the Mageocracy, whose primary transportation involved slow-travelling ships and absurdly expensive Teleportation Circles, even the bones of what the pre-Beast Tide Dwarves could manage was a boon. "I can't promise you anything until I see a clear picture of your Divination Towers." "Then how about this?" The girl grinned. "If I need you to stand behind me for a matter that's entirely legal and within your jurisdiction. If and when 'it' happens, promise me that you will pursue the matter reasonably and to its natural conclusion." Ravenport scanned his mind for Morrigan's most recent reports. "The matter with the Exeters?" "... are you spying on me?" The girl furrowed her brows suspiciously. She glanced at the Ravens. "Caw! Caw!" The birds protested. "I see." The Duke of Norfolk considered the pros and cons, weighing each outcome within his mind. "That's acceptable." "Great, then I am off to see the Elves after my exams." The Duke nodded. "When are you leaving for the Red Peak?" "Whenever the documents are ready," Gwen said. "That and we're waiting for Jean-Paul to receive the green light from Mevrou Bekker." "I see." Ravenport put his hands together, a sign that they were done. "Good luck delving the deep. You will have the Shard's support, as well as the Foreign Office's official sanction. Just remember, if you renege on duties or act overtly out of self-interest, there will be punishments." "Yep." The girl stood. "Goodbye, your Grace." "Caw! Caw!" The ravens called from the loft's entryway. "See ya later, Mori." And just like that, the girl was gone. Ravenport sat at his table, balancing the Dwarves, measuring the Elves and thinking of Void Mages, his mind drowned with possibilities the Mageocracy might entertain shortly. There was the matter of the Exeters as well— But of course, if the Militants are stupid enough to leave behind evidence, and if Walken were to act as the prosecutor, it would be unprofitable to stand in the way of 'public' justice. At some point, he looked up at the raven pruning its feathers and felt a strange disquiet. _Mori?_ Ravenport suddenly felt an icy suspicion stabbing at his chest. Had the girl called his raven Mori? "Mori!" The ravens cried out, parrying their beaks against the hardwood, appearing entirely innocent and unknowing. "Mori! Mori! Mori!"

For Ollie Edward's second venture into the Murk, the Dwarves utilised the Grand Gates of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, an honour usually reserved for Deepdowners, dignitaries and victorious Generals returned from deep-reaching campaigns. With great gravity, the ancient gates slid back on the carved path worn into the stonework. Against Human impatience, the enormous stone slabs' movements appeared glacial and tectonic, inducing an innate breathlessness in the onlookers. This time, their party passed under the Seven Ancestors while escorted by a dozen clanking Striders. Leading the entourage was the foremost sorceress of their expedition, Magus Gwen Song— though she was not their leader— that honour had fallen on the shoulder of Ollie, the recently graduated, newly appointed Second Secretary of the Diplomatic Commission of the Commonwealth and a "Special Envoy" established by his Grace, the Duke of Norfolk. It was a burden he loathed to bear, considering his knowledge of Gwen, but then again, a junior officer had no choice in assignments. Behind the profusely sweating and perpetually nervous diplomat whose sweat ran like a river walked three Void Mages, possibly a number never before seen in any expedition anywhere. The senior of the young women among the party was Gracie Hillbrook, Void Illusionist and adventuring novice. She was followed by Jean-Paul Bekker, ward of Meister Bekker of London Imperial and a renowned veteran Void Mage, besides which walked Richard Huang, an Abjurer-Conjurer Spirit-Elementalist. Their final member was Petra Kuznetsova, Enchanter extraordinaire and the Spellcube Replication System's architect, once a Moscow Mind Mage. Behind these august young men and women were Ollie's crew, the diplomacy corp of the Mageocracy, a dozen Mages possessed of far more wisdom and experience than the over-powered youngsters. Ollie possessed little comprehension of why Lady Grey and Lord Ravenport had tapped someone like himself to lead the expedition, though he had his suspicions. "Gwen likes you," the Marchioness of Ely had said with a tone of strange sympathy while occasionally glancing at his hairline. "Look, Gwen will listen if it's you. The girl's very sensitive when she's dealing with people to whom she owes debts of gratitude." For Ollie, receiving a position based on connections rather than merit filled him with deep anxiety and an unbidden fear that he would ultimately prove inadequate. But, as he had no choice, Magus Edwards could only ignore the acute tingling in his scalp and tell his House Mistress that he would not fail. _CLUNG! CLUNG! CLUNG!_ Immeasurable weights, slowly shifted by mechanical and magical means, waylaid Ollie Edward's worries with the fanfare of London's great church bells. It took ten minutes for the gates to fully open, by which time Gwen had grown visibly impatient. "Steady," Ollie warned his sorceress. "Let's see what they're up to first. Like we discussed, it is unlikely Hilda and Hanmoul are in immediate danger or caught within an active conspiracy— else our arrival would only hasten their demise." "I hope yer right," Yossari, the returning Alchemist, declared her worries to her Human allies. "Deepdowner politicking is right fierce, yer know. Most of them see the commoner Dwarf as Murk fodder." "Don't worry, Yossari, we'll get em back... or if the worst happens..." Gwen left the rest unsaid, with implications that made Ollie's stomach burn. Fortunately, after analysing the known data, he and the corp had conveyed to their strike-team that whatever was arresting their VIPs must be a slow ploy. What the Deepdowner newcomers desired was a mistake or a misstep on the part of the Citadel's old leadership so that they could legitimise their power grab. Any activity that directly resulted in the Captain of the Iron Guard or the Deepdowner Hilda's explicit, murderous extinction would only lead to revolt. "Holy shit." Gwen mouthed out loud as they entered. "This isn't normal, or is it?" "Nay, lass," Yossari growled. "Tis a show of arms— right disrespectful!" Ollie looked up. Two fleets of towering engines and plated suits greeted their entourage; the models on display were not the ceremonial kind but variants kitted out for a direr purpose. Most of the silhouettes they recognised as the standard Rockcrusher armours used by the Iron Guards, consisting of blocky, humanoid shapes on two or four legs, pending on the configuration, sporting Spellswords attached to the underside of pistoned gauntlets, as well as mounted on the pauldrons. Behind the Smashers sat the larger models, more jagged in appearance, with armoured hulls akin to Land Sharks, sloping from the geometric front to a tapered back. These had haunch-sections that looked like they could slide out to reveal Spellswords, but were otherwise mechanised battering rams with an appearance of imperviousness. "What the hell is that?" Gwen remarked as they entered the central square. Beyond, they could see the Guild Spire, though presently a monstrous Dwarf blocked their view of the stalactiform building that connected the enormous cavern from base to ceiling. When juxtaposed against the other Golems, the mechanical construct was positively monstrous and distinctly humanoid. Ollie was observing the construct as well. By his estimation, the overlarge Machine-Dwarf measured three to two storeys in height, with a shoulder-width just as generous. From its barrel-shaped belly, the thing looked designed to block or clog the Dwarven transit tunnels. On one arm, it possessed a Rune encrusted gauntlet radiating the lilac hue of Transmutation in a clawed fist. Impressively, on the other, a six-bladed, rotating array of Spellswords hung beneath the gauntlet, speaking expressively of firepower. As they approached, the thing's empty eye-sockets smouldered with twin beans of "Radiant" fire. To Ollie's horror, the Dwarf-Golem then shifted its stance as though standing so long was fatiguing its metal, an act that was so uncanny that its observers felt a queasy unease. "I think…" Ollie searched his memory. "That's a Balefire Dreadnaught…" "A Balefire Golem, here?" Gwen's brows grew furrowed. "Aren't those forbidden or something?" Ollie Edwards agreed; a Balefire Dreadnaught, to his knowledge, was the final form of the War Golems utilised by the Dwarves and one of the chief instruments of Dwarven desperation. The difference between a Balefire unit and an ordinary Golem was that the former manifested as an Elemental. Within the heart chamber of the humanoid thing smouldered the Core of a high ranking Dwarf. "What do you think they're up to?" Gwen asked again. For now, Magus Edwards had no answers for the Mageocracy's metaphorical Black Blade of Calamity. If he had to guess, the purpose of the Balefire Dreadnaught was the same reason the Mageocracy had sent Gwen, as a deterrent to emphasise the consequence of regretful actions. What he didn't understand was that while Gwen could summon the Earthen Wyrm form of Caliban at a significant personal cost, the Dwarves would have to sacrifice one of their own— or so the legend goes. If this show and tell was done purely for intimidation, then just how committed were these Deepdowners? "Guests! Welcome!" to Ollie's relief, the Dwarf that greeted them was Whurforlüm Ironførge, Guildmaster of the city's crafters. Behind him, the Iron Guards saluted by raising their Spellblades. "Master Wilhelm!" Gwen spoke out of turn before the Dwarf before Ollie could speak. Behind him, the Diplomatic Corps collectively sucked in a hot breath of sulfurous air. The two shook, after which the atmosphere grew less tense. With the old Dwarf came his Foremen from the Craftsmen's Quarter, as well as a few inconsequential Nobles that stood on the side of the city's makers' consortium. Compared to the High Council Gwen had addressed a yer ago, the gathering was less than half its size and missing most of the Citadel's upper crust, including the prideful Brugal Brumdahr whom Gwen had put to shame. The Guildmaster spoke at length with Gwen while she leaned over him, then made the rounds while both parties exchanged greetings through tactile means, some genuine, others hoping to measure one another's intentions. "Let's speak inside the Hall." Whurforlüm "Wilhelm" Ironførge steered the procession toward their right, angled just enough to avoid the smouldering Dwarf-Golem. "What's with the big guy?" Gwen blurted out. "I thought Balefires were _Vadam_." The Guildmaster sighed. "Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth has undergone some changes of late as a result of a resurgence in... religion. Please, this way, and do take care when circumventing Engineseer Maggurn, the Soul Forging process is far from perfect, and even in life, he was foul of temper." Ollie took a glance at the Balefire Dreadnaught known as "Maggurn". Within that hollow recess of its head, twin suns stared hard at their contingent of Void Mages. Naturally, Gwen stared back with a smirk, utterly unconvinced by its prowess. Beside the sorceress, Ollie Edwards felt his sweat grow sticky like gruel. Things are about to get complicated, he felt, and he had good knowledge which one of them would be doing the arse-wiping. The Diplomacy Corps from the Shard received a lower segment of the Guild's spire for their workspace. The Devourer and her companions conversely occupied the upper layer reserved for rarer guests of the Guildmaster. Without complaint, the Human Mages set up their temporary residential and office spaces within the Guild Hall's art-deco and neo-brutalist vaults while Gwen's party made themselves comfortable. Meanwhile, the sorceress herself, Ollie Edwards and Yossari were were invited by "Wilhelm" to converse in private in the safety of his workshop. "Hilda and your Mages are encircled within the Obsidian Caverns." The Guildmaster wasted no time in informing them of the developing situation. "Hanmoul's gone with a contingent of his best Iron Guards to find her, but he hasn't reported back in ten of your sun-cycles." "How long has Hilda been gone?" "Close to twenty cycles by the Himmseg's reckoning," the Santa-look-alike master crafter said. "The men and women you're trying to bring back to the lidless-world last sent a Message around that time as well." "Our Mages are with a Deepdowner?" Ollie almost choked on his surprise. "How is that even possible? Shouldn't her Grace and that other Deepdowner with her be staying away from ' _Vadam_ ' folk as much as possible?" "Not with Zairic and Zethoag forcing her hand." The Guildmaster sprouted two names with which Gwen and Ollie had not yet familiarised themselves. "Hilda was trying to push through to the low-ways before her rivals could convince the High Council to remove the humans. With her acting as an example, progress will proceed smoother and with more compliance from the Dwarves on the frontlines." "I take it Zairic and Zethoag are the new Deepdowners?" Gwen asked. "What makes them more special than Hilda? I thought she's rich as anything?" The old Dwarf nodded. "They're from Umgor èron Varèkan, it's a sacred place of sorts— an Academy like your Cambridge, and they're old, ancient, even for Dwarves." "Older than Longbeards?" Ollie asked. "Older by a century," Yossari said. "Walking miracles. They are _Kirkja_ — holy, in a sense." "Four hundred-year-old Dwarves?" Gwen furrowed her brows. "They must be half-rotted inside those suits." "The Deep Suits prolong life, this is known," Ironførge said. "But that is a topic for a fairer cycle. Out of the four contingents of Iron Guards under the Craftsmen's Guild's command, one is with Hilda, one has left with Hanmoul, and one must remain within the Citadel. Our circumstances leave me nay choice but send out our last fighting kin with yer, a difficult proposition to aid Hanmoul and recover Hilda. The Murk has gone mad of late, with the Aberrants agitated by Hilda's progress." "If it's urgent, then my group can move right away," Gwen agreed. "But we'll need guides." Besides her, Ollie shot Gwen a shocked look of disbelief. "You'll have them," Guildmaster Ironførge said without pause, ignoring the Second Officer. Gwen could sense the disquiet behind the old Dwarf's stoic face just by observing his trembling beard. "I'll send Bumrorlim Vildrenbrandt with you. She's Hanmoul's cousin and Yossari's niece and a renowned pathfinder. If there's any Dwarf who could track Hanmoul close enough to activate his Repeater signal, it would be Bumrorlim." "Aye, Bumrorlim's a reliable lass," Yossari agreed. "Not as much of a scrapper in a tight tunnel like Hanmoul, but a good scout with a clear head and quick wit." Gwen repeated the name a few times to commit the words to memory. "Right. We'll be a party of five. Having anticipated something like this, I've got provisions for the next six months, or enough to feed a hundred Dwarves for a few weeks. And booze, lots of booze. Don't worry, mate. I'll find Hanmoul and bring him and Hilda back right as rain. Also, we might not need so many Iron Guards with us." "You do not?" "My companions and I have plenty of Familiars and Summoned Creatures," Gwen assured the Guildmaster. "Too many allies in a tunnel inundated with Void Magic are bound to get complicated. Why don't you lend me Bumororlim and two others of your best to look after her? We will certainly move faster that way." "This is good news, and we are in your debt once more," the Guildmaster emphasised the word 'debt'. "The Upprumm Nobles have an elite Legion to themselves, and I was afraid they and the Deepdowners might attempt to overrule the High Council by force in the unfortunate instance that Hilda untimely ascends to Deepholm's Ancestral Halls." "So long as Hildy's alive, she'll be right," Gwen assured the Alderman Santa of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. "Okay, are we clear to proceed?" "Gwen." Ollie felt such alarm that his hair stood on end. Taking a deep breath, he reached out to the sorceress to arrest her hand. "Magus Song, may I..." "Not now, Ollie." Gwen battered his hand away. "I have already arranged for your departure." Whurforlüm rose from his seat with a squeak from the assistive exoskeleton underneath his robes. "May Pathfinder Bürumm-Dal guide your way to Hanmoul and Hilda." The Murk. The Virnbaduhr low-ways. "YAAAA—!" Hanmoul Bronzborn, Son of Dwomrul, tore an Aberrant Crawler limb from limb with a roar of his turbo-charged engine, splitting the thing roughly down the middle with a single zig from the protruding disc-sword attached to the gauntlet of his Smasher MKIV. Newly restored, the Golem had been re-tuned and made more apt for Hanmoul's growing skill by Engineseer Signerlig. "Sergeants! Square up and tighten the rear bulwark! Prepare to receive the injured! COVER FIRE!" Burning lances of Magma and cutting shards of dark obsidian sang through the air, turning the interior of the twisted cathedral cavern the hue of sunset. Above them, Hanmoul could see hundreds more of the eyeless crawlers, their white teeth gleaming like polished lambs-fat nephrite. The majority of the monsters possessed six or more limbs, though some managed to scale the bluffs even with maimed extremities. All were naked and pallid, a condition endemic to creatures living in the Murk whose ancestors had their origins in the Himmseg. Swinging his Spellblades in tandem, Hanmoul fired off a flurry of obsidian discuses, hewing a particular robust Aberrant Crawler that had overwhelmed one of his men into ribbons of wet flesh. Much to his disgust, even with its bones shattered, muscles torn and innards spilt, the thing still gnawed at the visor of Tordok's Golem suit. "Thank ye, Commandrumm." The Dwarf wiped the ichor from his helmet once his hands were freed to tear the Aberrant's head from his chest guard. Using the hairy end as a mop, the Iron Guard cleaned his visor before discarding the carcass back into the gibbering crowd. A second later, the body became engulfed by a small river of gnashing teeth. "Rejoining the group!" "Yer coolant's leaking." Hanmoul mended the Golem Suit with a quick blast of frost, freezing the tube where green cooling fluid leaked between bent mental and a ring of teeth marks. "Returning to the Phalanx, Ser!" Tordok fled past the Rock Smasher and made for the retreating line of Iron Guards. Beside Hanmoul, Grimgal arrived in her Smasher MK III to take his place at the rear, announcing her arrival by letting loose a long line of Magma Bolts, shaking a dozen Aberrants from the ceiling to smoosh onto the uneven, rock-strewn floor. She followed up with a few Fireballs that superheated the air, driving the light-fearing Aberrants back some fifty meters. "Commandrumm, you need to re-arm and refuel." The Commandrumm glanced at the Crawlers writhing on the ceiling, turning the shadows alive with their pale bodies. "Nay lass, we'll fight on til the wounded gets back to the sealed cavern. There, we'll whittle em down. I'll be damned if there's more of these carrion eaters than we've got mana!" "We still have to find Mistress Hilda," the Sergeant reminded him. "That's our main mission. Are we going to have enough fuel?" "Either way, that's a moot errand without clearing this lot," Hanmoul refuted his Sergeant. "What good will it do if we arrive with ten thousand of the buggers on our arse? Assuming Hilda's alive, we'll only endanger her Highness." Grimal aimed her wands toward the ceiling. "Transmute Stone!" A dozen spikes penetrated the bodies of the Aberrants as they crawled, skewering a few while sending five or six to tumble onto newly risen ground spikes. "Think we'll have reinforcements, Commandrumm?" "I wouldn't count on it." Hanmoul checked his liquid mana counter. "You know the way. Old Downers politick, and young Dwarfs die. Besides, if we don't manage to recover Hilda, I don't think any of us will be welcome in the Kjangtoth for long." "How about the Himmseg, then?" Grimgal brought together two sections of the cavern to crush the advancing Aberrants like a giant set of teeth closing in on spindly toothpicks. "Ask Gwen for a spot below her isle." "Nay lass," Hanmoul growled. "We're the Iron Guards! We bring back our Deepdowner priestess, or we return with her to Deepholm's halls as Honour Guards!" "You're going? Just like that?" Ollie's eyes grew as wide as hen's eggs. "You can't leave, can you? Can Gwen just leave, Carol?" "I believe the War Mage does possess the privilege, Sir," Carol, the aide to Second Officer Ollie Edwards, informed her superior. "Ollie." Gwen patted the flustered diplomat on the shoulder. "I am leaving to make things easier for you." "How?" The man rapidly blinked. "Gwen, if you're going out into the Murk with the only Void Mages under the command of the Shard to kill or be killed by whatever is in the Murk, how does that help our negotiations with Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth? The politics here are more delicate than thawing ice." Gwen's smile grew disarming and confident. "If I ask for permission, it's a sign of weakness and a sign that we're unfocused," she said. "Also, keep in mind that I am well within reason to immediately go and rescue our men and women in the Murk and that it's completely within my character to run off at the first sign that they're in dire danger." "Unpredictable passion matches Magus Song's profile," Officer Carol reminded her superior. "Though I cannot advise that she do as she pleases, we can't stop her either. However, I do believe this is within Milord Ravenport's expectations." "It isn't unthinkable to negotiate with their High Council, is it?" Ollie begged. "What if they use this opportunity against our alliance?" "Don't be a soft-cock, Ollie. diplomacy would only delay us," Gwen assured her assigned arse-wiper. "Clear action needs no explanation. Excessive excuses would only undermine our appearance of conviction. If the High Council complains, tell them the Guildmaster has briefed us, and that we're performing as requested. You do know there's dodgy politics at play. Hanmoul and Hilda are pivotal to our interests here in the Murk. If you have to negotiate with the new Deepdowners— I think we'll be back to square one, with the whole Citadel going back into isolationist lockdown." "I... I see." Ollie considered her words. "And you're going with only three bodyguards?" "I like to think of it as us being the main force and the Dwarves as our guides," Gwen said. "Besides, I am going to bring Golos." "… Really?" "Yep. We're going to need Gogo's Draconic strength, I think." "You can summon Lord Golos here?" "Without doubt," Gwen said. "As long as I can channel Lightning, it'll be fine. Remember, Golos is conjured through the Quasi-Elemental Plane and since Petra is with us, we'll be quick." "Beware that your Affinity may wane," Ollie warned. "Remember your briefing. Here in the Murk there are dampened Elemental zones where the Plane of Earth has its ley-lines, and only Petra in your party draws from the Elemental Plane of Earth." "I wouldn't worry, Gogo is much more sensitive to the wax and wane of Elemental Affinities than anyone else in our party." Ollie exhaled deeply. "No point stopping you, eh?" "Yeppers." The Devourer looked out the window at the bustling craftsmen's city below. "I've already informed the crew, and they're rearing to go. Here's hoping we find Hanmoul and Hilda in one piece. Wish me luck, Ollie." The Second Officer took a long, deep breath. "Good luck." "Thanks." She gave him a quick hug about the head, ruffling his hair. "I'll be back in a jiffy. You'll get your medal, buddy, don't you worry your thinning head." While the cloth-plated Human Mages hovered past the gates near the Citadel's northward exit into the Murk, unhappy miens questioned pallid faces ripe with fear nearer the city's bottom. "You let them go?" An iron, raspy voice droned through the mouthpiece of a rebreathing unit. "What is the meaning of this insufferable incompetence, boy?" "The Guildmaster let them go." Brugal, the scion of House Brumdahr, moped the cold sweat from his beard. "Without good cause, I lacked the means to stop them." "We gave you command of the House Legion!" the second synthetic voice growled like an engine, at the ends of which a loud hiss followed. "Stop them by force if you must." "We're not ready to confront the infidels, not yet," Brugal explained in a whisper, not daring to raise his voice. "There are those among the troops that still need to be purged and replaced. Besides, the Humans are leaving with a single party of Mages, including the Wyrm Tamer." "Truly." The anger diffused somewhat. "The meddlers did not leave with the Craftmen's Legion?" "Nay," Brugal's voice regained some of its former dignity. "Just the five, and Vildrenbrandt's niece plus two more guards in Swiftstrider MK V's. That's all." "Interesting, do they not know the Murk is insidiously dangerous?" the first Deepdowner voiced with a hiss from a valve. "There are creatures down there no beings from the surface can imagine. Have the Humans grown so confident in only ten Earth Cycles?" "They may very well have, and I would not be at all surprised," the second said. "But still, the fools underestimate the dangers of the dark, hmm... if they become overwhelmed by the Murk before they're capable of finding either Commandrumm Bronzeborn or the Kül-Hildenbrandt brat, that would be a tragedy." "Aye, tis would be a shame." Brugal Brumdahr's eyes moved away from the expressionless lenses covering the Deepdowners' faces in tessellated plates of semi-translucent crystal-glass. With the Deepdowner's consent, he focused on manipulating his Echoing Crystal to deliver new orders for the House Legion's Commandrumm. Herding the Aberrants was a daunting task, one that only those fully devoted to the Deepdowner's secret crafts could manage. "By the honour of my Clan, the Humans won't venture far, O Masters of Dwarfholm," the noble promised his benefactors. "See that none return," the voice of Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh spoke in perfect tandem. "Else your entombed soul shall next serve the Kjangtoth in its only useful capacity."

"Gogo!" the tunnel echoed with the sound of Gwen's happy hollers. "Welcome to the Murk!" "Calamity…" the Thunder Wyvern checked his surroundings by sniffing the air. "What is this place? It stinks." The Dwarves shifted uncomfortably. "Hey, that's not nice," Gwen berated her brute. "Sorry, Rory. No offence, that's just Gogo being his usually tactful self." "None-taken," Bumrorlim Vildrenbrandt, cousin to Hanmoul, voiced from the vox-caster of her Swiftstrider, a Golem suit built for speed by mimicking the distended limbs of the Murk Centipede, a ten-legged carnivorous insect known for its agility. As Gwen's Planar Ally unfurled, the Iron Guard moved her spindly legs backwards with a hiss, giving the Wyvern the space he needed. "Gogo, I think a compact form might perform better in a place like this." Gwen gestured to the ever-narrowing walls in the distance. "Something good for bruising, what do you reckon?" Golos made the cavern positively tiny at his full height, an act that awed both Human and Dwarves. There was no doubt that the Thunder Wyvern was majestic, even if the True Draconic-scion's mental capacity proved leagues behind his physical prowess. Ther Wyvern grunted. There was a flash, then in a scene akin to Magic Girl Transformations Gwen had once seen on TV, Golos grew vivified with retina-searing lightning, lacking all but a personalised BGM. When finally the disco died down, she was staring at a Dragon-headed Whetu twice the Maori's size. Her Wyvern flexed its enormous claws, "Hmm…" Then swished its flail of a tail. "This will do nicely." "Very handsome." Gwen admired the tapered snout and the white-blue scales set about Golos' rugged jaws, offset by a burst of brilliant feathers extending from his skull crest. To describe the creature as a juggernaut would be an apt observation, especially considering that Golos' Draconic strength amplified his muscular power by tens of magnitudes. "Care for a weapon?" "What do you have?" "A Smasher Axe." Hanmoul's cousin, "Rori" Vildrenbrandt, released the heavy metal Gwen had requested prior. _KLUNG!_ The Dwarf-forged implement landed with a thud; wicked and deadly, its chainsaw mechanism was tooled for hewing reinforced bedrock. With one hand, Golos hefted the weapon and checked its balance. "I would have preferred a sword." The Wyvern turned the axe over and over. "This has no finesse." "You can do swordplay?" Gwen was taken aback by the Wyvern's untapped depth. "I imagined you would be a part of the bludgeoning club." "Ryxi taught us Sword Arts when we're younger." The hulking mass of scale and muscle shrugged. "Worry not, Calamity, this primitive implement will do. What are we killing?" Rori awkwardly laughed. "Aberrants," Gwen said conspiratorially. "Murk-Beast Waves, essentially." "Taste any good?" Once the Dwarf recovered from Golos' insult of her mastercrafted Smasher Axe, she gave her two HDMs. "Nay, Lord Drake, their foul flesh taste like poison." "Sounds spicy." the Wyvern slung the giant axe over his shoulder. He looked over the group, then nodded at Gracie, who quickly looked away. "Just us?" "Of course not." Gwen took note. "Alright, everyone, are we ready?" "Ladies first," Richard said. "Yep." Petra produced a glimmering, crystalline Spellcube. "I am ready to take notes." Gracie grinned sheepishly. "I am ready." Jean-Paul's voice was a whisper in the presence of Gracie, Gwen and Petra. "Alright, then let's unleash the doggos— Morden's Hound Pack!" The silvery light of Conjuration momentarily flooded the tunnel as the four Conjurers each tapped into their Elemental Gates to manifest their hounds. From Gwen came eight Lightning Hounds and then eight Void Hounds in their strange quasi-Draconic forms. From Richard came eight Water Hounds in their original Highland likeness. Petra's mimicry produced six crystalline Mineral Hounds in minimalist nephrite, smooth and polished and long-legged in the form of the Borzoi, a breed prized by the Moscow Tower. And finally from Jean-Paul came seven slithering somethings, pale and pallid and barely hound-like, with triple-jointed legs and faceless heads ending in lamprey lips. If the party had not known that Jean-Paul was trying to spell shape dogs, they would have thought these creatures cousins of Umzokwe. To finish, Gwen conjured forth Astro and Buck to command the packs. "EE!" Ariel was positively delighted by the army the group had conjured. "Shaa! Shaa!" Not to be dismissed, Caliban made its spidery presence known. Umzokwe drooled with anticipation. Lea clapped happily, marvelling at their impromptu army. As a canine battalion, the conjured dogs engulfed the cavern as they mustered into place, shimmering with unique mana signatures. The largest was Gwen's Essence-fed Void Hounds, while the smallest was Petra's jade dogs. "Astro, you're on defence. Buck, you and your packs are on harm duty!" Gwen drifted into the air, hailing her companions to follow. Though she had not informed the Guildmaster, her confidence in discovering Hanmoul and Hilda lay with a secret weapon no earth-dwelling Dwarf could imagine— a gift of Divination from a Thunder Dragon in the form of a floating orb. "Alrighty, fellers— MOVE OUT!" Different to overland transit, travelling through the Dwarf's tunnels was a slow and ponderous affair. Despite the efforts made by Fabricator Engines to create straight and uniform passageways, unpredictable eddies of slush and blockages of super-dense Elemental Earth, combined with natural hollows formed by underground waterways inevitably brought three-dimensional complications. In the olden days, teams of Deepdowners would will-away the Elemental oddities, though not nearly enough of the deep-dwelling scholars now existed in the Murk to make such operations worth their time. Comparatively, having absolved themselves of the need for mechanised infantry, Gwen's party travelled as though Hasted, heralding their arrival with a wave of yelping, yapping and howling dogs bouncing off the walls. At the forefront were her Void Hounds, enormous figures of strange sleekness with unnatural agility, trigging fungi bursts and bolting through Murk Spider dens without wincing— though that may be because her creatures possessed no faces. Behind them, streams of Water Hounds made the passage slick with their secretions as they bounded behind their dark-skinned cousins, purifying the air of spores with mist as they passed. Around the party itself skulked Jean-Paul's Leech Hounds, each keeping a close sniffer on their inexperienced Void sorceress companion. The Jade Hounds took up rear patrol, being the slowest but stockiest of the bunch, while here and there Gwen's Lightning Hounds provided much-needed light as they dashed about, freely patrolling the perimetry as living electric lamps. For a sorceress who lorded over the Isle of Dogs, it was all very fitting. "Contact!" Gwen called out while keeping a close eye on her Omni-orb. The party was making good progress, seeing as they could ignore most of the lesser dangers of the Murk with their harrying dogs, especially when lead by a party of flying Mages. "Don't forget, the Aberrants' blood can be corrosive and toxic!" Rori brought her Spellsword to bear. "Hurdal, Hurdan, take my flank!" "Not a problem." The sorceress grinned. "Buck, consume the rest, but bring a survivor, I want to see what we're dealing with." Out of sight and around a corner that distended upward and to the right, there came the sound of howls and yips followed by an insane choir of hysterical screaming. When their party eventually arrived, Gwen halted the group. "Well done, Bucko, Cali, let us see what we're dealing with." There was something pallid and still very much alive squirming on the potholed floor of the transit tunnel. A dozen of the dogs were fanned out as forward-guards, while two of the Void Hounds, Buck included, wagged their tails atop their trophy. "By the Sju Dorfran…" their guide bulked. "What in the Murk did you do, Overlander?" "Disarmed it." Gwen drifted closer. "What would you call this?" She had left the empathic commanding of the dogs to Caliban; so far, her wiggly Void Fiend had not disappointed. In front of them, the creature was missing all of its limbs— which from the looks of its gnawed stumps, once numbered between six and ten. As for its complexion, the skin was sickly white, though not in the sense of Petra's warm nephrite, but a befouled, deathly paleness that hinted at a deficiency of Vitamin-D. "Tis an Aberrant Scout— a Murk Crawler," Rori said. "They're incredibly fast, how did yer dogs catch it?" "They have their ways." Gwen could only attribute the hunt's success to the pack tactics innate to Morden's Hounds. "Interesting, I've never seen Murk creatures up close. No eyes, all mouth and those enormous nostrils, I wonder how it sees. You said it senses us through tremors? Does it think or feel at all?" Perhaps scenting their warm bodies so close, the ribald beast began to gnash its teeth. What disturbed Gwen the most, other than the thing's lilac-pink tongue, was the incisors at the front of its jaw, followed by several canines and even a hint of molars. "A scavenger Omnivore?" Richard suggested once he reached their side. "They eat anything from minerals to kin-flesh." Gracie's voice came from behind them. "Aberrants are cannibals as well as omnivores." "Waste not— want not." Petra shrugged. "Food is scarce here. As for whether it's sentient, give me a second." The Mind Mage intensely concentrated. When her cousin opened her brilliant blue eyes once more, she furrowed her brows. "Hard to say, there is intelligence, or at least there used to be— but its all muddled. Whatever this thing is now. It is as mindless as they come." Gwen looked at the terraformed transit tunnel around them. "If this is a scout, then where are the rest?" "Likely in a pocket where the Planar rifts are thin," Rori advised from above. "They don't like to venture far from their nest." "Buck," Gwen commanded her creature. "Extract the Core." The dog dug in, engendering a final round of hapless howling from the writhing Aberrant Crawler. When Buck's eyeless head once again emerged, it vomited forth a small, misshapen sphere the size of a tennis ball. One of Richard's dogs gave the thing a once over, then brought it over to Gwen. "Please don't Gwen-handle it." Richard enveloped the thing in a film of floating water. "It's composition is very muddy. I sense Negative Energy as well." "What do you think?" Gwen turned to Petra and Gracie, their resident scholars. "Ooze," Petra said after a moment of magical inspection. "And something else." "And 'Aberrant' energy from the Astral." Gracie's inspection was aided by instruments built into her combat suit. "These beasts are not naturally occurring if I had to guess. The Core looks like it was forcibly warped with Transmutation, then inter-bred. If I had to guess, I would say its a form of chimaera?" "Old and malevolent creatures are said to live between the Planes in their darker recesses," Bumrorlim spoke from the vox box. "We believe they escaped into the Murk when the Dark One awoke and twisted the Ley-lines." "You mean the Black Dragon?" Richard said. "Aye." The Dwarf lowered her voice. "The Old Drake in the Dark..." "Vynssarion," Gwen said suddenly. The party turned to regard the sorceress. "Everyone keeps talking about the Dark Drake, the Black Dragon and all that— it has a name, and it's Vynssarion, Ex-Guardian of the Black Sea, presumably looking after a tree." "… I don't think I am supposed to know that." Bumrorlim groaned audibly over the external speakers. Her guards likewise shifted uncomfortably. "That sounds like Deepdowner knowledge." "Vynssarion, eh?" Richard nodded. "Sounds mean." "In Dragon Tongue," Gracie added after a moment of thought. "It means Herald of the Abyss." "That's not very nice." Jean-Paul sucked in a breath of cold air. "Somewhat self-evident, given what the Beast Tide brought," Petra related with a sigh. "Calamity, you should speak that name with quiet reverence, or not at all." Golos provided a rare nugget of wisdom. "My father can hear those who whisper his name when he dreams of the Unformed Land. Maybe the Supreme of the Western Blacks is listening even now? If you don't believe me, say it out loud three times before you sleep." "Oh, dear." Gracie gulped, making the sign of the Nazarene. "Anyway…" Gwen waved away the strange atmosphere that had just now engendered, pointing down the upward turning tunnel, she chose to change topics. "Shall we?" The thing with finding anything in the Murk was that one tunnel split into two, then two into five, and then those passageways kept on diversifying ad infinitum. Where the Dwarves had constructed the tunnels, they did their best to leave landmarks, labels and street signs, though such efforts were often sabotaged by cunning predators lurking in the dark. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. However, when Gwen's party arrived, there was no ambiguity about the tunnel they should take. "This way," the sorceress watched her Omni-orb hover toward the far right of an intersection offering five distinct routes. On Rori's map, two led to mana lodes with HDM mines and the other three lead onward into the lower Murk. Conversely, the Dwarf also reminded their guests that no civilised being had ventured this far from the Citadel for decades save for Hanmoul and Hilda's expedition. "There, I found a Glyph Rune." Rori scraped at the wall with her Strider's mechanised limbs until the mud fell away. "Someone's covered it. Clever buggers. Aye, tis Revered Hildenbrandt's." "Anything to suggest where Hanmoul went?" The Strider's scanning array continued its work for several minutes; eventually, the cockpit shook itself in a life-like manner. "Maybe, there was a battle here, a running skirmish— but the tracks lead to at least two tunnels— both of which are not the ones Hilda took." "Looks to me like someone's herding Hanmoul onto a different course," Richard offered a hypothesis. "Ariel? Cali?" Gwen asked her Familiars. "Buck? Astro?" The Conjured creatures milled about aimlessly. "I see, good thing we've got Gogo here with us." Gwen turned to her Wyvern. If her dogs couldn't pick up scent or vitality, then she had to turn to an expert. "Alright, Bud— what does your Dragon nose see?" "The lingering traces of Earthen mana down those tunnels stink like Dwarves." Golos huffed with smugness. "All around the entrances, there's befouled mana, though it remains the thickest down the first tunnel. I don't smell this Hilda or her troops, meaning they passed some time ago. The scent of the white freaks remains fresh, maybe hours old, and there's something else." "Well done. What is it?" Gwen beamed at the Wyvern. "Hehe…" Golos' nostrils flared. "I smell fresh tortoise-suits, ones from the city. They passed here an hour ago. I'd say six or seven of them, all burning with activity." "Impossible!" Rori's Strider tilted to one side. "We're the only expedition to leave the city since Hanmoul's gone missing. Maybe you're picking up their patrol residue?" "Fool." Golos bared its fangs. "Do not question my nose, squat. This latest presence carries the mana-smog from your stench-strewn hovel. To one as august as myself, the fetor of your underground den is unforgettable, especially the impure Elemental Fire you use to produce the liquid powering your engines." "Gogo," Gwen berated the Wyvern. "Don't be rude." "If Golos is right." Richard patted Lea's disembodied head as she appeared and disappeared. "And there's a third force from the city complicating things for us. Then we have to decide to find Hanmoul or Hilda first." "Anything on the Echo Glyph?" Gwen hovered closer to the Strider. "Nothing yet." Within the cockpit, Hanmoul's cousin shook her head. "My Orb says this way." Gwen pointed down the stone passage where an "objective" might eventually be found. "But let's spring clean before we go. I wouldn't want to find Hanmoul or Hilda while cornered by swarms of Aberrants from either side. Cali, you take the pack and head down the first tunnel. Astro, take yours and clear the second. Ariel, you take Richard's pack down the third." "Umzokwe will take the south-west entrance with my Leech-dogs," Jean-Paul said helpfully. "Thanks, J-P." Gwen gave him a thumbs up. "Alright, BUFF UP, and then let's see what our Dachshunds ferret from the mole mounds." "Jackpot near the end of the first tunnel." Gwen awoke from her meditation after only fifteen minutes. "Cali just stirred the hornet's nest by taking a chunk out of what must be their breeder or something. I've regenerated two dogs already— holy hell; these guys are PISSED—" "How many?" Richard was up on his feet in an instant. "How far?" "A few hundred, two minutes or so out—" Gwen observed the faraway action through her Caliban VR. "Cali found them about two, two-and-a-half kilometres down behind a mud wall. They were all huddled up in an alcove of sorts, kind of like a giant wasp nest, lots of goo surrounding a big vitality signature. I told Cali to dig through, and I think it ended up inside a flesh sack." Rori's Golem roared back into life. Bringing her weapons to bear with a thrum, the Dwarf turned to their party leader. "Hurdal, Hurdan, combat formation. Magus Song, what's the plan?" "Gogo, Lea, Richard, we'll be counting on you," Gwen said to their defenders. "Pats, keep an eye on Gracie. We're Life-linked, and there's going to be plenty of vital-fluctuations in a moment. Rori, fire-at-will, but stay behind the dogs and the Familiars." "Gracie, behind me," Petra commanded the obedient novice. By her will, the Nephrite Hounds formed a vigilant circle around the party. "You too, Gwen. Stay safe and don't stray too deep. Your Sanguine Mantle isn't invincible." "I'll try not to be a burden." Gracie took a deep breath, her bosoms rising and falling as she activated her battle suit's inbuilt Abjuration suite. From the front of the party, Gwen gave her a reassuring thumbs-up. Golos walked into the middle of the five-way interchange and unslung his Smasher's chain axe. Cracking his neck, the Wyvern stretched out his impressive physique, allowing his tail to skitter across the floor, striking electric sparks every time it bounced off the rough granite. From the tunnel now, they could smell a foul wind and hear the sound of hooting and howling growing stronger with every passing second. "Gwen," Jean-Paul spoke up. "I've found a pack in the fourth tunnel as well. These must be the reserve forces. Umzokwe reports enormous vital signatures. I suspect they may be the Aberrant Hulks or the Centaur variants that Rori said we should stay away from." "Think you can handle it?" Gwen's eyes dug into her party member. "Make your Meister proud?" "I can do it." Jean-Paul's face grew beet red. "I haven't slacked off while you trained." "That's what I like to hear." Gwen turned once more to their Illusionist, in case she felt left out. "Gracie, is your Phantasmic Forces good to go?" "Absolutely," the young woman affirmed. "I'll run interference with Hallucinatory Terrain if I can manage, though I imagine Illusion has limited impact when they're as mad as they sound." "Take it at your own pace." Gwen returned her attention to the first tunnel, happy that what she had hypothesised for their underground adventure was coming to pass. "Ariel, Astro, return!" "SKAARRRRR—" "KEEHHHARRR—" The howling from the tunnel was now at a decibel level that irritated their ears. Like a foul and swollen pustule given an unexpected channel, Caliban's sudden and unprovoked rampage in the Aberrants nesting site had sent the mustered Aberrants into a blind, rage-fuelled frenzy. "Incoming!" Rori counted the blimps on her instruments before declaring the results aloud. "It's a wave! O, Byllelynn Møsvian, consign me to Deepholm if I should perish in victory!" Gwen took a deep breath. If there was anything she had learned from Walken's tales of Sobel in the confined chambers of Sydney Tower, it was that Void Mages possessed unprecedented advantages when fighting in enclosed spaces against living beings. Like a conductor commanding unseen music, she called the mnemonic invocations to her lips, then began the long chant for one of her favourite spells, one that would keep any number of creatures at bay so long as they could not supersede the spell's area of effect. "SKARRRR—ARRRGGHH—" the horde had arrived. At once, the forefront of the Aberrant wave smashed into an invisible Wall of Water conjured by Richard, slowing their descent into the five-way junction. It took a moment for the momentum of the distended bodies to break through the membrane, but by then Gwen was ready. "EXTENDED BLADE BARRIER!" Ashamedly, she wove the spell-shaped incantation inefficiently, burning more vitality and mana than she had anticipated. If Magister Kareena Patil were with her, she would likely roll her eyes. Still, Gwen felt that credit should be given for manifesting a tier 7 Conjuration-Evocation in unmitigated Void without burning herself silly. "Shaa!" Caliban shivered like a dog in the rain when she tapped into its vitality via their Sympathetic Life-link. For Gwen, her Master's unique Shaman-craft conversion was the Magnus Opus of her year's worth of academic investment. For years, she knew that Caliban stowed vitality within itself, hoarding life like a greedy little piggy bank. Now, thanks to her Master's hidden cache, she knew how to draw on that reservoir and share it among herself and her life-linked "minions". "Oh, Gods." Gracie's complexion turned white and then red as the vitality distributed between them ebbed and flowed, manifesting as barely perceptible threads of scarlet connecting their Astral Souls. Undeterred, Gwen began work on a second, Lightning-based Blade Barrier, this one spell-shaped into a ring that lined the top and bottom of the shaft. "SKAARRRRR—" "KEEHHHARRR—" The Aberrant tide broke free from Richard's boggy barrier. The monsters poured into the entrance and its concentric rings of whirling mana as a single mass of tangled legs and scribbling claws, barrelling into her defences. Where the Void Blades struck, there was nary a sound, only an inaudible hiss as flesh, bone and sinew grew displaced, producing mince on the other side. Gwen did her best to replenish the spent "teeth" of her Blade Barrier with each dead beast, marvelling that though the Void barrier was without equal, her Lightning variant's efficiency was comparatively unparalleled. "Buck! Astro!" Her dogs, repositioned from drawing the monster's aggression, took on the stragglers that emerged, tearing the wounded creatures apart. "SHAA! SHAA!" Not wanting to waste the splendid vitality, Caliban re-engaged by sauntering forward on the ceiling in its Spider-form to pick out the still-living Aberrants from the floor, stuffing them greedily into its mucus-dribbling abdomen-maw. "Ariel!" The crackling sorceress sent a flood of Elemental Lightning into her Kirin. "Empowered Lightning Bolt!" Three lines of hysterical electricity turned the dim tunnel from dusk to morning, alternating in their strikes so that barely two seconds passed before another thigh-thick line of plasma tore into the surging crowd. Visually transformed into a proverbial spell-turret, the Devourer of Shenyang allowed herself to indulge in the intoxication of absolute power, revelling in the helplessness of the flailing monstrosities being crushed and broken beneath her dagger heels. "Looks like you got this. I'll go and help J-P, shall I?" Richard turned his attention to the fourth tunnel. "Agreed. I'll be over there." Golos moved across the aisle when a minute passed, and not a single Aberrant made it past the twin Blade Barriers. As demonstrated by their betters on the Northern Front, few spells were so explicitly effective when used against middling Swarms of middle-tier monsters. But their mistress wasn't listening to her teammates' bored complaints. Her pupils grew wider and bluer with excitement as the Lightning mana coursed through her conduits to vivify her nubile figure, sending out sparks to sizzle the air. After so long stuck behind the books, she had let loose all the pent up stress accrued by living in high society, rediscovering the joy of free-living in a Frontier that sanctioned mass murder. Monstrous ichor bled down the ramp and pooled below the entrance like a foul soup, stopped only when the party's Mineral Mage conjured a grease trap to contain the dizzying volume of diced offal meandering their way. In front of Petra, Meister Bekker's ward followed his counterpart's fusillade so intently that he almost forgot he also had monsters incoming. Only when Umzokwe took a chunk of his vitality did Jean-Paul shift his attention from Gwen's silhouette of ongoing destruction, returning his mind to the labour at hand. That Gwen used her talents and accrued power and wealth for herself— not to mention revelling in both— was something his Meister Master applauded and therefore Jean-Paul genuinely admired. _Crunch— SPLAT!_ From the tunnel, the mangled body of one of his Leech Hounds came flying up the incline to paint the walls purple and black. The carcass rolled a few times before Umzokwe renewed the vital-infusion, allowing the Hound to stagger back onto its spindly legs. Catching his breath, Jean-Paul concentrated. His craft was custom-composed by the Mevrou for efficiency, a style that diverged wildly from Gwen's sweeping gestures of grandeur. Looking at how his counterpart was expending vitality and mana, there was little wonder early Void Sorceresses drained themselves to death while executing their IMS-inspired invocations. "ROOOWAAARRRRGH—" The first of the Centaurs appeared, a multi-legged monstrosity with an enormous pale head sunken into the torso, split from the middle to form a "T" shaped mouth lined with independently moving teeth. At the forefront, two massively powerful legs ended in scribbling, distended hooks, with the index finger manifesting as a single scythe-claw. Behind its torso, a bulbous thorax ended in skittering legs akin to Caliban's Spider-form. What Jean-Paul had thought most peculiar, comparatively, were a pair of human-like legs senselessly dangling near its silk-drooling rear. "How strangely beautiful." Jean-Paul admired the design of the creature, awed that something dark and esoteric had engineered the being. "You know, I feel almost sorry…" "J-P!" Richard cried out. "Stop perving on the bloody thing and render it to goo!" "Right." The Void Mage called the Quickened spell to his lips and finished before his incantations shaped and manifested the mana. "Usurp!" A bean of Void appeared just in front of the Aberration, far too subtle for it to detect with tremor-sense. The next second, the party's foremost assailant walked right into the dark dot, at which point its expression changed from blind range to horrific fascination. "Drain!" Jean-Paul activated the second part of his spell. The bean of Void, now enveloped in the flesh, rapidly expanded, consuming its prison with such a voracious appetite that it blew up to ten-times its size. The Aberrant Hulk tottered forward, a cylinder of emptied flesh appearing between its chest and its damaged spine. "GARRRRRGGH—" it choked. "SKARRRRRGK— SKAARRG!" Halfway between Hulks and Crawlers, two more creatures escaped from Richard's meniscus of water with no visible concern for their forerunner. "Implode!" Jean-Paul allowed the orb of Void to reach critical mass before releasing its latent energies, sending a splattering splash of tenebrous ink in every direction. When inevitably the creatures ran teeth-first into the viscous Void-ink, he redoubled his focus. "Drain!" the Void Mage controlled as much of the Void Mana as he was able, then began the ritual anew. At his present tier of expertise, he could manage just three orbs. Thankfully, so long as his spell could find fresh flesh, he could maintain the cycle indefinitely until either his vitality failed or his concentration lapsed from spell fatigue. Or when something interrupted his spell cycle. "ROARRRR!" A line of Lightning, thicker than Caliban in its serpent form, washed over Hulks and Crawlers' incoming troop, reducing the first three to charred stumps. "You dispelled my Wall of Replenishing Water." Richard sighed at the Wyvern. "Lord Golos, please give us a warning, Lea put a lot of effort into that." "You folks are having too much fun." The Wyvern shrugged, hefting its axe. "Oi, you, Pale Calamity— let a few over. Let's see how they are in a real fight." "Um… should I…" Gracie raised her hand. "Maybe practice a few Illusions on the stragglers while Lord Golos stretches his limbs," Richard advised. "I wouldn't get between him and his fun." "Hee hee, good Human." The Wyvern grinned cruelly. "Ah, there's a fat one!" True to Golos' observation, there was indeed a "Hulk" of an Aberrant approaching, a bipedal elephant-monster with a tentacled face and arms as large as its disproportionate upper torso. From afar, the thing resembled a striding, muscular tumour armed with teeth and claw. "GARRRRRGH—!" The Aberrant barged through the floating field of Void Orbs, demonstrating an abnormal mass of elemental resistance. On their side, Golos waited for the Hulk to drop its shoulder and begin its charge. Digging his heels in, the True Dragon-kin suffused his limbs with the Essence gifted by his progenitor, then let loose with a rip-roaring buzz from the chain axe. The two connected, the "Smasher Axe" bashing the creature so totally that the overstressed metal cracked, the chains slipped, and the obsidian teeth grew jarred as they bit into its flesh. As for the Hulk itself, there was a mangled groan of crushed bone and rending flesh, then an explosion of sound signalling the unhappy consequence of two unstoppable objects meeting in disharmony. "YEAARRRGH!" Unhappy with the splintered weapon in his hand, Golos brought his tail to bear, striking the still-charging siege-Aberrant in the face to pulverise its skull with a sodden thunk. The Aberrant collapsed as its innards blew out of its ass. Comparatively, Golos lost only a dozen scales as the monster's maw raked his chest and shoulders, leaving the Wyvern bloodied and delighted. Richard put up a Water Shield to prevent the Aberrant Hulk's flayed flesh assailing Gracie and the other Mages. "Ha! See that, puny mortals?" The Wyvern congratulated itself as it wiped away a mouthful of arguably poisonous, corrosive ichor. "Now that's a fight, you tortoises! MORE, PALE ONE! GIVE ME TWO THIS TIME, A WORM AND A FAT ONE! " Gwen kept up the barriers and the bolts until her mind grew woozy from the fatigue, a feeling not dissimilar to taking too many Jägerbombs while racing the Happy Hour at the harbour. The Essence and vitality Caliban had picked up from the stragglers kept her awake and hail, but the mental drain of formulating so much magic so quickly and in such volume was taking its toll. When finally she ceased her firing, dispelled the barriers and set the dogs to work, there was only the plinking of cooling silica inside the tunnel, that and the occasional scrabbling of creatures unfortunate enough to be still alive. "You didn't have to spend all of your mana." Richard reached her side. "Nice work, nonetheless." "I am on about half-tank," she said sheepishly. "Lightning Bolts don't cost much, nor do Void spells." "… sure." Richard gave her an appreciative pat on the back. "Rori, how's it looking?" "Four hundred and sixty-five Crawlers and six Hulks and eight Centaurs." Came a trembling voice behind their battle line. From the cockpit visor, they could see the Dwarf woman's expression was comparable to one who'd seen the Seven Ancestors rise from the grave to the tune of Michael Jackson's Thriller. "By the Sju Dorfran, I hope Magus Song is not representative of all Himmseg Mages." "One would wish." Richard laughed. "I tell you truly, Rori, if everyone's like Gwen up there, we'll be ruling the Prime Material in no time— lucky for all life on earth, Gwen is unique." "Don't forget Sobel." Gwen stretched, then wrinkled her nose. "Pats, could you…" "Earth Shape!" Petra warped the stone so that the enormous pit of offal became covered by a rough mound of transmuted stone. "Thanks." Gwen breathed better once the death pit flattened. "So, is that it?" "That would be a significant number," Bumrorlim Vildrenbrandt said with a tone of relief. "I would additionally advise that we clear the Aberrants' nest." "Is it important?" Gwen asked. "Aye," the Golem pilot replied. "They'll replenish soon enough, assuming there's enough Aberrants left to feed the nest and gender more of their kind." "Terrifying, how are these monsters procuring supplies?" Gwen cocked her head. "And there's also the fact that 'city Dwarves' passed here only recently. What's the deal with that? And we know it wasn't Hanmoul— assuming there's no way they could have dealt with what we just Purged, who are these Dwarves and how did they pass?" Rori ashamedly shook her head. "I don't have an answer for you, Magus Song." "We'll find out soon enough," Richard assured them. "For now, time is of the utmost importance. Do you think Cali can deal with the nest?" "I'll send Umzokwe to help," Jean-Paul offered. "And the Leech Hounds. They're not nearly as fast as yours." "Then Buck and the Void Pack will keep scouting." Gwen struck a thumb toward the tunnel where Hanmoul should have passed a week or more ago. "I'll send a troop of Hydras up to the nest to clean up. J-P, please ensure nothing with a mote of vitality remains. Ariel, Cali, go with Umzokwe, I'll check on you with Sight Link." "EE!" "SHAA! SHAA!" The rest of the party stepped back while Gwen conjured up three Hydras, each resembling Caliban in its primitive, original form— a carapaced slug-serpent with a bullet-shaped armoured head possessed of no face. These were her latest summons, slithering stomaches whose only purpose was to gather vitality for their mistress. "Shaa-Shaa!" Caliban guided its new minions onwards. Together with Umzokwe, the roving mass of all-consuming Void beast went on their merry way, shepherded by an invisible Ariel. "Also, Gogo." Gwen turned to her stinking Wyvern, who was currently picking out bits of bone and claw from his carapace while reliving the thrill of combat. "You take the front. Dick, can you give him a cleanup? He smells like the bloody pits."

Through Ariel VR, Gwen watched their mutual Void minions make short work of the undefended Aberrant nest, paying particular attention to the strange monsters' alien nature. Overall, her opinion of the "Aberrants" was paralleled by the Triffid nest she had Purged months earlier. Only this time, her foe's uncanny appearance was a chimeric cocktail of otherworldly Transmutation mangled by bootleg Flesh Grafting. The "lair" itself was the stuff of 80s' monster movies, all sinew and slug skin strew from cavern to floor in convulsing lumps. The "womb", if Gwen dared to use such a term, involved pulsating tumours stitched together with pallid growths of unnamable anatomy, adding sacks and satchels of embryonic fluid to the glistening, dermis-clad walls. Mildly unnerved, Gwen was thankful that Umzokwe and the leeches possessed the right physiology for reducing quivering neoplasms into primordial gloop. With brutal efficiency, JP's summons penetrated, then slurped the embryotic fluid as a lukewarm soup, first injecting their victims with Void ink, then sucking the symbiotic creature of all vitality before physically taking the "meat". Her Hydras were comparatively dumber and slower than the dogs and the worms, albeit they could expand their jaws to swallow pallid eggs wholesale. "Did anyone ever find out who or what is responsible for the Aberrants?" she asked the party once her mind retracted from Ariel. "I mean, these things don't grow on their own, do they? They're nothing like Gobs or Snots. Something's making them, I suppose?" "If we ignore the Deepdowner's legends," Hanmoul's cousin spoke from her vox, eager to be helpful as she had only fired a dozen shots during the engagement. "And focus purely on what the Guild has discovered, we can trace the Aberrants to the denizens that lurk in the pockets between the Planes, are you familiar with those, Magus Song?" "In a manner of speaking." Gwen thought of the Hengsha Island, where she had as a novice encountered the Gila. The monstrous, flesh-warping, gene-splicing lizards were also a form of Aberrant Magical Creature, now that she had access to higher learning. They also possessed parasitic means of propagation that involved seeding the prime material's denizens with invasive seeds. The Elder Gila that Cali had taken down wasn't too smart, but it had populated a whole pocket plane with its kin, despite it being a single monster. Even after its demise, so long as its children lived on— Hengsha would always be the Gila's domain. "Then know that we have encountered other civilisations in the Murk— ones with hostile and invasive designs." "Have you ever seen these 'beings' in the flesh?" Richard asked. "Wait," Gracie intervened. "Ser Rori, do you mean to say the Dwarves have evidence of upper-tier creatures?" Gwen turned to the Void Sorceress. "I thought modern theory contested their existence and classified them as Magical Creatures? The texts I read suggest Demi-planes are something akin to the Unformed Land dreamt by Dragons." "Meister Brahe's Demi-Planar thesis declares that they do exist." Gracie nodded. "But lacking the Dragons' reality-altering willpower, the Demi-Planes should be seen as leftover Astral Matter that, like floating hulks drawn by the ocean currents, meet to create slapped-together worlds. Naturally, these worlds' unstable environments imply that their inhabitants are doomed to become refugees. Their homes are in a state of flux, though their destructive scale may be measured in tens of thousands, if not millions of years." "How exciting!" Gwen marvelled. "And from this bricolage of realities come the Aberrants, yes?" "Indeed." Their Iron Guard guide waited for the Mages' bookish excitement to die down. "In one of the expeditions led by Hanmoul, he says that he caught a glimpse of one of these 'dark intellects'— a Dwarf-like being with the face of Caliban's mouthparts…" "Tentacles?" Gwen moved her fingers just under her nose, wiggling her digits just so. "Like this?" "Aye." Rori nodded. "He says that it can control the Aberrants with its mind and that the monsters are subordinate to its will. In its presence, the Hulks fought until every mote of life was exhausted." "The paper I read." Gracie raised a hand. "Said that Meister Brahe's 42nd Deep Expedition uncovered the corpse of a Lung Fish the size of a double-decker bus. The carcass, after a thorough dissection, revealed a brain as large as a sedan, inferring extensive telepathic, telekinetic and other cerebral capabilities." "So these 'Aberrants'," the Dwarf said. "They're trying to break through the Prime Material through the Murk, where the fabric of the Planes grow thin enough for monsters to pass. Their goal, I would imagine, is to infect enough of us— or whatever they can get their tentacles on— to establish a beachhead to deliver the rest of their kin, assuming they have a civilisation." "Well, if the bloody buggers are live-grafting folks they find, as demonstrated by what we just fought." Gwen winced. "I'd imagine there's a civilisation alright, although they sound like terrible neighbours." "It makes a lot of sense." Petra's brows furrowed. "You know, now I am wondering whether all those stories of Changelings and missing villages in Moscow have anything to do with these 'Far Plane' creatures. Though rare compared to Lycanthropy outbreaks or Undead raids, the stories are very consistent from year to year and always involve unidentifiable monsters." The party grew silent while they pondered the facts. Compared to her contemplative companions, Gwen's mind delved a little deeper courtesy of knowledge the Bloom in White had gifted. As much as she felt disassociated with the Murk's problems, she couldn't shake the feeling that the Elvish talk of "Trees" "Snakes" and "ageless women" may be explicitly linked to the Dwarves' present dilemmas. If she was to assume the same problems occurring in the Murk were to afflict "Himmseg", what would these Aberrants do to Human cities with their surplus of impoverished millions? Would Human townships provide food to walking tumours scouring the landscape to enable passage from their dying home? And if indeed a group of sapient, intelligent beings arrived with capacities greater than Humanity, how should the Commonwealth receive them? Considering how much trouble they had with Triffids, what if something bigger and badder slipped across the threshold? A part of her preferred their present circumstance. Let the monsters lurk in the Murk, her heart whispered. That way, the solution was self-evident and expedient. "Let's go find Hanmoul." She checked in on her Familiars and Hydras and then informed the group that their monsters had completed the Purge action. "How's your haul, JP?" "So-so." Jean-Paul balanced a palm in the air. "They're not very vital, these Aberrants." "Well, we are in the Murk." Gwen regarded the space around them. "It's not exactly Amazonia down here." "And we very much appreciate London's generosity in the food trade," Bumrorlim said. "Did you know that a few years ago, we had to vote whether to eat the spuds or use them to brew alcohol…" Two hours later, Gwen's Omni-orb struck gold. Considering the nature of their quest, she had expected to find Hanmoul surrounded by the bodies of his fallen kin, an ugly wound down the side of his face, frothing blood and wielding a chain axe with a bare-bosomed lassie by his leg. As this was real-life, her Lightning Hounds found the "Iron Legion" of about a hundred Dwarves holed up in a natural cavern, wondering why the assaults from the Aberrants had suddenly ceased. "Girly!" Hanmoul unlatched his armour at once, an act that spoke dearly of his feelings for their friendship. "I'd expected Master to send a squad or two, but YOU? Brumdahr's beard, yer've made me a happy lad to see his lucky lassie, HA!" "Hanmoul." Gwen drifted close enough so that the two could shake hands. "Always a pleasure to catch you in the thick of it. Did you wait long? We ran into quite the pack on the way. A furious bunch that numbered in the hundreds." "And yer did away with em as yer'd done with them Trollies?" Hanmoul rubbed his hands. "Yer a veritable reverse-Fabricator! My Legion is in yer debt again!" "I'd be dishonest if I were to suggest I didn't come down here with that in mind." Gwen stifled a snigger. "Anyway, how are your folk? I brought healing spells, food, HDMs, booze, the works." "Aye, we've been fighting for a few cycles." Hanmoul's face sagged. "If yer got some Maotai, let's see it. Is it ter good stuff?" "I could juice it up, yes." Gwen felt happy that her friends had suffered no significant losses. Hanmoul's expedition had a dozen walking-wounded and thirty-odd disabled suits, including two Smashers; numbers that would have risen sharply had she not Purged the nest. "G'day, mates. Tordok, Tordum, Grimgal, you're looking worse for wear." "I've seen better cycles." Grimgal slapped her Rock Smasher's cracked canopy, wincing when a sheet of crystal fell out. "When did you arrive at the Citadel? I am shocked those Deepdowners let you leave. I was telling Hamoul that they're sending us out to fail." "Got here a cycle ago and left the Citadel right away," Gwen said. "As for permission, I never asked." Grimgal burst into laughter. "There's something to be learned there." "Ah, I wouldn't if I were you," Grimgal's Commandrumm warned his ace pilot. "Who are these, lassie? I see there's more of yer kind now." Gwen brought her party up one-by-one. "Right, this is my crew— Here's Jean-Paul, a Void Mage like me. Gracie's new to this but a Void user as well. You already know Richard and Petra, the latter is receiving guidance from Yossari. That tank of a brute over yonder you should know as my meat shield. Gogo, say hi." At her introduction, Golos near-swallowed his tongue with indignation. "Lord Golos." Hanmoul bowed. "... Dwarf," the Wyvern greeted the Commandrumm, then growled at Gwen. "No manners." "Haha." Gwen chuckled. "And of course, here's one of yours." "Cousin!" Bumrorlim finally managed to get a word in edgewise. Exiting her engine, she and Hanmoul embraced. "It's good to see you're safe, Hamm." A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "Thank yer for coming for us." Hanmoul held his cousin for a few more seconds before releasing the female Dwarf. "I am truly blessed by Bürumm-Dal to have you lot at me back. I'd thought we would have to grind our way out, to think we'd turn the tide, and so soon!" The two guards that came with Bumrorlim also made their presence known to Hanmoul's Iron Legion. With the ice broken, the parties briefly mingled to share the news. "Sorry to interrupt." Gwen waited until the greetings were over. "As much as I'd love to break out the booze right here, we still need to find Hilda." "Aye, lassie." Hanmoul's expression grew serious. "That we do. I've tracked her to the 'Hydra's Head', but then we were ambushed by the pale-faced stink bugs. We'll have to backtrack and retrace her progress." "There's no need." Gwen turned her palm upward, at which point she materialised her Omni-Orb. In the lamplight from the Smasher Golems, the slowly twirling orb was a thing of alluring beauty. "Do you trust me, Hanmoul?" "With all me heart, lass." The Iron Guard Commandrumm exhibited such faith that Gwen blushed to think of what she desired from him in return. "I am in yer hands, girly, but can yer clarify what yer ken?" Gwen briefly described the orb's functions, emphasising that it consisted of the Core of a Dragon and that it was gifted to her by an ancient and influential member of the Yinglong's family. "… So where ever this leads, we'll find Hilda, but we'll need to move fast. The more ground we can cover, the better the Divination will perform." Hanmoul turned to regard his Legion. "Grimgal, how many Swiftstriders have we got with us?" "If we tear down the Smashers and take parts from the Golem suits— sixteen?" Grimgal checked her instruments. "We can do it within the hour. The rest of the IronGuards can progress independently to secure our return route, Foreman Khzaarum can lead, and Engineseer Bakkar can be his second." "We won't let you down, Commandrumm." A White Beard popped his hatch to salute Hanmoul, joined a moment later by a second Dwarf with greying hair and a runic spectacle replacing his right eye. "If I lose even one Iron Born, consign me to the Soul Forge." Foreman Khazzrum's pupils blazed like twin coal beads as he made the vow. Hanmoul patted both on the shoulder. "Right— We'll make haste then—one hour rest and retooling. Engineseers, yer with me, Runesmiths, assist yer Seers. We leave after one hour." "Great." Gwen was happy there would be a minimal delay and that she did not have to leave Hanmoul behind. If and when they found Hilda, she wanted to keep all of her VIPs close. "Now, just one more thing. We'll be running with Hounds, packs and packs of em, so it's probably best your men get used to them." "Nasty little nippers?" Hanmoul regarded the Lighting Hound pack that had found them. "I've seen em before." "Oh, there's a few more this time." Gwen grinned with anticipation. "And let me tell ya, Hammy, these bad boys don't just nip…" "It's just a concussion." Hilda's Keeper's voice traversed through the haze. "Unclench yer teeth, breath deeply, relax yer muscles and let the suit do the work." Hilda's hand came away from her head, half-expecting to see a smear of muddied blood on her glove. Fortunately, reality proved her expectations false. Her "Khro Klad" was a one-of-a-kind improved by generations of Engineseers, a priceless relic passed down from the pinnacle of Deepholm's Machine Hall, serving as insurance for a true-blooded scion. Unlike a regular Klad, within its spinal columns, powerful Cores collected by the Clan's warriors and Enchanted by its Runesmiths contained the power of a foundry. Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt couldn't recall the last time she had participated in combat. Though the Ancestors did say that piloting a Kald suit was like stilt-walking a bipedal Strider; she had nonetheless allowed her overheated Core to overwhelm her head, making Hilda wish she could hook up a coolant pipe into her brain. "Help me up," she said out of habit, though her suit was perfectly capable of uprighting its staggered occupant by tapping into magnetic forces. Eben's gauntlet locked behind her pauldrons, then brought her to her feet. Compared to her Klad, his suit was monstrous and antiquated, passed down through a lesser lineage and therefore a product of function over form. "Yer shouldn't have—" "I know." Hilda brushed her Attendant aside. Not far, her Iron Guards were being chewed out by their sergeant. Her close call wasn't their fault, though. She had miscalculated her Tremor Shift and as a result, had slid inadvertently into the fray. Hilda could only imagine what must be going through her guards' heads when it happened; likely, the moment in which the Aberrant Hulk knocked her clear, their first thought was to bolt their brains out lest folk at the Citadel found out their failure. "My apologies. It won't happen again. How's the battle looking?" "We're barely sustaining our advantage." Ebren changed back to his external vox speaker, his voice once again becoming grating and mechanical. "The Human Mages are exhausted. Without rest, they'll be nothing but slag to be ferried. The Iron Guards are largely fighting hand-to-hand now. The Fabricators are on full crank producing mana fuel. Once that falls behind, we'll be cutting our fighting size by half." Hilda ran diagnostics while she surveyed the battlefield. In times like these, she wanted to tap into the Khro Klad's reserves and share the abundant energies bound within its stowed Cores. If she were a Grand Engineseer, she would have the authority to dismantle the suit— but alas, someone of her age, even if they possessed the skill, could not attain the title— and even if the Ancestor's Hall were to make an exception, it wasn't as though she could return to Deepholm to receive the blessing. "Thrice-Jammed Cog!" Hilda swore— an act that scandalised her partner but expelled the air of frustration in her chest. "If only I wore a Battle Klad!" "You're the august scion of a Maker-Clan, Milady." Keeper Ebren huffed into his rebreather to remind her of a Deepdowner's decorum and dignity. "Leave the grunt work to the Iron Borns. We are what the Ancestors have made us." "I don't doubt that." Hilda raised a hand to signal that she was alright. The diagnostics that returned from her suit indicated that forty-seven separate implements in her finely tuned Klad would require maintenance. "How's your Klad holding up, Ebren?" "There's enough functions left, as always." Ebren's voice took on a note of mirth. Pipes trilled and pressure-flooded chambers hissed as he moved. "It will take more than a Hulk to bring this one to his Ancestors." "Captain Bronzehorn." She nodded, then spoke into her vox box. "Report." "Esteemed Engineseer." The Captain's voice reverberated through her ear-piece. "The tide is thinning even though our killing count has rapidly diminished. Either the Murk monsters are exhausted, or we may have allies finding their way to us. Should I send out a scout?" "But we have no Striders to spare. You are confident the Wave is ending?" "Aye, Mistress." Her Captains answer was punctuated by the sound of his Smasher Axe buzzing through a host of skittering limbs. "My men can clear a path. Please give the word." "I can Earthstride," Hilda said. "Do you—" A hand touched her shoulder. "— Please remain here, for all our sakes," Ebren denied her request to join the fray once more. "There are many suits requiring repairs and wounded Iron Guards needing your assistance. If you must help, Lady Kül, let it be from behind the battle line. No one can mend a wrangled Golem Plate as well as you, Milady. The men would fight to the death, and when they do, they would prefer it if they fell defending you and not chasing you." "It's a scion's duty to—" "I will go." When she tried to push Ebren away, her actuators flashed yellow. Her Keeper's Klad possessed more strength than her surface diagnostics could fathom, Hilda suddenly realised. All of the Dwarves here had untapped depth— a stark contrast to herself, who felt shamefully at her limit. All the more important then, that she made good on her promise to punch through the Murk to the Dyar Morkk. How else could she repay the sacrifices made by her Murk-kin? Bringing them home to the Ancestor's Hall to receive the Cog's benediction would be the least she could do as their Engineseer. Hilda taxed her rebreather with another long sigh. "— Mistress!" The voice of Captain Bronzehorn burst through the intercom. "No need fer a Scout, Milady! Reinforcement! They've arrived!" "Who is it?" Hilda's voice grew shrill and hopeful. "Is it Hanmoul?" "Nay, Milady," the Captain said. "Their Glyph reports a Legion from the Citadel! It's Engineseer Thalmar and His Murk Divers!" "Angus the Eminent?" Eben's helmet turned to regard her own. "The venerable White Beard is thirty cycles south of three hundred! How is he even piloting a Golem? He was bed-ridden!" Hilda felt concurrently glad and ashamed. "How many of them? How are they fairing against the Centaurs?" "Our reinforcements number only in the dozen." The Captain's tone grew strange. When he next spoke, his voice grew breathless with loss. "But they are approaching fast. Mistress— I regret to inform you that the Engineseer has given himself to the Soul Forge." "The White Beard has…" Hilda choked. To deliver oneself to the Soul Forge would be to deny their Cores the chance to return to the Ancestors and the Elemental Plane of Earth. In the aftermath, one's Essence would also burn like a wick until every mote was exhausted. "I've decreed the act VADAM! Who dares— Zairic and Zethoag! Those Murk moles! How could they?" Eben's shoulders appeared to sag at the news as well. "Hilda, maybe it's best to speak to the Engineseer first. Remember the lessons of Nörn-Zur and not reach for conclusions without evidence." Hilda nodded. Gathering her wits and then her guards, she made for the battlement where her troops had been slogging it out with the Aberrant horde, retreating to newly Transmuted battlements every time the ground grew soaked with corrosive body fluids. Since they had been surrounded, the Fabricators had bunkered down almost three kilometres, but Hilda's men had retreated more than that, resulting in a buffer no more the length of a Citadel spire between the front and back lines. When she arrived, she could see the Balefire Golem— a medium variant newly cast from Orichalcum and vivified with Runes of Electrum, Palladium and Mithril. Below the battlement, the re-forged Dwarf was currently pillaging his way through the Aberrants, wielding the Elements with the ease of a Grandmaster Machine Smith refining impurities in the Grand Forge. At five meters tall, the Engineseer formerly known as Emgus Thalmar, venerated White Beard and Maker of Arms was without peer. Compared to the muted blips of Dwarves in Diver Suits beside him, his mana signature burned as a miniaturised Radiant phenomenon ripped from the heart of the Quasi-Elemental Plane, smouldering with enough energy to power all of Hilda's Iron Guards and then some. To Hilda, who had from her earliest childhood spent her time under the watchful eye of sleepy Deepdowners and their retinue of Balefire Guardians, she could only lament her helplessness. "Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt— true scion of Varekan-Kül, Bringer of the Lumen!" a booming voice cried out from the battlefield to reverberate against the cathedral cavern, its intonation thick with old Dwarven still spoken in Deepholm. "Be at peace, girly! Thine kin has come for thee!" "I welcome thy guiding hand!" Hilda made the Blessed Cog sign with both hands raised above her head; her mood compressed as though caught in a gigaton hammer press. As with the Dwarf addressing her, she too utilised her vox caster. "Khorok Umgor welcomes thee, venerable Seer! Our gates open to receive thee!" A rapid series of ground-shaking explosions, each triggered by Lava Bursts conjured by the old Engineseer, appeared to tear the reinforced cavern asunder, sending down an avalanche of boulders to crush the Aberrants, concurrently stymying the flow of flesh leaking in from the northern-most cathedral cavern. Behind the Balefire Golem, the Murk Divers— select units made for rapid transit through the Murk— finished off the stragglers with Stone Lances issued from their Spellswords, skewering the trapped Aberrants so that their still-living bodies formed grisly, writhing totems. "Open the gates." Hilda's concern was only for the sacrifice made by their oldest Engineseer. Even as her Klad unconsciously moulded the stone to create stairs that would hasten her descent, all she could think about was the debt she now owed the usually aloof instructor. To die for a Deepdowner was a fate many warriors wished for— but Thalmar was a venerated White Beard, an authority in his field. That such a man would give up his flesh and blood to bring their prideful priestess home was the ultimate sacrifice. "Let us welcome our saviours." Hilda was glad her suit hid her over-emotional face. "I will greet Engineseer Thalmar myself— any less would be an insult to the Debt of Haj-Zül." Taking on Gwen's advice, the Dwarves prioritised tools, medical supplies and transport space under the assumption that Hilda would be neck-deep in Aberrants. Assuming there was a "quick-in"— they would purge the Obsidian Cavern of Aberrants and regroup with Hilda to uncover the nest. In the off-chance of a "quick-out"— Gwen and company would stimy the tide while the Dwarves dumped supplies to ferried out as many men and engines as they could salvage. There remained also the fact that Golos had scented an undeclared expedition of Dwarves, though in their present circumstance, they would have to deal with that particular detail as it emerged. For now, Hanmoul's Iron Legion would return to the Hydra's Head interchange to set up checkpoints and secure their retreat, ensuring that the return path to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth remained unimpeded. Meanwhile, Gwen's train of Hounds, Dwarves, Humans and Striders, accompanied by flying, hovering, striding and slithering Familiars was ready to depart. "I can't wait to see the look on Hildy's face," Gwen remarked to her companion. "Well, on her helmet. Those Deepsuits are surprisingly expressive, what with the circular visor and the articulated helmets." "Aye, if yer kin desire ter use the Dyar Mokk," Hanmoul agreed. "Then yer'll need the Deepdowners in yer debt. Once we bring back Hilda, we'll have to find a way to deal with Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh. Any clues on how yer wanna do that, lassie?" "We'll do our best." Gwen grinned with confidence, her eyes full of mischief and anticipation. "What else can we do but tell the old men that they now live in new worlds?"

When Hilda was a girl-child with only a slight wisp of facial hair, she had the honour of conversing with her Clan's Balefire Guardian. Her father, the venerable Lord Seer Bermyr Kül, had been in a session with the Grand Citadel Council to deliver the Craftsmen's Guilds' quarter-cycle Devlar on Dwarven Productivity. His negligence had left Hilda free to wander the Grand Hall of Gul-Zūh, where she had taken the rare opportunity to make mischief. At the door to the Chamber of the Eternal Cog, she was stopped by a smouldering gauntlet almost as wide as herself. "Thou cannot go that way, child." The voice that emerged from the vox-box communed with her through vibrations that tapped into her Core. "For one as youthful as thee, the deep-knowledge is _Vadam_." At four metres, Lord Engineseer Urmrak Kül was over five hundred years old. He had consigned his Core to the Eternal Forge during the Long Siege when the Elemental Princes of the Deep had sealed off the Dyar Morkk in an attempt to starve the Dwarven city. The result of that conflict— in no small part thanks to the ignition of the Soul Forge and the men and women who stepped up to the Glyph to consign their Cores— was a total defeat for the Elementals. For Deepholm, the victory ushered in a brief Golden Age of wealth and expansion, resulting in the rise of "Murk" Dwarves and their surface Citadels. "Lord Urmra..." Hilda had bowed deep until she almost prostrated. Children like her, benefactors of the epoch of plenty, were taught from birth that their lives were indebted to the sacrifices of these noble Spirits. "It is not my intention to enter. I was merely curious." "Then turn thine eyes away." The Golem-being rumbled, as did the chamber as it spoke. "Trouble not this old soul." Unable to resist, she had reached out and touched the complex Glyph-work on the Dwarf's plating. Though young, her gift for inscriptions had already made her blood-line talents manifest. "Does it hurt?" Her fingers traced the runes. "There's so much mana… the burden on your Core, Lord Urmrak, must be unbearable." Urmrak's armour used his face's likeness in life; when the Balefire Golem peered down to regard the girl-child, the evanescent runes had cast an unexpectedly melancholic shadow over Hilda. "The 'Rite' is bearable…" the Golem had droned, its eye sockets were now empty and dark, two black holes were vibrant eyes full of wisdom would have once been seated. "That, dear child, us Balefires must believe above all else." Hilda felt her Core shudder with recollection as the venerable White Beard ducked under the lip of the archway leading to the makeshift hall. "Lord Thalmar." Her voice modulator kept her emotions in check, though Varekan-Kül, blessed be her Ancestor, knew that a part of her just wanted to scream. "Your arrival is most welcome in this dire time." "Aye, tis Dire—" The Balefire Golem's voice rumbled. Its Core-housing helmet was of an unprecedented design and not in a good way. Back home, the traditional Balefire patterns were highly personalised. Each Golem was unique, carefully modelled after the likeness of the sacrificed Engineseer or Master and explicitly stylised with Runes and patterns that told their life's work. A Balefire hailing from a Crafter's House, for example, would usually sport motifs of hammer and tongs and wield tools the Master had used in life. One descended from a Warrior's Noble House would usually occupy the Dreadnaught or the Berserks body, becoming a living embodiment of valour. Thalmar's body, as far as she could see, was a rushed piece of work. The helmet had not the likeness of Thalmar in life, famous for his broken and shattered nose— a proud relic of his younger brawling days, but was entirely nondescript. Horrifically, if she had to place her fingers on the anvil, she would complain that the craftsmanship was a sham for someone as august as Emgus Thalmar, Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth's Master Maker of Arms. "— But is any of this necessary?" the Golem continued. "Thou should have remained in the Citadel and listened to thy elders. Now, for thy selfish ambition, thy kin shall all suffer." Hilda felt the heat rise but had learned enough to will the biochemical apparatuses in her suit to cool her head before the sentimental sympathy for the old codger faded. "I shall not contest your displeasure, Lord Thalmar." Hilda glanced at her Keeper to see if her fellow Deepdowner had an objection. As expected, Ebren stood stoic and without a word while his Mistress took the helm. "To that end, Lord Thalmar, do you have recommendations from the Citadel?" "I have." The nondescript visor smouldered. "Thou art to cease thy foolish act and return at once." "That, I cannot entertain." Hilda's voice grew instantly stern. "Lives have been lost, Lord Thalmar, and many have paid the price. To withdraw now would be to disregard their sacrifice and contribution." The Golem did not immediately respond, but stared at Hilda, making her scalp crawl even inside her Klad. Unlike her House Guardian, there was something deeply menacing about Thalmar, particularly the way his eyes smouldered, leaking Elemental Magma. "Thou would refuse?" "I do not mean to be ungrateful. Yet I cannot be swayed from my course." Hilda held her breath as she fought the inner conflict of duty against tradition. She owed Thalmar an enormous debt— but she was in the right that personal gratitudes should not influence a Citadel's commitments. She had no idea what Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh had offered the Engineseer to give up his existence as a Dwarf, but she understood the act must be directed toward herself. For a moment, their contesting mana aura meeting mid-air grew thick enough to ignite the resting runes on Ebren's Klad. "— I can sense thy conviction." The Golem fumed, releasing an ear-piercing shrill as its internal gasses escaped. "If there is anything else milady may entertain..." Ebren spoke in that soft and melancholy voice of his, usually disguised by his modified vox box. The Golem's light fell on Ebren, lingered rudely, then returned to Hilda. "Very well, what I ask for instead is an opportunity to offer you instruction from the Masters, Gul-Zūh and Gul-Zūh. They know that thou will not meet them alone, so I have come bearing an Echo Device. Fraron!" A Dwarf in his Murk Diver's suit shuffled forward and presented an obsidian cube inscribed with enough Runes to make the average Runesmith dizzy. "A request for an audience is hardly appropriate for a debt of this magnitude," Hilda refuted the Engineseer's well-wishes at once. "I will listen." "We wish to converse in private," Thalmar clarified his position with a low rumble. "We desire the knowledge of everything thou knows of this 'Devourer of Shenyang'. And in the aftermath of our meeting, we ask for Ancestor Møsvian's Silence." For a brief second, even in her Klad, Hilda appeared taken aback. Møsvian's Silence, Hilda understood, was a sacred promise passed between the ordained scholars of Deepholm. In the original psalm, Møsvian the Skald was told of Brumdahr's shame, and though honour would dictate that the singer would inform the people, the battle Skald chose to keep a vow of silence for a decade while Brumdahr made amends for his trespass. In the present day, Møsvian's Silence was a vow to the Ancestors that what passes between confessing Dwarves would remain among them unto death. When invoked, the Vow passed on knowledge and shameful secrets, and its violation would invalidate the "Oath Breaker", no matter the intrigue. As for knowledge of her Human ally, Hilda understood Thalmar's wariness, for the sorceress had been instrumental in bringing Humans into the Murk. If they were in the Citadel, there would be no way Hilda would willingly be subject to the burden that Møsvian's Silence would engender— certainly not when the deliverers are Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh, two purity-obsessed fanatics from Umgor èron Varèkan. But for her present circumstance, to refuse even distant communication with the brothers while under the auspice of debt from their aide was arrogance too far even for a Kül-Hildenbrandt. "Very well." Hilda could feel herself sweating despite the perfect environs of her Klad. "Ebren, prepare the conference room for privacy, then leave us. Until they are satisfied, Engineseer Thalmar and I will converse with our seniors from Umgor èron Varèkan." When the party ran face-first into a clogged tunnel made impassable by battle debris, Gwen volunteered the vitality vacuumed up from the Aberrant nest to utilise Caliban in its Wyrm guise. Several rationales supported such a lavish expenditure— first because the excess vitality shared between herself, Cali and Gracie was making them giddy and far too excitable, and secondly because she wanted to test Caliban's abilities as a digger to salvage lost time spent in transit. Thankfully, her hopeful hypothesis proved on-point. Akin to the giant Wyrm Caliban had consumed a year prior, it began to writhe and drill at the shattered and fractured rock wall, clearing a path forward. "Think Cali could manage to emulate a Fabricator?" Gwen fell into step beside Hanmoul as they watched the Wyrm excavate its way downward and forward. A few of the Dwarves were marking the Omni-orb's path, for even a few degrees of error could send them somewhere entirely off course. "After which we can get Human Transmuters to put up concrete supports and pillars." "If it's only this size." Hanmoul studied the diagnostic data on his Swiftstrider. "But if yer wants the tunnel to stick around, keep to Dwarven engineering." Caliban's width and girth meant that its tunnel was enough for someone like Gwen to walk through if she stooped, though if she desired to install a mass transit system, it would mean doubling Caliban's girth. "Shaa!" Caliban made its pleasure known. As for its Master, her spine-tingled as the Void consumption withdrew the energy and mana her Familiar needed to digest and process the rocks. "That's a shame." She checked that Gracie was coping well, and the young woman gave her an affirming nod. In her opinion, her newest ward was rapidly gaining confidence as she witnessed the true potential of Void magic. Though Richard had joked about the possibility that she may very well be breeding a new Sobel, thereby completing her Master's Path in totality— Gwen knew that with Essence Tap, she would have mastery over Gracie until one of them died. Such was the barbarity of Shamanistic Magic— and such was the rationale behind why seemingly "useful" Wildland sorcery was shunned by the Shard. Compared to invocations like Morden's Hound that's widely lauded and rapidly becoming a Conjuration staple, her "Kilroy Collection" remained ethically ambiguous at the best of times. However, through her conversations with Walken, her Executive Officer remarked that the Shard applauded her exemplary monetary investments. One of the elements that defined Sobel was her withdrawal from a centralised political system. The Tower trusted Kilroy or had no choice but to believe that he would keep a tab on his Missus— though in hindsight such boundless freedom was a catastrophic mistake. Comparatively, with so many stakes in the city and the Mageocracy itself, including her extended family, the Mageocracy's offices felt at ease that Magus Song's commitment manifested as concrete and glass. While she mulled over her Himmseg circumstances, Cali's rock crushing continued. To widen and then fortify the shattered tunnel with their lightly equipped Dwarven Swiftstrider took some effort, meaning the party had to toil even though Caliban had expedited the process by ten-fold. "Shaa-Shaa!" Caliban hissed again from somewhere within its undulating, pulsating torso, its shrieks reverberating through the smoothly-bored walls. "Cali says," Gwen translated for the rest. "We're almost near the end." "Lots of signs of combat," Hanmoul remarked from his vox, his Swiftrunner pinging the walls with beeps and trills from its sonar. "Loose rubble, but also fused by Dwarven Runecraft. I am a bit curious as to what occurred." "Maybe Hilda sealed themselves in?" Gwen asked. "That makes sense," Petra, who had been helping the Dwarves, agreed. "The easiest way to keep safe would be walling the Aberrants out." "I disagree." Richard chuckled, his voice echoing sinisterly in the flickering light emitted by Gwen's Lightning Hounds. "If you ask me, I reckon this is for walling folks in…" "HOLD FIRE!" Hanmoul bellowed into the newly excavated and connected tunnel. "WE'RE BROADCASTING FRIENDLY GLYPHS! YER MURK-HEADS!" Gwen felt an unbidden heat flush ripple through her body as the explosion on the other side of the wall ripped through Caliban's innards. Someone on the Citadel-side must have been surprised when an "Earthen Wyrm" without a smidgen of Earthen mana burst through the debris with a whirling maw of circular teeth and gobbling tongues flailing in every direction. For that reason, she was not upset, though Caliban's temper had taken a feat of will to banish "under" the underground. To her relief, the Dwarves opposite did cease their Magma Bombs, Lava Bursts and Obsidian Shards once Hanmoul put himself between the retreating Caliban and harm's way. The Dwarf also had Lea to thank, for the Commandrumm of the Iron Guards would have taken a rippling blast to the canopy had her water barriers not diverted the heat and pressure. As a show of loyalty, her Dwarves went first with their Striders to parley, after which Gwen and company emerged with hands slightly raised to show that they meant no harm, keeping their army of pets in the back chamber to prevent agitating the trigger-happy Iron Guards. As they emerged, Gwen could see that they were in an enormous cathedral of dark granite, the largest she had encountered since delving into the Murk. On the far side, some several hundred meters away, stood the scarred battlements of the Obsidian Cavern. From what she could discern, the freshly churned earth below its battered walls still oozed black blood. "What's the meaning of this?" Hanmoul's Strider popped its cockpit with a release of pressurised gas. "Bronzehorn! Why are your vox-units turned off? Where's Engineseer Hilda?" Gwen had expected this "Captain Bronzehorn" to fall out of his cockpit and grovel for forgiveness. To her surprise, there wasn't even a popped cockpit. "I see the Humans have sent their reinforcements." The Dwarf's tone was entirely apathetic. "Aye that they have." Hanmoul waited for his counterpart to show his face. When the Captain failed to dispense even the slightest remorse, his tone grew dark. "Captain, as the Commandrumm of the Iron Guards, I am giving you an order to speak truthfully. What's happening? Where's her Eminence?" "Her Eminence is inside," Bronzehorn's vox crackled. "I've reported your arrival." Gwen led her party within walking distance of the Smashers, then stopped with both hands raised, keeping Golos at the party's rear. She could see the roughed-up Golem suits still had their Spellsword hot and sizzling, casting no doubt as to what had struck Caliban. "Hanmoul. Are we cool now?" This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. "We will be," Hanmoul ordered his Dwarves to fan out between the Humans and his kin. "Bronzehorn's not himself. Could be war-wariness, or a touch of the Murk Madness. It frays the nerves when yer've fought Aberrants for too long, making folk see and think things that are not there." "Alright, how about an official approach?" Gwen raised a hand to signal her arrival. "Captain Bronzeborn! You are addressing Magus Gwen Song of the Shard! I have come to retrieve our Mages and resupply our allies. Tell your Eminence a friend has come to aid her in her time of need." "Ah, about that," Bronzehorn's voice broadcasted across the distance between them. "The Deepdowner doesn't need yer help anymore, Human— she's safe now, and she gave express orders for you to leave the Murk." "Bronzeborn! Insolent boy! What does that mean?" Hanmoul's temper flared. "We risked my men coming ter save her! Yer telling me that was fer nought? Deal with us? Send back an Echo Message! Tell the Deepdowner we're not her lackeys! I ain't leaving until the lassie learns some respect and we see the Citadel safe and secured!" "If you know what's good for you." The Golem's tinted cockpit observed first Gwen and then his Commandrumm with visible agitation. "You should go. Lord Thalmar has arrived with a contingent of his Deep Divers. They mopped up the Aberrants and are in council with Mistress Hilda. You're not needed anymore." "Thalmar? The Maker of Arms? What's a bleeding Cogmen doing digging in the Murk?" From Hanmoul's incredulous expression, Gwen took it that the news came as a shock for the Commandrumm. "The Engineseer's three centuries old, fer Bürumm's sake! Did he get carried here on a Swiftrunner? His beard was down to here! He—" Hanmoul suddenly stopped talking. The ring of Rock Smashers, broken and mangled as they are from cycles of ceaseless siege, had formed a semi-circle with Gwen and Hanmoul at the centre of their crossfire. "I am sorry, Commandrumm." The Captain's voice lost all joy. "Return now. Those are my orders." Around them, the Iron Guards raised their weapons. Hanmoul's Swiftstriders raised their Shields. Profanities exploded from Hanmoul while both of his hands signalled the curse of the Thrice-Jammed Cog. Just in case, Gwen checked the hovering orb still veering toward the Citadel's depth. If the orb's mystical energies were correct, what she "desired", meaning Hilda, was still inside the Citadel. More than Hilda, however, what worried her was where the hell their Mages had gone. There were at least sixty-odd adventurers inside the Dwarven Citadel. If Hilda wasn't in the mood to greet them, or if this Thalmar has taken control, then what of her men and women? What happens to the grass in the middle when two elephants fought? "Calamity." Golos' voice drifted across to the inner circle where Gwen watched Hanmoul rave at the Third Legion's seditious Captain. "Gogo?" Gwen offered an ear to the Wyvern. "What's the matter? Are you hungry? Bored? I am afraid I didn't expect this. I'll tell you what though, get ready for trouble. This 'Murk' business is turning out murkier than we could have imagined. So much for the simplicity of Dwarven honour." "I smell Dwarves," Golos informed her. Gwen wrinkled her nose. She had to agree, for Captain Bronzehorn and his battered troops stank of old engine oil, burnt paint and unfiltered, badly combusted mana. "Daft female!" The Wyvern gnashed his teeth. "I mean the ones who came before us. I smell them here." "I would imagine so." Gwen struck a thumb toward the Citadel's scarred surface. "You're smelling Thalmar, I guess? They managed to save Hilda before we got here. I doubt that's a coincidence. It looks to me like these new Deepdowners have got it in for us and are trying to prevent Hilda from owing us a solid one." "Nay, there's something else." The Wyvern's nostrils inhaled and exhaled. "It's in the air. Something stinks like those white ones." Gwen glanced at the mass graves bleeding dark ichor. "They've killed hundreds, or so they say, and their blood makes the land fallow. Is that what you smell?" "They hid the scent." Golos glanced at the Citadel suspiciously, his slitted eyes hardening. "But it is in there. I can taste their polluted Essence mingled with the Dwarves. They're a single creature, Calamity—" "Do you smell our Mages?" Gwen suddenly realised she could have asked Golos all along. "I do," Golos grunted. "They're weak, but they should yet live." Gwen paused to look at the livid Hanmoul and the unmoving vehicle of Bronzehorn, neither of whom understood a word of Draconic, unlike those of her party members who had come adequately provisioned. Should she abide by Golos' deductions? If the question was whether she trusted the Wyvern to pass on a message, she would feel ambivalent. As an Essence-based bloodhound, however, she couldn't think of any reason why the Wyvern would lie. At any rate, if the Human Adventurers did not make an appearance soon, she should probably expect the worst. "Richard, get everyone ready." She delivered a Silent Message via her device. "JP— bring the dogs up. Gracie, follow JP. Pats, keep a few Cubes ready to go. If there's going to be a fight, let's not get caught flat-footed." "Captain Bronzeborn," she concurrently interrupted the Dwarven defender, both of her pupils glowing green with Essence and Lighting. "Let me ask you one more time. Can you send out our Human Mages? Where are they?" "They're inside," the Captain responded flatly. "Are they being held as hostages?" Gwen asked. "Are they safe?" The Dwarf took a moment to respond. "They are exhausted from the battles and need rest." Gwen pointed a finger to the Citadel. "Captain. Do you know who I am?" "Aye," the Captain answered. There was a pause; then Bronzehorn's vox crackled in a voice that was not his own. "Kill the Devourer." A surge of mana gathered at the tip of Bronzehorn's Spellswords. "Bronzeborn! Ingrate! Yer dares—" Hanmoul's cry cut off mid-howl as an invisible Ariel swept up the Commandrumm and threw the Dwarf back into his Swiftrunner Strider before he could come between Gwen and the Golem. _CLANG!_ Besides Gwen, Golos launched forward with the swiftness of a Lightning Bolt. In a flash, the Wyvern caught the offending Spellsword attached to the Smasher's power-gauntlet and wrenched the thing from its mounting. In a follow-up motion, the Wyvern swung the dismounted weapon back toward the Rock Smasher, sinking the cracked and burning blade deep enough into the cockpit to deform the chassis. "FIRE AT WILL!" Came a commanding cry from another Smasher at their encirclement. At once, the platoon of Smashers took up their arms and began to charge, a few even closing in for melee. "KILL THE DEVOURER!" More so than the sudden hostility, Gwen felt puzzled by how a team of beaten mechanical constructs believed they could best a Mage Flight capable of piercing the Murk without so much as a hair out of place. "Richard, I'll draw their fire and perform Recon-in-Force," Gwen fired off an order. "If Hilda's serious, tell Hanmoul to prepare to prioritise our men and women." "What about these?" Richard replied with complete calm. "Disable them!" Compared to the uncharacteristic chaos displayed by the indecisive Iron Guards, Gwen's party fell into formation with instant clarity. She Dimension Doored forward to draw the Golems' fire, understanding Richard's Undine would keep off the attackers' brunt. Her ulterior motive was to breach the Citadel itself to take a peek inside— ideally from the battlements to determine whether the Citadel and thereby Hilda herself had extenuating circumstances. Behind her, Richard took to the fore, instantly concealing the space around the party with a blanket of mist. Jean-Paul positionedhimself in front of Gracie but put a safe distance behind Richard, a set of absorption spells ready to be ushered from his lips as Umzokwe materialised by his side. Gracie and Petra took up the final two spot in the line formation, keeping together and trusting their teams to keep them safe while they provided support. _CRACK!_ Golos' meteor of a tail smashed into the War Golem that held Bronzehorn, toppling the Dwarven engine. His impromptu barricade fell just in time, catching the worst of the Lava Burst and Obsidian Shards before the rest rolled mutedly over Golos' innate spell resistance. Lightning crackled across the Wyvern's carapace as Draconic Essence raged through his veins, almost doubling the Wyvern's dimensions. Opening his mouth, Golos roared at the closest pair of Rock Smashers. "Insolent Earthen-apes! LOREAT!" the scion of the Yinglong proclaimed the construct's destruction. A line of living electricity pulsed in the dusky light of the Murk, vivifying the cavern for three fulminating seconds as a Rock Smasher spat plasma in every direction; its Earthen barrier clashing with Golos' Essence-derived Lightning Breath. The illumination was enough to turn Richard's mist white as snow and briefly reveal the compelling figure of Lea's hidden body, though the next moment, the Sprite faded into oblivion. Petra blocked a dozen blows with Crystalline Walls and reactive barriers, keeping the slow-reacting Gracie safe as the novice did her best to stomach the noise and weave her spells. Up ahead, the cathedral's combatants collectively held their breath while the Rock Smasher sizzled, both sides seeing if the Golem would hold or fold. To the Dwarves' groaning disappointment, the cockpit spat out its coolant-drenched capsule before the remaining mana ignited in a fireball of blazing and burning that turned the cavern's upper stratum black with ash. Gwen took advantage of the Wyvern's showy aggression to dodge criss-crossing lines of Elemental bolts, arriving near the hastily-constructed Citadel. Up close, she could see where its walls were still streaked and cracked where Aberrant fiends had perished against its stones. As forewarned, this deep in the Murk, she could feel the sluggishness of her conduits trying to draw from the Gate of Lightning inside her Astral Body. For someone with her tier of Affinity, the stifling sensation was akin to singing through a face mask, where though her invocations were audible, their effects grew muffled. Nonetheless, she had recklessly chosen Reconnaissance-in-Force because she had to know the extent to which she could exert the force of her party. Though the Dwarves inexplicably turned hostile, there was a dire difference between a skirmish to establish political advantage and a battle of mutual destruction. Very quickly, she checked her Omni-orb. It still tittered toward what she presumed to be Hilda. "WE ARE A HUMAN DELEGATION FROM THE SHARD!" She addressed the fortress through Clarion Call. "BY ORDER OF COMMANDRUMM HANMOUL— IF YOU DON'T WANT A DIPLOMATIC INCIDENT, TELL YOUR MEN TO STAND DOWN!" An answer soon arrived from the parapets, albeit not the apology Gwen had expected. Instead, gobs of acid and corrosive ooze emanated from Spellswords wielded by a group of Dwarves-in-black. Compared to the Iron Guards whose visage involved articulated mechanical plates and overlarge gauntlets with attached blades, these suits were more akin to the Deepdowner's armour, with full-face headgears resembling gas-masks from the Great War. On the shoulders of these suits, Gwen could see their single-mounted Spellblades glow like tiny stars where attuned energies of Earth and Ooze and Mineral struck an apex before manifesting their payloads. "Dimension Door!" It was clear that these Dwarves were unused to fighting Human Mages, which made sense considering there had been no overt contact, much less hostile conflict between their cities. Only a few of the offending explosions were aimed at where she may re-appear, and even then their marksmanship was embarrassingly wide. A jolt through the Void later, she was only twenty-odd meters from the wall. Not knowing what was inside, she couldn't teleport in. Should she capture one of these rubber-suited Dwarves and ask for Hilda and her Mages' whereabouts? Gwen quickly measured the possibility of such a thing. Whatever their plan had been, shit had now struck the fan. As their team leader, she had to take responsibility and offer a clear path by gathering information. "Wha—" Just as Gwen eyed the wall for a possible angle to arrest a Dwarf, her spine tingled with a shriek, a sensation she had not felt for some time. Sparing no time for hesitation, her Shield was up in less than the blink of an eye, though still not as fast as Lea, who had a commanding bird's eye view of the battlefield from above. Just as the Magma Bomb ripped out, the Undine's film of all-enveloping water doused the flames so that the impact that rolled over her consisted only of kinetic energy. Gwen quickly measured the lightning-fast attack as she allowed the momentum to carry her backwards. The front of her double-glazed barrier instantly turned opaque, though it did not crack, suggesting a mid-tier manifestation. Instead, what unnerved her was the swiftness by which the attack had manifested. With her Divination and her casting speed, Gwen seldom fell flat-footed, but that attack just now had sent her heart rate leaping into the mid-hundreds. This time, she Dimension Doored twice in directions guided by her innate sense for danger, overriding her conscious decision making. Nils, her defence teacher, had promoted the stratagem as viable against enemies with foresight abilities. As anticipated, the next two Lava Bursts struck close to home but landed far enough that Lea could negate the damage. "Gwennie, look up! There's a big fire Dwarf casting spells without a Spellsword!" Lea's cry rang about her ears. "It's an Elder Elemental!" After the first eruption, Gwen had a good idea of what she faced. The gate of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth had given her a preview; only she hadn't expected an encounter so soon. "No, it's a Balefire Golem," Gwen informed the Undine. She did not look up because there was no need. If there's a Balefire standing its ground, then she was confident there would be no breaking through the Dwarven battle lines by herself. The data provided by the Shard had stipulated very clearly that Balefire Golems, be they the Guardian variant or the siege-type Dreadnaught, were on par with ancient Elementals creatures, additionally reinforced by Dwarven Runecraft. Via their ever-burning cores, it was possible for these reborn "Dwarves" to instantly and without spell fatigue generate mid-tier sorcery unique to their professions in life. Additionally, they needed no food, no air, no water or shelter, and were arguably ageless. A Balefire, therefore, could not be worn down— it can only be bested or overpowered. The air around her grew scorching hot. Another attack was coming, and the Balefire was biding its time. "Tell the others to regroup, we—" Gwen was on the cusp of a long-ranging Dimension Door when she suddenly fell face-first into invisible wool. It was a sensation she knew well, though one she had not had the displeasure of encountering for a long time. "—SHIT!" Gwen knew she was caught in the cusp of some long-ranging Mind Magic, though she couldn't tell if the assailant utilised Human or Demi-human sorcery. From the "lockout" of her senses, she further understood the effect to be akin to a "Hold Monster" in the middle-to-upper tier, a spell that Petra had utilised in the competition on their foes. At once, she performed as her cousin had taught, clearing her mind of all thought and focusing only on circulating mana through her body at its maximum threshold. Disregarding her tingling conduits, she further added Essence so that her mind and body grew resilient against invasive forces. "GWEN!" Lea's scream rippled through the air. She had been caught only for a moment, no more than a second or two, but such an interval was an eternity for a sorceress dodging spellfire. Her world grew momentarily white. The Balefire's full-force Lava Bursts erupted almost on top of her, followed by acid and ooze and a dozen other globs of energised matter conjured by Dwarven Spellswords. Lea instantly congealed into her humanoid form, forming a triple-layer of semi-sphere Water Shields to fend away the incoming assaults. Bodily, the Undine dived on top of Gwen, bowling her over so that the Demi-human's watery figure withstood the residual energies piercing through her protective veils. The blasts connected, sending the two skittering a dozen meters away from the Citadel, leaving a long line of gouged dirt where Gwen's armoured body had traversed, darkly stained by the gel-trail left by Lea's dissolving form. Against her armour, Lea's shuddering figure grew impossible hot, the Undine's liquid flesh growing cloudy as charred impurities roughly penetrated her gel-like innards to lodge in her chest and abdomen. At the Undine' moan of torturous agony, Gwen expelled the last of the psychic energies clouding her mind, restoring her adrenaline-addled brain to crystal clarity. With a hand half-struck into the Undine's side, she injected a flood of unmitigated Essence, then wrapping her arms around Richard's feverish Familiar, she formulated another Dimension Door through sheer force of will. "Dimension D—" She needed a second, but as before, a single tick-tock was an eternity when a Balefire was laying down the full force of the Runic spells it knew in life. Gwen clenched her teeth. There would be anguish; of that, she had no doubt. But after her agony, there would be a reckoning. "USURP!" A mote of Void exploded just above the young women's entangled bodies. Jean-Paul's Signature Spell grew suddenly bloated as the manifesting mana was absorbed, then exploded as a fantastic nova of tenebrous ink, providing Gwen with the necessary split-second for her to complete the Conjuration uninterrupted. When she re-appeared, she was a hundred meters away and returning to their original position. By now, Golos was on his third Rock Smasher. As a Wyvern weened on Big Birds' flesh, the Dwarf's weapons were to him minor painful inconveniences. His choice then was to ignore cover and defence and solely focus on maximising ultraviolence. Jean-Paul as well, before aiding Gwen with a series of Dimension Doors and a well-timed Usurp, had crippled a Smasher by taking away its armaments and its legs. Even Gracie, much to Gwen's surprise, had succeeded by utilising her Void-empowered Phantom Vertigo to send two Rock Smashers drunkenly careening into one another while firing wildly in every direction but theirs. However, the most assuring sight was that of her armada of hounds, finally arriving to swarm over the remaining Smasher Golems, concurrently preventing them from attacking and serving to hinder the mechanised infantry. "Thanks, JP." The Void Mage gave her an eager nod, once again willing Umzokwe to engage. "Is Lea alright?" She turned to Richard, who appeared to exhale as he dispelled the Undine clinging to her torso. "She'll be fine," Richard assured her. "It takes time and mana to neutralise the damage. With your Essence, however, Lea should be right in ten minutes or so. The question is, are you alright?" "I am fine now." Gwen hesitated. "Got hit by Mind Magic, I think." "One of ours?" Petra's brow furrowed. "That's impossible unless one of the Adventurers hides their talent. The Shard's dossiers said nothing." "Lass." Hanmoul's voice burst through a glowing Glyph by her ear. "Am so sorry…" "Not now, Hanmoul," Gwen snapped at the Dwarf, genuinely upset and annoyed that they had put in all this effort, only to be met with inexplicable hostility. She knew of course that Hanmoul was not to blame, and from the looks of it, Hilda may be a victim as well. But if and when she cracked that Citadel, and if she were to find anything but dazed and worried Human Mages, there would be hell to pay. "Naw, Lass, yer have to listen—" "Hanmoul!" She growled at her companion. "I don't care about your apology. I trust you and need you to support me in whatever the hell is going to happen next. We're going to breach that damn Citadel, and I WILL see our Mages SAFE and SOUND, and maybe Hilda if we can help it! So stop pussyfooting and tell me how to bust that thing open—!" "LASS!" The Iron Guard's Commandrumm, to her surprise, raised his voice as well. "I ain't APOLOGISING, yer git! Yer've got incoming! My Iron Guards have reported contact in the tunnels! The bleeding Aberrants are flooding back in full force!" "... Fuck me, are you serious?" Gwen could hardly hear her voice over the bellowing Spellswords and the moaning Golem suits battling a tsunami of howling, yipping, yammering dogs pulling apart anything that could be targeted. _Was this why Bronzehorn engaged them so far out from the Citadel?_ She wondered. Was it this Thalmar's intent that they would be caught between the hammer and anvil that was the Obsidian Caverns and the incoming Beast Wave of Aberrants? It made sense— but why would the Aberrants attack so opportunistically? Could the Balefire predict the future? "Dead serious, Lass—" Hanmoul' vox could barely be heard over the sound of warnings exploding across his instrument cluster. "My men held back every Crawler they could, but these gobblers are suicidal! They're pouring in by the kettle load! I've seen this before, Gwen—" "Like when we found you?" "Nay." The Commandrumm's tone grew grim. "There's one of them intellects! I reckon there's one controlling the horde!"

Dust flaked from the ceiling of Khorok Umgor's Hall of Communion, signalling the beginning of yet another battle outside its Dwarf-forged walls. Bound and un-Klad, Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt, scion of Varekan-Kül, Bringer of the Lumen, sat in the dark, her eyes glistening wetly at the pale nimbus from the extinguished light stones. Of course, her lineage could see perfectly well in the dark. What distressed her was that both herself and Ebren were no longer safe in their protective, religious garb. Worse still, Ebren's unseen form had been strapped to an apparatus consisting of a tomb filled with inward-facing obsidian spikes, crafted from a crudely split geode. As for herself, she sat on a cushioned chair of moleskin leather, still dignified in the embryonic Klad-skin despite being bound by inscribed bands of corrupted Palladium. "Ebren? Are you still…?" Her voice was hauntingly feminine without the modification provided by the vox-caster. "I live yet, Mistress." "Who do you think is fighting outside?" "Commandrumm Hanmoul, without a doubt." "Will the Commandrumm succeed?" "Will he survive? No. Not if Lord Thalmar personally engages the First Legion. Not if he doesn't flee from the Aberrant horde." Hilda sighed, exhaling almost all of the air in her lungs. "Kin against Kin, blood against blood. Are we to sing the Dirge of Møsvian after all?" "I wouldn't call those things 'Kin'," Ebren croaked. "They will never set foot in the Ancestor's Halls. Deepholm, if it stands, shall never allow it—" The ground shook once more, sending dust and debris down as a fine mist. Hilda shuddered just the same, her body shaking in the same manner as the stone walls even now under assault. Deepholm would never allow it? She wanted to believe that was true, but what if the monsters' terms were valid and Deepholm had moved on from being Dwarfholm to something entirely aberrant? When Farron Galrol, Captain of the Murk Divers had removed her helmet to prove Thalmar's point— The Deepdowner banished the thought. Hilda attempted to invoke her innate talent out of sheer desperation if nothing else. Usually, the Earth-bound mana inside her body would immediately attune to the surrounding stones, but now, they only brought pain. "ARRRGGH— ENNNNMGGH!" A disturbing odour of sizzling flesh escaped the Palladium bands as they heated up, turning her mind white-hot with agony. The pain, if she had to bear it, wasn't incapacitating. Her Shape Metal, however, refused to manifest. "Don't," Ebren's voice floated through the dark, still muffled by the geode tomb. "There's nought we can do, for now. Be patient. Know that the Ancestors have suffered more in their building of Deepholm, and yet they still built our glorious city and carved out a home for our race to prosper. All of this— it will pass, or we will die. Either way, we shall return to the earth's embrace and leave nothing for the Aberrants." Hilda regulated her breath until the cresting surges of agony grew dull enough for her to resume her speech. She wondered for a moment if a part of her embryonic suit had now welded to her skin. "Were you tempted, Ebren?" she asked between huffs, her vision blurry with frustration. "By what that 'thing' offered?" "If what they say is true," Ebren replied. "I could see why some would join them. The Elders have always envied the Knife-ears, and it isn't as though attempts to prolong their life weren't made in the past. The Chamber of the Eternal Cog is half-choked with Vadam designs, how many, Brumdahr knows, have escaped us?" "Were you not… fascinated? Even in the slightest?" "I am your Keeper, milady." The wizened Dwarf's voice grew pained. "We are our duties, Hilda. Never mind immortality. Never lust after boundless knowledge. If we forsake our debt to our Kin and our Ancestors, how could we still be Dwarves? We may as well be…" "… Aberrants?" Hilda felt a smile touch her lips. A split-second later, her heart grew sore enough to bleed. "Ebren, do you think the other Citadels are aware?" "… I hope they live in ignorance," Ebren said. "If they are not—" _CRACK!_ Khorok Umgor jumped. They were underground, and short of an Elder Earthen Dragon turning in its sleep, the cavern couldn't collapse. Hilda looked up, seeing the cracks just now appearing in the ceiling. The wards would hold— for they were designed precisely for incidents such as this, but what force could shake the Citadel's very foundations? Hanmoul's Legion? She wondered. More Balefires Golems? "Bürumm-Dal, give thy scions strength," her Keeper murmured in the dark even as the crystalline shards slowly bled the life from his enfeebled veins. "If we art to die, let us die as Dwarves." "Yer not worried, lassie?" Hanmoul, son of Dwomrul, grandson of Handrek Bronzeborn, first of his name, struggled to fathom the leap in prowess his sorceress "mate" effortlessly demonstrated. Since their chance encounters less than a Himmseg cycle ago, the Human Mage's potential for destruction had risen ten-fold. For the Dwarf, such growth was a terrifying prospect. If Himmseg's other Mages would improve as she did, then the Deepdowners were right to fear humanity's ambitions. Hanmoul was thankful, therefore, that Gwen trusted him enough to confess that she was a unique existence among the sorcerous millions inhabiting the Mageocracy. "Why would I be worried?" The young female stood beside his barricade of Swiftstriders all lined up to form an impromptu fort, their exteriors clad with conjured obsidian, creating a formidable hedgehog barricade. The girl had called the manoeuvre "Encircling the Wagons", though for Hanmoul's Iron Guards, the tactic was standard fare for transportation crews travelling through the Murk. Swallowing his nerves, Hanmoul examined the map panel, marking the tide of red blips swarming down from the sides. Most were funnelling into the very tunnel they had dug to access Khorok Umgor, while others slipped through gaps and cracks, or used their innate talents to make new passageways. Below Hanmoul, Bronzehorn's Iron Guards were by now subdued or disabled, rounded up and held at sword-point with their Smashers added as material to the barricade. Most of them appeared groggy and confused, and more than a few, Hanmoul suspected, would never recover their senses. As for Bronzehorn himself— once Hanmoul's men could cut the poor sod from his Smasher suit, he had to be restored by Lady Petra's Spellcube then dressed by their medic, Barva, so that interrogation could take place. "It is Mind Magic, I am confident," the lassie's cousin had informed them. "I'll do what I can, but this doesn't feel like sorcery we employ. The entrenchment of the glamour is pure brute-force." "Alright." Gwen nodded, then again pointed to the danger from the Citadel. "Hanmoul, you think Thalmar will join the fray?" "Nay, lass." Hanmoul shook his head. Dwarves as a whole disfavoured assaults while there was a wall to stand behind. The tactic of bunkering against foes was something hardwired into the Dwarven conscience. Without radical intervention and tactical experience, it was categorically extraordinary for a Dwarven force to abandon a stronghold. "How about Ebren and Hilda? They could make for powerful military assets if they act against us." "Not a chance, lass." Once more, he put Gwen to ease knowing that if "Their Deepdowners" were complicit, the pair would have shown their face by now. If Hilda desired, Hanmoul would be duty-bound to escort Gwen from Khorok Umgor if both Deepdowners demanded as such. For these reasons, the Commandrumm had sworn by the Ancestor Irøngut that they could take their time dealing with the Aberrant swarm before refocusing their attention on the problem of the rogue Engineseer and the mystery of their missing Mages and Deepdowners. "Gracie, this is going to get rough!" The girl called out from above. "Best make sure your Contingency Ring is firmly affixed. That said, any luck with our Captain?" "Nothing yet," Petra reported back. "We're trying, but his brain's more wool than grey matter." Hanmoul felt his chest constrict. He had known Bronzehorn since he was a lad. He had fought in the same tunnel as Bronzehorn's father. _BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_ The instrument panel he had extracted from the cockpit was now more red than black, indicating an imminent incursion. "It's time," Hanmoul informed the others. "We're surrounded? Good. Just like old times," the arrogant grumbling from above their makeshift Golem-fort was from Golos. Presently, the Wyvern had returned to its full size. Hanmoul felt envy at the Wyvern's confidence, for if he had a body with a reach of almost twelve meters and the armour to withstand a full-strength blow from a Hulk, he would also revel in all-out-combat. The sorceress ignored her pet Wyvern. Instead, she sent Caliban deeper until it hid under the surface in its Wyrm form, saving it as a pleasant surprise should their enemies bunch up. Standing beside the girl, Hanmoul felt his Core shudder as invisible waves of Negative Energy cascaded from her armour. _BEEP! BEEP!_ His instruments flashed their final warnings. Caliban was not in luck. As anticipated, rather than rushing through the tunnel as a single, mindless swarm, the Aberrant force was banked on the other side and sifting through the bedrock. Some of the signatures were enormous, indicating Hulks. Others suggested Centaur variants. Thankfully, most appeared to be Crawlers or their lesser cousins, the near-mindless Collectors. The whole nest, Hanmoul judged, was out for blood. Was this because Gwen had eradicated a brood earlier? He had never thought that Aberrants could hold grudges, which was why the present scenario further lent credence to his suspicion of a "Dark Intellect" guiding their foe. If so, someone had to be tasked with finding and eradicating the thing. In Hanmoul's experience, so long as the "mind' was close by, not until the last Aberrant fell and the earth grew fallow with their poisoned blood would the monsters know retreat. _PLOP!_ A stone fell from the wall, revealing a pair of pinching pincers widening the path. "How many are in the first wave?" Gwen spoke, her complexion rapidly regaining its haleness after Caliban presumably took its share. "Three hundred, not less." Hanmoul performed the calculations with a glance. "Mostly fodder, unless they overwhelm us." "Good." The girl nodded. "JP, Richard, cover our flanks." "Yes, boss!" the lass' followers replied from their vantage platforms on the fort. "Lea, don't let anything past the barricade." Richard had by now restored his always-laughing Water Sprite, a feat that was a marvel in itself. "I am ready!" Jean-Paul, a sorcerer Hanmoul had initially perceived as a half-Hob, stood on the opposite side. "Nothing will get through." The remaining two lasses, together with Barva, were still trying to get Bronzehorn to talk, or at least find out what had muddled his mind. Finally, it was Hanmouls' turn. "LADS!" the Commandrumm broadcasted to his crew. "This is it, Iron Guards! When that wave of rot hits, it's us against the tide! The odds are in our favour, so show nae fear! Keep up the fort, keep our allies safe, and keep bevvy ter drink the lassie's Mao-tai after!" "YES! COMMANDRUMM!" came a resounding reply, fired up the thought of vital, Essence-infused alcohol from around the other side of Himmseg. The ground shook. More debris fell, irking the Wyvern perched atop the barricade. "Confn!" The Wyvern vocalised in guttural Draconic. "Aldoer ekess dout marfedelom!" "SKKAAARRRRK!" As if in reply, a dozen more blocks of debris burst into fragments, revealing pallid, scrabbling bodies struggling to escape the loose stones. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. "Ready?" Gwen asked him. "Aye. Ready." Hanmoul's fingers rested on the control units of the twin Spellswords mounted atop his Swiftstrider, now re-tooled into repair armaments. "Remember, look fer the one that does the Swarm's thinking." "Will do," the girl replied. "Alrighty then, EVERYONE! Cover your ears!" Hanmoul felt his Core hum as the gathering of Elemental Air and Positive Energy collected beside him, a stark contrast to the life-draining aura from before. The girl's eyes glowed blue then white, then took on a viridescent hue, transforming the sparks that leapt from her blue armour into vivid bursts of earth-seeking electricity. The toiling mana continued building for several seconds, so much that Hanmoul was sure his instruments were on the verge of popping their gaskets. A hum of discerning tinnitus slowly built in the space between Hanmoul's head as Essence and Lightning mingled within Ariel's, growing so powerful as to distort the Invisibility shielding it from view, turning its antlers into twin branches of solid, glowing plasma. The Dwarf covered his ears as told. Gwen took a deep breath, then unleashed the fury of a continent. " _BARBANGINY!_ " The ground shook. The cavern jumped. Stones leapt into the air like struck Gobs while sleeping stalactites fell as summoned spears onto the transgressing Aberrants below. To Gwen's knowledge, Walken's Thundering Shatter had never been used in a place like this, nor had it ever been mustered with the full force of overcharged, maximised meta-magic together with Mystic Essence. Perhaps because Almudj was itself an embodiment of lightning fulminating over cane fields— or maybe the granite stratum's quartz and basalt were prone to such disruption— her spell distorted the air, blurred all vision, then struck the far grotto with the force of a Leviathan sliding into Sydney harbour. The dark cave turned shadowless. Even with their ears covered and Ariel rerouting power, Gwen's crew suffered. Hanmoul's screens exploded into a thousand shards; instrument panels popped and cladding shed their bolts to the din of clattering and clanging. The rock wall split and sundered, crushing the Aberrants tunnelling through with a glacial mass of liquified stone turned into ten-million pieces of rolling debris. Those that escaped or were too robust to instantly perish stood stunned as the rocks turned to slag, crushing their ichorous bodies in a spontaneous avalanche of cascading slabs. Hanmoul's Dwarves did their best to shield the party from the deluge of boulders, as did Richard. For the next few minutes and more, all Gwen's allies could focus on was managing not to be crushed by the disaster their leader had created, paying no heed to the enemies that once threatened to swallow them in a grotesque tide of teeth and claw. "ROAAARR!" Golos battered away the fallen stones with his enormous wings, sending the rocks flying into the panicked swarm. Having the Wyvern assume its original shape proved foresightful, for the drake's reach sufficiently covered the "fort" made by the Dwarves. Likewise, though tumbling bits of igneous shards were deadly to an undefended Dwarf or Human Mage, the Wyvern's Draconic constitution made light work of otherwise haphazard labour. "They're still coming through, but the first wave is pretty much a done deal." Petra, who kept a Clairvoyance Cube handy, took up relay duties when the Dwarves reported that they could no longer rely on their displays. "How many?" Gwen asked through their communication devices. Almost all of their ears still buzzed with the aftermath of the Thundering Shatter. "More than enough." "Good!" she exclaimed. "I thought there wouldn't be enough to fill-in for future expenditure. JP! Let loose the Hounds!" "OKAY," the Void Mage shouted back. "UMZOKWE!" The Afrikaner's slinking Void leeches, joined by Gwen's dogs and lead by a slithering white Umzokwe and an obsidian Buck, raced for the carnage. While the dogs cleared the distance, the slag heap began to shift and move. Crumbled granite and inert bodies were pushed apart, revealing distended limbs and powerful torsos that had not only survived the collapse but were now forcing the carcasses of their allies out of mangled tunnels. From Gwen's vantage, she couldn't help but shudder at the sight, for the scene appeared as though a nightmarish vision of pallid wasps emerging from a shattered hive to sting and stab at their hateful enemies. "Will you look at that," Richard remarked. "There's a Hulk dragging itself out, guts and all. Damn these things are tenacious." Following her cousin's thumb, Gwen's Essence-fed eyes saw a six-limbed siege Hulk pulling itself forward, only now its powerful torso ended where a length of exposed spine unfurled rope-loads of its purple digestive tract. "I don't know if these things feel misery." She swallowed the bitter bile. "But I am sure as hell am going to put them out of it." "Cleanse Mind!" Mind Magic was different to Enchantment in that almost all of its manifestations were without visual components. Therefore, the hallmark of a good Mind Mage was subtlety. Likewise for the victim, good Mind Magic was subconscious, unseen and natural in its application. The recipient should not feel an overtly adverse aftereffect other than a headache or a bout of fatigue, or fuzzy recollections of young women and alcohol. In scrutinising Bronzeborn, Petra felt tempted to ask if a Chinese or Russian Mind Wipe team had gotten to the Dwarf— for the Captain's continued mental degradation had reduced the pilot's cerebral state to that of a drooling imbecile. To her chagrin, the same effect had spread among the surviving Iron Guards under Bronzeborn, all of whom now sat demure and sedated, battered and exhausted in a modified Wall of Crystals Petra conjured to prevent the Dwarves from escaping with their innate Earthen talents. While Gwen and company delayed the Aberrant tide, their job was to gather intelligence from the survivors, though presently, she might as well be fishing in a ditch. Together with Gracie, the two had attempted every method from Renew Mind to Dispel Magic to Greater Dispel. When those failed, Gracie gave Hallucination and Cloud Sense a run for their money. When nothing worked, the medic ran diagnostics on the enfeebled Bronzehorn, finally revealing the presence of an embedded "object"— the reason why whenever Petra attempted to glamour the delirious Bronzehorn, her sorcery sunk into the Dwarf's mind like a river into the sea. "Cog! What in the Ancestors' name is this?" Barva Katri, Hanmoul's Medical Officer, held down what remained of Captain Bronzehorn with one hand. "There's a wound under his right eye, his sclera's bruised to bits." "Let's see." Gracie leaned in. "Ouch, that looks nasty. I think they forced something into his head." "Or something forced itself into his head..." Petra took a second to compose herself. "I guess now we know 'how'. The question now is 'what'..." According to Hanmoul, for such a Captain-ranked officer to turn willingly— and in a manner that was so stupid and reckless, belied every training exercise Hanmoul and his men had ever conducted. Furthermore, Bronzehorn's family still lived in the Craftsmen's District, meaning even if he had succeeded, not only would he bring shame, his family would suffer for his ambition as well. If so, what did this portend? Was this the "Dark Intellect" that Hanmoul proposed was behind all this? Most importantly, was this being the one that attempted a Hold Monster on Gwen's person? At the Tower, the Mind Mages were taught many things. How to tease; how to please; how to talk, and most importantly, how to listen. Master Popov never mentioned underground monsters capable of Mind Magic, certainly not ones that dug into a person's brain. The girls regarded the Dwarven combat medic expectantly. "What?" The Dwarf furrowed her bushy brows. "You don't expect me to open his skull here? Aberrants are howling all over, fer Ancestor's sake! Besides, he's still alive!" Petra considered the cost of ignoring the Dwarf's feelings and just cleaving into Bronzehorn's skull. "Pats!" Gwen's voice rang from above, saving her from such a decision. "How's it looking? What did you find out?" It took only ten minutes for the tide to turn. "Buck! Return! JP! Get Ume back to base!" Gwen ordered the dogs to retreat. "Pats! How's it looking? What did you find out?" After the Void Hounds tore apart and consumed the stragglers, a fresh wave of Aberrants began to push through the debris. The newcomers possessed a madness that surprised even Gwen, for they burst from the stone-piles and immediately snatched at the Void Hounds. A few that were still feeding on twitching Aberrants fell victim to elongated limbs with grasping claws, suffering near-critical damage before what remained of their corporeal forms could slip away and regenerate. "Sorry, Gwennie. His head's cotton candy," her cousin reported from below. "Hanmoul's right, though. Something was controlling him. Something like a device or a parasite on par with Dominate Mind." "... Fuck, I am so sorry, Hanmoul." Gwen turned to the Commandrumm with a face full of sympathy. Their initial plan had been to gain intelligence and then act on it. Now— they'd have to play it by ear. "How do you want to proceed?" "We must find the Aberrant's whip," Hanmoul commented through his viewfinder. "Easier said than done though, lassie. These new buggers look old and experienced with better spell resistance ter boot. It's nae going ter be an easy fight." "It would be if we can funnel them." Gwen watched her dogs retreat. "Dick, any ideas? What do you think about a V-shaped Blade Barrier? Maybe I can flood the place with an Elemental Swarm? I am not sure how effective that would be though— these Aberrants aren't very vital." Her cousin's eyes shone with a keen malevolence. Gwen knew Richard had been on more adventures than she had and could always be trusted to give good advice. "You're looking to ambush them with Cali, correct?" "Yeah, but the buggers are skirmishing us now. They've learned." "Then don't use Cali for mass-Consume." Richard looked over the barricade. "I'd say we save Cali as a hunter-killer unit. Hanmoul said the Aberrants would fight to the last monster if their leader lives, right? Then all we need to do is focus on finding and Consuming the leader." Gwen nodded. Dick's proposal made sense. "At the same time, we can try to mill the swarm down— I mean, it is not as though we have a choice. We can surround the Strider with a Lightning Blade Barrier, and set the space above us with a Void variant of Cloud Kill. Have the dogs fight them outside for as long as possible, let the numbers build, then we can focus on AOE. At some point, one of us can locate this 'Dark Intellect' of Hanmoul's, after which Cali can nix it." "Gracie and I can try and Scry its whereabouts," Petra informed the party. "How are you planning to get to it if we do?" "Cali can dig undetected, correct?" "More or less," Gwen said. "With enough vitality at its disposal, anyway." "SHAA! SHAA!" Caliban echoed the sentiment in her mind. Gwen briefly pictured an infamous worm from a specific sandy planet full of spice. Caliban was nowhere near such epic, mythic proportions, but she was confident a "Wyrm" with two dozen lamprey tentacles would have no trouble stuffing an Aberrant brain into its gullet. "Alright, that sounds good to me." Gwen turned to the rest of the party. "Hanmoul, can your Swiftstriders hold up?" "Aye, my Guards and I will keep the fort standing, or meet the Ancestors trying..." the Commandrumm nodded. "Do what yer must, girlie. Don't worry yer whiskers about old Hanmoul." "Nonsense. We're the ones with Contingency Rings," Gwen reminded Hanmoul while self-consciously touching the top of her lips for said whiskers. "We'll survive, more or less, but you and your kin might become the next wave of Aberrants…" "Ha! Irøngut would turn in the Ancestor's Halls before that happens!" The Dwarf steeled his eyes. "Alright, lads! Yer heard the Devourer! Let nothing through! Bumrorlim! Keep yer ears to the ground and make sure none of the buggers undermines us! We survive this, and I'll give yer Bronzehorn's Third Legion!" "Yes, Commandrumm!" Hanmoul's cousin saluted with a Sign of the Interlocking Cog. “Tordok, Tordum, Grimgal!” "Til' the Ancestors call!" "AYE!" Hanmoul flexed his gauntlets, returning the Cog Sign. "Do or Die, LADS! Show them Murk rats that Dwarves bow to no monster!" Without their IIUC experience, Gwen was confident her party would have shat their pants by now. As predicted, the reemerging Aberrants punching through the debris field were either veterans or upper-tier variants, both individually cunning and capable of working in small groups. Even a single kill was fraught with danger, for when Gwen harried the pallid monstrosities with her dogs, she found that more often than not, they either ignored her bait or set ambushes. Though the encounter's slow escalation to an all-out melee felt as slow as molasses, in real-time, it took only a few minutes for Gwen's wagon-circle to be completely overwhelmed. "BLADE BARRIER!" A glowing halo of electric current ignited at the wagon fort's base, sparking into life arcing plasma blades by the hundreds. Unlike the vorpal edge of the Void barrier, the energy-based blades could only leave gashes and gouges on the scarred flesh of the pale marauders milling into their killing zone. The deterrent, however, was efficient enough to dissuade both the Crawlers and the long-limbed Collectors. "ROOOOWARR!" Golos was a blur of tooth and claw, club and wing, thrashing, throwing, biting and tossing Aberrants from the Dwarf-made mound, role-playing a future king of the hill. In only a dozen rounds of melee, his lower torso grew coated in corrosive ichor, though thanks to his Draconic constitution, the searing agony only roused his ire. "Chain Lightning!" a sonorous female voice rang out from within the skittering pile of stabbing legs trying to drag down the Wyvern. The first chain struck out from below, while the second and third chains leapt from nearer the ceiling where a pseudo-Kirin acted the spell turret. _CRACK—BOOM!_ An echoing fulmination broke across the cavern. The top of the wagon-fort glowed viridescent with currents of criss-crossing electricity, then exploded as the compressed energies of the upper-tier evocation erupted, sending a mass of limbs and body parts flying through the air. Golos howled, revelling in the violence. "Lightning Sphere!" The Aberrants cramming into the void left by the previous attack fell back as multiple electric novae rang out, empowering the Thunder Wyvern and sending their foe skittering. "WEAK!" Golos cackled. "CALAMITY! MORE!" "EE!" came a thrilling battle cry from above. Ariel's horns were white-hot with inefficiently expended mana. Gwen grunted, sharing in the stifling agony Ariel sustained when shifting Elemental Lightning through its conduits. With its repressed Affinity, the effort applied was like squeezing a bag of over-thick batter through a clogged sieve. "Ball Lightning!" Four more explosions tore through the undulating pile of pallid skin and sinews, clearing a path for less than a second before other bodies piled in. If anything, the battle's direction made it apparent that either the Aberrants all died— or the Human Mages OoMed and Teleported back, leaving their Dwarven "Mates" to suffer fates worse than death. "LEA! LEFT FLANK!" Richard directed Lea's super-pressurised jets toward a pair of jaws that had bitten through the reinforced sheet metal of the Swiftstrider barricade. The pummelling mass of super-pressurised water instantly filled the gap, bloating the offending maw with so much liquid that the stiffening body behind it exploded like a popped balloon. "Grimgal!" Hanmoul redirected his crew even as he repaired another punctured hole made by the monstrous beings. "Got it!" Grimgal steered the tethered Spellsword back toward the momentarily empty hole. Ignoring the ichor and the gore, she welded shut the rent just in time to catch a scribbling pair of elongated digits trying to widen the gap, severing the finger so suddenly that the fallen extremity continued to dance on the venom soaked floor. Opposite, JP served the same purpose as Richard with his Signature Spell Usurpation, filling in rents and holes with motes of self-expanding Void matter that fed on the flesh of their enemies. Unlike Gwen's Enervating Orb, the Void Mage's spell possessed the means to condense Void matter under his complete control, minimising friendly fire. Gracie and Petra stood on elevated platforms in the middle, guarding their collection of drooling prisoners and firing off support spells to ease the burden on their defenders. Concurrently, the girls had Scrying pools conjured in front of them as they scanned for signs of whatever was controlling the swarm. Each took a quadrant, and each searched for static mana signatures within the roving sea of moving pings and blips. "I think we found it!" Gracie shouted up at the floating Mages fending off the swarm. "Er… I think?" "What is it?" Their leader finished off another round of explosive, Aberrant rending Evocation. With one hand, Petra threw the projection forward until the Scrying pool expanded for all to see. "CHAIN LIGHTNING!" Gwen fired off another volley of Lightning Bolts, feeling her tank drop to half. Upon seeing Hanmoul's boogieman, her eyes widened. "The F— M-Mysterio? No, wait, is that a Dwarf?" In the mirage-like pane, the party observed a Dwarf garbed in rubbery armour from head to toe, with an overlarge helmet of semi-translucent obsidian in the form of an upturned fishbowl. Left without context, none of them would have suspected their offender of being anything other than a Dwarf in a Murk suit. However, within the Scryed vision, the stunted Demi-human stood in a tunnel crawling with Aberrants, directing the troops. "Bürumm-Dal's Beard!" Hanmoul's voice came from below. "That's Farron Galrol, Captain of the Murk Divers! WHY?" "Never mind why." Gwen cast her eyes toward the insensible Iron Guards of Bronzehorn's Legion then back toward the projection. In her mind, she willed her tunnelling Wyrm forward toward the location Gracie had indicated. "Cali… I want that thing nixed..."

Hidden in the outer orbital passage of Khorok Umgor, a Klad-covered silhouette stood among leaping, howling masses of warped flesh bellowing for blood. If any Dwarves were present, they would have recognised the visage as that of a Murk Diver, a specialist Legionnaire trained in infiltration, discovery, and mineral-finding. However, they might wonder why such an august member of the Citadel kept company with a ravening horde of rabid chimaeras. Furthermore, if they could see the throbbing organ hidden within the semi-opaque obsidian helmet, stimulating the glans grown into the Aberrants' spines, they would grow warier still. "SKARRK!" the dome Dwarf screeched. A pulse of reverberating telepathy rang out, bouncing around the walls and the bodies of its numberless minions, whipping the swarm forward. A second later, its echoing thought returned with the assurance that there were no enemies near. Satisfied, it reached out once more, seizing each node of bestial consciousness embedded in the retarded organs of its minions. Despite its numeric supremacy, the creature was worried; for against all expectation, the battle had gone awry. Though diminished by distance, it participated in the anxiety of its brood still bastioned in the Citadel, rushing to create the Thralls necessary to halt the Human incursion so they wouldn't have to. Initially, their entwined wisdom had deduced that the Human Mages would soon be exhausted. Collectively, they understood that where Dwarves seldomly wielded overwhelming power, their longevity and ability to re-arm and fortify made them troublesome prey. On the other tentacle, the Humans began every battle with overwhelming prowess but seldom could continue the fight longer than a stone cycle. Both were conclusions directly extracted from their Thralls' grey matter, and therefore could not be false. Thus far, despite heavy losses on their side, the newly arrived Human Mages did not appear to be losing mana. Nonetheless, the brood was confident the Humans should exhaust themselves shortly. And once captured, these august specimens would add to the brood's body of knowledge. Verily, it looked forward to inhabiting the alpha female. Earlier, it had entered her mind and found the vitality of her body more exquisite than anything it had ever experienced since emerging from the brine pool. Unfortunately for the thoughtful Dwarf, it did not notice its favourite female's Familiar rapidly ascending from below, paralleling its predatory thoughts. Therefore, the "Dark Intellect" realised far too late that some aberrant thing was about to breach the stones beneath its feet. The floor below it shrunk in the manner of a rapidly-forming sink hole possessing the pull of a Maelstrom. That and several tentacles, each armed with lamprey lips not uncommon to the demi-plane where it lived had pierced into its Klad-suit. In a blind panic, the creature aimed its will downward and musted all its might for a psionic strike. Its thoughts, which would usually stun or pierce the mind of any lucid foe, rolled over the expanding tripartite lips like water off a Murk eel's hide. Out of beak-clenching habit, the doomed creature performed a final act— probing its killer's mind to send a warning back to its brood. Hunger— that was the thought its abominable mind communicated. Depthless, insatiable hunger. "Did ya get em, lassie?" Hanmoul shouted from below. "Is it nixed?" "A snap and shut case," Gwen informed her party over their Message Devices, shaking herself out of Caliban VR lest her hunger grew too tangled with her Familiar's. "Alright, Hanmoul, let's see if your hypothesis is correct. Gracie, you can ease off now." "Okay!" Their newest member withdrew the vitality expenditure of her Phantasmal Force. As an illusionist, her phantom "Hounds" cost significantly less life-force than Gwen's Conjuration variant. The offset was that Void Illusions lacked the advantage of Negative Drain, albeit pitted against the right opponent, she could instil spontaneous insanity. In the future, Gwen figured, Gracie would have to create Signature Spells, a noteworthy but not improbable feat, especially considering her tenure at Cambridge and the enthusiasm of Maxwell Brown. Clad in static as a neon goddess, Gwen let loose consecutive Lightning Bolts. As much as her rip-roaring mass-bombardment spells showed off the extraordinary destructive potential of her Affinity, the simplicity of the tier 3 staple relaxed rather than taxed her mind. "HA! WEAK!" Golos shouted from above, raining spittle and bloody foam down on his team members. Rents and gashes covered the Wyvern from tail to toe and marred the length of his majestic neck. The flesh wounds looked worse than they were in actuality, but even so, the horror made Gwen frown. "They're more lively now. Calamity, did your fiend consume another nest or what?" Golos' guess was as good as her's, Gwen thought as she observed the leaping horde piling on top of one another, impaling themselves on whatever space was left, even if it meant humping an obsidian shard. Once more, she thought of what would happen if these creatures ever made it to the surface. If the Siege of Sydney replaced zealous Mermen looking to loot with these stomachs on legs, what manner of a catastrophe would that engender? Then it happened. The assault of the Aberrant tide lost their singular focus. Individually, the monsters were still fighting fit. From Gwen's levitated vantage, however, she sensed that something had pulled the adrenaline plug and replaced it with a general madness. Not only were the monsters fighting Golos, her Mages, and the scant Morden's Hounds that still lived, they were now also fighting among themselves. It must be the hunger— a stray thought filtered through. The Aberrants' bodies are not unlike hers in that while active, they consumed vital internal energies to fuel their frenzy. Now that she had robbed their nest and its essential nutrients, the hive must hunt indefinitely or perish. Whatever the case, she acknowledged that these "Dark Intellects" that Hanmoul mentioned must be truly sadistic with designs utterly alien to Humanity and its allies. "How's it look?" Hanmoul asked anxiously. "Did nix'n Farron Galrol help?" Gwen returned her attention to the undulating tide of bodies bashing against their barricade and now one another. Whenever a claw or maw pierced the rubbery hide of an ally, the accidental violence would engender a maddened blur of frenzied self-destruction. Like hens pecking at a diseased companion, fresh carnage would break loose near the wounded Aberrant, be they Hulk or Centaur, ending when the victim became gnawed, brittle bone. But of course, such furore would never end at one victim. In the insane scramble for food, others would emerge, wounded by the insensible, omnidirectional attacks. Like street cats thrown into a bag, the Aberrants turned from fighting Dwarves and Humans to each other, with pockets of the swarm descending entirely into derangement. All monsters had weaknesses, Gwen profoundly observed. For the Aberrants, was destroying the nest the lynchpin? Or was it the extinction of Mysterio Dwarf? Or perhaps both? "I think," Petra observed the fray from below through Scry. "That the 'Dark Intellect' Dwarf must be suppressing the instincts of these creatures to keep them advancing as an orderly horde. We see it with the Highland Demi-humans and the High Shamans of the Northern Steppes who make use of monster tides." "Like a node?" Gwen whipped at the horde mercilessly. Was Petra right? Was Mysterio merely a relay, like the ones refracting resonance from a Shield Generator? "Ya think?" Hanmoul's expression remained grim. "If Farron's a node— then what's the source?" "SHAA—SHAA!" Just in time, Caliban's arrival brought answers the party sought. "What's that?" Gwen asked of her Familiar when Cali began to act coy through their mental link. "You brought me something?" In her mind, the worm nodded. The inference Gwen had empathically received was the understanding that one of her cats had caught something in the garden and was now taking it inside the house for show and tell. "SHAA!" Caliban pierced through the crust at the bottom of the barricade, merely inconvenienced by the transmuted metal as its caustic Void-saliva melted through the warded steel. "Ancestor's Beard!" Hanmoul swore. "Give us a warning, lass!" "Shaa! SHAA!" Caliban rose until its upper body hovered above the Swiftstrider barricade. It wiggled its bloated waist, as if to show off, then split itself in twain by peeling back its shell. "Alright, alright." Hanmoul waved off the apology with a gauntleted hand, fighting the induced vertigo. The Wyrm's faceless mien leaned over, then with an enthused SHAA! Its tongues rolled outwards, vomiting forth its prize. The party collective ceased breathing for a moment as the contents of Caliban's gullet poured onto the metal planks. Their prize consisted mostly of piecemeal Aberrants coated in corrosive Void-goo, that and blocks of precious metal collected during its passage. Most importantly, there was a Dwarf— or what's left of a Dwarf's upper torso, sans legs, one arm, left lumbar and most of her innards. What surprised Gwen was that she had only thought of capturing the Dwarf in passing and had not given express orders for its recovery. Could this imply a new tier of empathic understanding in her Familiar? "Clever girl!" She patted her Familiar. "Farron Galrol!" Hanmoul recognised the inscriptions on the armour. "Ancestor's Beard! What a way ter go." "Shaa! Shaa!" Caliban slid wetly into its hole, then reemerged in a manner that was borderline obscene. "SHAA!" "Of course you can," Gwen understood her Familiar's desire to burst in on the anarchic Aberrants to harvest whatever life it could. With another happy "SHAA!" Caliban slid itself back into the vertical tunnel like a jack-in-the-box, causing Golos to expel an audible whimper. Gwen looked up. The Wyvern's blaming eyes met her demanding gaze. A split-second of understanding passed between Master and Wyvern. "Good work, Gogo," Gwen delivered her heartfelt praise. Gogo had worked hard this time around. The missing scales and the sheer volume of corroded wounds on the drake's body was plentiful evidence of how hard the Wyvern had fought for her sake. "Essence and SPAM later? These Aberrants are rather malnourished…" Golos returned to clubbing Aberrants with a grunt. "J-P!" She re-engaged command of the field. "I think we can start mop-up operations. I'll take left flank— you take the right." "Yes, Ma'am!" Jean-Paul agreed without complaint. "Umzokwe!" The freshly reborn leech slithered from the Void to happily vault the barrier, hungry for confused Aberrants. To aid in their efforts, Jean-Paul conjured corpse worms akin to Umzokwe, while Gwen settled for a threesome of vitality-harvesting Hydras. "How many dogs have we got left?" Gwen asked her crew. Petra indicated that her dogs were spent, as did Jean-Paul. Richard's perishable pets hung around thanks to their ability to turn incorporeal via Lea but would serve little purpose as hunter-killers. As for Gwen's dogs, all had died to the crushing horde of tooth and claw, fulfilling their purpose. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. "Any reaction from the citadel and our Engineseer?" Gwen demanded of Hanmoul. "This Farron fellow was one of their's, I assume." "Aye." Hanmoul left the defence to his men and approached the helmeted carcass of the Murk Diver's Captain. "She WAS a Master-tier Diver, one of the best Earth Striders in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. It's a nasty way ter perish, getting nixed by the Void. And aye, Khorok Umgor remains silent." "They don't want to strike while we're OoM?" Gwen furrowed her brows. She had enough left to fight, though she couldn't say the same for the traditional casters in her party like Richard. Petra as well was running low as she had provided buffs and defence together with active barrier-building. "Well, we're in a fort." Hanmoul pointed out something that no Dwarf would deny. "They're in a better fort. And they're Dwarves. As I said, abandoning defensive positions isn't in their blood." Gwen mulled over the Commandrumm's fuzzy logic while the battle between their monsters seesawed back and forth. For another hour, the carnage continued, with most of the killing performed by herself and Jean-Paul's minions until finally, the Aberrant horde began to disperse. Even as the pale and skittering bodies started to retreat into the dark crevices of the cavern, Caliban and Umzokwe pursued, dragging limbs and half-consumed torsos down from ceilings with sticky projectiles, or dragging screeching creatures underground with pink tentacled tongues. Her Hydras, lacking the Familiars' speed, went about slurping up broken stragglers, too damaged to escape, too wounded to fight. The spectacle was mesmerising even for the hardboiled Mages. Without Gwen and Jean-Paul present, they would have wondered which side were theirs. "Umm… Gwen?" It was Gracie who raised her hand and dispelled the stupor. Gwen had tasked her and Petra to pry apart the rubbery, interlocking armour, hoping to reveal some worthy intel Bronzehorn had failed to elucidate. "I think you and Hanmoul need to come and see this. I believe we found your 'Dark Intellect'." Still mystified by the lack of response from Khorok Umgor, Gwen dropped down with Richard, putting Golos in charge of any overambitious Aberrants seeking final glory. "I am here," their sparkle-fingered leader landed. "What's the— HOLY HELL, WHAT THE FUCK?" There was a Merman's head, INSIDE the Dwarf's helmet. Where Farron's "face" should be, she was dead set staring at a Mon Calamari. "Is it dead?" Gwen could hardly believe her eyes. Had the Mermen penetration of the Planes come so far as to infiltrate the Murk? "Wow. Just like the movies." "Aye, tis the tentacled 'Intellect' like the one I saw," Hanmoul confirmed her horror while ignoring her Gwenism. "But why is it wearing one of our suits?" From the neckband of the Diver's suit that sealed the interior, they could see rubbery flesh more so resembling the underside of a squid; only this one had multiple skin folds that reminded Gwen of gills. Its eyes as well, were enormous and bulbous, protruding from either side of its elongated skull, tied to its face by powerful optic musculature. More notably, there were four tentacles, each ending in fingertip appendages that now lay limp on its cheeks. Within its gaping mouth, teeth that were once incisors had fused to become a parrot's beak. "Imposter Dwarves!" Gwen sucked in a breath of tepid air. "Holy shit! Hilda— do you think—" "It's not a disguise." Hanmoul shook his head. Using a length of Spellsword, the Commandrumm pried open a portion of the suit still hanging onto the carcass's torso. There was a Glyph there, tattooed into the skin like a Ta Moko. "See here, that's a Glyph of Dark Passage. It's what Farron would have earned when training to be a Murk Diver. Within the inner Glyph, you can see the Cog and Anvil of House Galrol." "I don't understand, why are there Mermen in the Murk this far from water?" Gwen pivoted her hypothesis. "And wearing Golem suits." "She's wearing a Klad," Hanmoul said. "Those who do not wish to be tainted by the light of Himmseg wear Klad sanctified by Deepholm." "Alright, so that's a Klad," Gwen nodded. "So, are these Mermen infiltrators? I heard there are underground oceans. I mean, if there are giant Brain-whales, why not a Calamari-Dwarf?" "Gwen, I think it's a parasitic creature attached to Farron," Gracie pointed to the difference between the skin textures of the body and the face. "If we're looking at a head that doesn't match the neck, that's usually the case. There's lots of precedence in nature. The Evermore Mistletoe, for example, assumes complete control of the trunk. The Wright Fungi found in the Deep Murk does the same, rooting themselves inside a Murk Stinger's spinal column to subvert the host's control of their body. There's a kind of aquatic Murk mite that eats their fish host's tongue, and then becomes the tongue itself while controlling the fish…" "Jesus Christ, the Murk is underground Australia." Gwen felt her skin crawl all over. "Hanmoul, considering that we still need to know what the hell we're fighting next. Do you want to do the honours?" Hanmoul pointed the sword's tip at the centre of the squid's head. "Am sure the Ancestors won't mind if we need ter ken if there are imposters in our midst." With a swift strike, the Commandrumm split the head in twain. A gush of foul, yellow liquid with the consistency of yolk immediately escaped the parted skull. "Brumdahr's beard, there's no skullcap!" Hanmoul immediately cleaned his blade with a runic word. "Cuts like a rotten melon." "That explains the fishbowl." Gwen waited for Richard to hose down the two halves, then exhaled deeply when what they'd all been expecting came into view. "Where's her brain?" Gracie's eyes widened with horror. "Jesus, is that all in the head? There's a heart, gills, digestive tracts, nerve vessels by the bundle..." "Talk about living rent-free." Gwen grimaced, then pointed to the white, fatty bits that formed a fist-shaped cluster of vessels and nerve endings. "I assume that's the brain of the Mon Calamari and not our Dwarf." "Aye." Hanmoul prodded the jello-like fat. "Mon Calamari, eh?" Gwen traced the cross-sectioned nerves' pattern until her eyes lingered on the beginnings of the hewed spinal column. "You know what?" she said suddenly, realising that they had been stunned by this turn of events without acknowledging the significance of what this portended. "While we're standing here marvelling at our specimen, wouldn't there be a dozen more of these fuckers inside the Citadel waiting to head-hump Hildy?" At once, the party of chagrined rescuers turned their attention to the pockmarked walls of Khorok Umgor. "Gather up and mana up," Gwen gave the order even as her blood ran ice cold. "Let's get ready to breaking through." "If we had the Smashers, we might be able to entangle Thalmar," Hanmoul remarked as the Swiftstriders untangled themselves from the mangled Golem armours. From Bronzehorn, the Dwarves only managed to recover three suits, now used to defend the survivors. "As fer now, I am afraid we'll only get in yer way." "Nonsense," a scarlet-cheeked Gwen replied as she rebalanced the vitality Caliban and the Hydras were feeding back into their collective vital pool. "You did well defending us, Hanmoul, and now you're our support once more. Assuming we can recover our Mages, we're going to need rapid exfiltration to the ISTC station in Merthyr Tydfil. No way that's happening without you." The Dwarf agreed with a depressing solemnity. "I'll do the fighting in your stead, Earthen one." Golos leaned his massive head closer, forming a formidable backdrop to the svelte sorceress's profile, not unlike a classical fantasy lumen-poster. The drake appeared pleased while picking at the scabs with a claw, licking the Aberrant ichor clean. "You can owe me a debt as well, hahaha…" "Gogo, don't be rude," Gwen waved off her Wyvern. "Alright, any suggestions? Petra, any parley demands?" Her cousin shook her head. "I smell the Humans still," Golos reminded Gwen. "And they stink as well." "A delay tactic?" Richard tossed in his two cents after packing away an empty mana injector. "More Calamari coming our way, perhaps." Gwen rubbed her throbbing forehead. Since accidentally naming the squid-faced brain parasites, "Mon Calamari", was now fast-stuck inside everyone's heads. "Right, then we proceed as discussed. JP, you take care of the Balefire's spell-chains. Once we immobilise it, Cali will attempt to swallow it wholesale, and we'll try to subdue the rest of the Murk Divers with our Morden's Hounds. Dick, knowing how fast that thing casts, we're going to need you to catch whatever JP misses." "Of course." Richard gave her the thumbs up. "Lea's ready to pull some squids from their Klads." "I'll drown them all!" The Undine's voice rippled through the air like ice. "Especially the ones that hurt me!" "They're squids, so they probably aren't prone to drowning." Richard patted the invisible shape beside him. "Too bad Yue isn't here, else we could have calamari teppanyaki." Thinking sweetly of their foul-mouthed firebrand, Gwen relaxed her nerves. "Alright, any luck with the Scry?" Gracie shook her head. "I can't get through the wall to find our Mages, sorry, Gwen. Maybe if we get closer." The team studied the distance between them and the Citadel. They were currently well out of Spellsword range, and by Gwen's reckoning, the Balefire's rapid spell-assault had only half the reach of an Obsidian Shard. If they teleported closer, they might succeed in conjuring a penetrative Scry or Clairvoyance— but at the same time, Gracie and Petra would be within the range of artillery spells. "I'll keep Gracie safe," Petra assured her cousin by withdrawing six defensive Spellcubes kept afloat via Naga heads. "For now, gather round for Mind Wards. My Abjuration is woeful, but better an impoverished mental barrier than nothing at all." "I should buy us all Mind Ward earrings," Gwen remarked while the team received their final benedictions. "I never did replenish the one that got nixed in Shenyang." Petra's eyes lingered on her cousin's thoughtful face. "If I acquired mid to upper-tier Mind spells, I can Enchant the items myself." A current warmth ran through Gwen's solar plexus, which inspired her to lean in and embrace Petra. With the Balefire Golem waiting impatiently to unleash hell up them, Gwen felt a genuine nostalgia for the "simple" days at Fudan, when all they had to deal with were Fu-er-dai cockfights and not Calamari head humpers. Like walking on an invisible ladder, Gwen stepped into the air. "Shaa! Shaa!" Caliban had assumed its position underground, ready to entangle a Balefire. "EE! EE!" Ariel launched its invisible self forward, ready to deliver its mistress' displeasure. Gwen took a deep breath. " _BARBAGINY!_ " For the second time in as many hours, Khorok Umgor leapt into the air. Usually, such as in the case of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, a Citadel's walls were built by generations of stonemasons piling Enchantment enhanced stones through interlinked Glyph works. Performed correctly, not only were the walls impervious to non-catastrophic damage, they effortlessly survived inevitable Turnings of the Earth-Dragon. Khorok Umgor was a stronghold build within a month. Its parapets and barriers were reinforced slabs of tilted granite raised and conjured from Elemental Plane. When the Thundering Shatter struck, the impact manifested as a million hair-line cracks appearing along the wall at once, followed by the rapid liquefaction of the load-bearing base transformed into a crushing wave of crumbling slag. Gwen had chosen a frontal assault because of the ease of forced entry combined with the lack of desire to become trapped in the claustrophobic space of a sealed interior. She had also chosen the strategy because no "Dwarves" were staffing the walls, and even if there were, she suspected it would be those fish-bowled Calamari Mysterios that used Ooze Magic. It took a few seconds for the dust to clear. Gwen's Essence-focused pupils grew into twin pinpoints. "MOTHER FUCKER!" their team leader's curse swept through the still-ringing cavern. From her vantage point, the scene that came into view killed both motivation and momentum. As anticipated, there were no Dwarves, but there were plenty of Humans. Against all expectation, the Human Mages Gwen had vowed to save were not trapped in stone halls or suffering in watery dungeons, but milling about like drones in the courtyard. What was worse was that there were no screams nor complaints, just impassive stoicism as the wall folded onto their upright bodies. Without a Dwarf's innate fortitude or the ability to Stoneshape— without even activating their Shields, the volunteer "Murk Mages" from the Shard took on the brunt of the rolling slabs, some larger and taller than a grown man, others the size of their heads. The invocations of a maximum range Dimension Door was on Gwen's lips within a split-second. "Gwen! Don't!" Petra's voice halted her cousin's impulse. "They're glamoured!" Gracie's voice rang from a Message spell blooming by her ear. "Don't go, Gwen, what if they're lying in wait?" Despite the blind rage coursing through her conduits, Farron's squid-shaped frontal lobe flashed across her own. "Magus Song, the Iron Guard will go first," Hanmoul volunteered, revving the engines of his Swiftstrider. "If they restrain us, do what you must. They can't control all of us; else they would have taken Khorok Umgor long ago." Their leader cooled her heated head by circulating Void to dull the adrenaline, then ordered the minions to advance past the Dwarves. "Buck! Astro! Umzokwe! Bring me the prisoners and dig out the survivors!" The monstrous army of dogs fanned out, launching like multi-coloured rockets over the jagged granite. Fuming but still calm enough to remain out of spell-reach, Gwen held her position as her Lightning Hounds blazed onto the base of the collapsed wall. _BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_ Hanmoul's jerry-rigged instruments burst into life. The Dwarf invoked the thrice-jammed cog. A pillar of heat sprung into existence where the dogs made a mad scramble up the hillside. Even from outside the spell's maximum manifestation range, they heard the in-ward sucking of air as superheated Magma gathered into a point, then— _KABOOM—!_ An explosion rang out, taking three of her dogs and sending the rest skittering and rolling down the slag heap. On the other side, Gwen saw the shockwave pummel the milling Mages. A new piece of debris, as large as Buck, rolled into the loosely positioned crowd, instantly reducing two insensible Adventurers to wine stains. Gwen's mind turned white with superheated fury. The fucking— "THALMAR! YER ANCESTOR-CURSED ABERRANT!" Hanmoul's voice burst like a thunderclap. The Dwarf stood on both accelerator pedals, his expression so contorted with rage that his speech shuddered. "CRAVEN BASTARD! ARE YER STILL A DWARF!?" "We need to push through." Richard's voice cut through the chaos. "Forget the hostages. They're dead Mages walking. Be it from the Mind Magic or the Calamari or Thalmar, or if we leave them by retreating, they're fucked. If we pussyfoot this, then they died for nothing." Between the roaring blasts and her team members, Gwen's mind buzzed from the mental tinnitus of seeing Mages she was tasked to rescue dying deaths of no worth. But she was no longer that young girl who Gunther had rescued from Blackheath. She was now the MVP of the IIUC and a certified War Mage. Unlike the Gwen Song of Forrestville, the Magus Song of London had put down a city of ten thousand Undead and razed a peninsular of Triffidus. The fire fled, rapidly replaced by chilling ice. As the liquid lead in her veins solidified, calculated choices crystallised within her mind. To do as Richard suggested would benefit her party by far. Gwen did not know if the Empire would hold her accountable for innocent lives, but she had no doubt that every Mage dying to misadventures equated more weight London could exert to pry open the Dyar Morkk. The alternative was obvious. Kill the Mon Calamari, nuke the Balefire, free the Mages, find Hilda, then go back to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth to find out if the Deepdowners there had tentacles for beards. The difficulty of that, comparatively, bordered on masochism. She glanced at her teammates. Richard and Golos were both eager to begin the assault, their expression showing either conviction or complete disregard for the hostages. Petra silently awaited her cousin's decision. Gracie's eyes were wider than hers had been, and the Illusionist's mouth still hung on its hinges, her pink tongue parched and hesitant. Jean-Paul stared straight ahead, his intent beyond her comprehension. Hanmoul and his Dwarves were already halfway, fully ready to make up for his kin's shameful display. "Gwen, don't..." Richard read her mind. " _It's a trap!_ " Her frontal lobes throbbed. The rational part of her wanted to listen to Dick, but what choice did she have? Who could have thought that the damned molluscs would have a one-up on the Empire?

As a young woman who had vicariously experienced the intense chest-thumping of "Desert Storm I" and "Desert Storm II — The Search for WMDs", Gwen, like most first-world Post 9-11 folk, had acquired a broadspectrum antibody encapsulated under a single, euphemistic nomenclature: "Collateral Damage." In Shenyang, she actively participated in "Threat Neutralisation" by conveniently ignoring that thousands of NoMs still served the Necromancers in their mundane capacities. For that episode, she had adopted a total war mentality, one that in her world, the "Coalition of the Willing" had guiltily accepted as the price of global hegemony. For her present dilemma, she had no analogies, no parallels, no alter-world experience to rationalise. This time, there were no complications. As a soldier, she would pit ability against circumstance and roll with the consequence. In one hand, she materialised the Core of a Titan Boa, then spoke the invocations and paid the life-price for Reactive Bone Shield. Then, crushing a phial of Essence-rich lifeblood, she roused her Lesser Sanguine Mantle. The defence spells left her mana at just over half-tank, with enough Essence left to work some serious magic. "Cali! Ariel!" Gwen positioned her Familiars as her mind skimmed through strategies and possibilities in the lull before joining the grand melee. "This is going to hurt, Pat. Give me the strongest dose." "On it." Petra did not need Spellcubes for the spell she now called to her lips. "Heroism!" A halo of glimmering, golden Enchantment appeared and disappeared around Gwen's forehead. Gwen allowed the glamour to suffuse her body, driving away fear, doubt, fatigue and woe, filling her with supernatural and double-edged confidence. Calling on the dark things that lurked in the Void, she envisioned in her mind a scene of Caliban first laying low, then suddenly emerging mid-battle to slurping up the Calamari Dwarves among them. Gwen took a deep breath. In an instant, she raced past Hanmoul, for although her ally had a keen desire to serve as fodder for mind-powder, it didn't mean she would take the Commandrumm up on his offer. In the aftermath, she needed Hanmoul alive and well in the event of their victory, for the Dwarf was the lynchpin securing London's stake in the Murk. That and she possessed no desire to see a good mate brained by squids. "ARRRRROOOOO—" The battalion of multi-coloured hounds closed in, heedless of the mana rapidly gathering at the fallen wall's misshapen chokepoints. _KA-BOOM! BUNG!_ A twin set of Lava Bombs ripped out nearby, eviscerating the frontal wedge of the formation breaking over the slag heap, creating more "Collateral Damage". Buoyed by Heroism, Gwen swallowed the sourness rapidly rising from the back of her throat and focused her Detect Magic. She located the Balefire instantly, for the destruction of the wall had also disrupted the obfuscation Glyphs built into the Citadel's defence. Good. Her overtly rational mind chimed. Now Gracie and Petra could track the octopuses hidden in the crags. "Ariel!" She began the assault by testing the Balefire. "Ball Lightning!" A dozen spheres of white-hot electricity zig-zagged through the air, several struck the stonework. The rest slid past the grated battlements to strike at the Golem, erupting as electrified balls of whipping plasma. Her intended purpose was to distract Thalmar and draw his fire. Unfortunately, the cruel glowing orbs behind the roughly hewn gorget paid no heed. With a burst of smouldering magma, red light shot from the gaps between its plating as defensive runes burst into action, nullifying Gwen's Elemental Lightning. Thalmar raised an enormous, rune-powered gauntlet. The air around her grew suddenly thick. "Thundering Shatter!" This time, Gwen suppressed the Essence injected into Ariel to avoid another catastrophic episode of "Collateral Damage". At once, the grated wall designed to afford Dwarven defenders spell-cover crumbled, cracking and exploding as her sonic spell tolled. The runic armour of the Balefire rippled; a few fizzed and winked, but other than the loss of a few lumens, the monstrous Golem remained unimpeded. _KABOOM!_ Near the Human Mages standing like dumb cattle, the courtyard exploded once more, annihilating dogs and perishing the helpless. Gwen grunted as the surviving Void Hounds freely made use of her vital forces. "Richard!" she howled into the Message Device, all sympathy temporarily suppressed by Petra's stone-hearted sorcery. "On it!" her cousin replied. "Ser Hanmoul, be prepared to receive the hostages!" "Got it, lad!" the Dwarf relented. Now well within Spellsword range from the Citadel, the swiftest of her Hounds had picked up the Mages by their clothes and were frantically dragging them out of the crumbling Citadel. According to the Shard's report, there were in total sixty-odd Mages forming twelve parties of various tiers; presently, at least a dozen had perished by her count. The Balefire's internal combustion mechanism roared. With no diatribe and no warning, only the sound of its mana engine rumbling over a symphony of ultraviolence, the Dwarven "Terminator" strode past the debris as a Demi-God of wanton destruction, fuming and steaming, hissing with sadism. This time, it raised both roughly wrought gauntlets. The damned thing was baiting them. "Lightning Bolt!" Gwen succeeded only in melting the silica in the slag. "Fuck! DICK!" "Tidal Flood!" At her cousin's command, a portion of the conflagrating mana turned to mist. The newly arrived Lea manifested at once, flooding the courtyard with motes of Elemental Water. The wasteful method vastly increased a caster's Affinity within its area of effect but expended mana like mad. "Vold Bolt!" She flung a dab of tenebrous ink toward the Balefire, hoping to eat away the runic wards covering the Golem's plated exterior. When the final syllable left her lips, Gwen's spine supernaturally tingled. Gwen cursed. She wasn't surprised at the trap, only that all five of them working in tandem couldn't disrupt the Balefire's ploy. A mind-stunning wave of psychic energy pounded her head, failing to shut down her senses but succeeding in anaesthetising her spellcasting. _BOOM— KABOOM!_ Twin explosions rang out, maximised and empowered. Her preemptive Shield turned white, then shattered as the second blast hit, transferring its heat and kinetic energy directly onto her Shen-teī armour. Without the conscious need for active deployment, her "Lesser" Sanguine Mantle manifested. Considering its limited number of reactive "charges", she withheld her Bone Shield. Against the anticipated lethality of something like a Lava Bomb, her Sanguine Mantle's extreme versatility should provide ample protection. _THWACK!_ She landed flatly against the hard granite, then rolled her body to disperse the momentum, confident that the mantle would absorb any scrapes and breakages. Against her body, she felt the heat lick the silicone-like skin of the Vampiric Abjuration. Perhaps against another enemy, she could have made use of their lifeblood, or if she were cruel and without conscience, that of the hostages— but that was a dilemma for another time. She tumbled for a dozen meters with the explosion ringing in her ears, and the force of the blow disorientating her bearings. Thankfully, nothing broke, and she had driven the first mental assault through force of will. A third and likely a fourth Lava Bomb gathered strength close to her final landing spot. "Dimension Door!" She teleported closer to the Balefire even as she willed Caliban to hurry the fuck up by burning vitality. She didn't mind being bait— but her suffering had to be worthwhile. "Golos! Get ready!" Nearer the ceiling, the Wyvern had withheld itself until one of the squid-heads showed. Unfortunately, now that the Mon Calamari could use Hold Person on her without LOS, she had to change her plans. On a more disturbing note, her Void bolt had about as much effect on the Earthen Elemental as her spectacularly futile lightning assault. The Balefire's defences, she noted woefully, followed the usual Dwarven planning principles of being over-engineered and underreported. A dozen potential spells flashed through her head, including consigning the Balefire into a maximised Void Maelstrom, which was impossible in a place so inundated with Elemental Earth. It was too bad that the construct showed no sign of vitality whatsoever, else she would have dropped two Enervating Orbs directly on top of each other to greet the pilot. "Gwen!" Petra's warning blossomed beside her and her teammates' ears. "Another MIND-spike, directed at you!" "Dimension Door!" Gwen teleported a few meters overhead of the Golem, hoping to put herself in its blind spot. The Balefire followed her mana signature without trouble, its spell-armed gauntlets tracking her by pivoting its waist almost one-eighty, indicating the presence of articulate mechanisms instead of a spine. Urging Caliban to once more hurry, Gwen emptied her head of stray thoughts, flooded her conduits with Essence, then turned to a tranquil memory of shoe shopping with Elvia in the Strand. While in such a meditative state, her active defensive would drop to nil, but she would become hyper-resistive against Enchantment and Illusion. "Usurp!" Jean-Paul's notification rang out on their communal channel. To her horror, the Lava Bombs did not manifest beside her, resulting in Jean-Paul's spell-stealing mote of mana-eating Void winking out of existence. As if to mock Gwen's foolishness and her self-sacrifice, the eruptions materialised beside the hapless adventurers. Gwen would have preferred to take the hit herself. "GOT EM!" Richard was ready to catch the redirected magma, resulting in twin, localised explosions of steam as he turned the force upwards in an arc, raining scalding water over the milling hostages. Observing the lethal rainbow, Gwen could only hope that Petra may yet save those who did not instantly die. Then the squids struck with their spell-jamming. The sensation was akin to having tentacles probe her frontal lobe, seeking a metaphysical path past her mental guard through repeated molestation. Luckily, her training with Petra taught her that Mind Magic isn't a School of Magic one could abuse to ceaseless assault a victim. Each failed attempt to subverting the target's will resulted in rapidly diminishing returns, which was why Mind Mages strongly emphasised longterm subversion over brute force. Her anguish did not last long. Golos had been sniffing about for the "Dark Intellects", and once the Calamari-kin went full-throttle on their will-altering abilities, the Wyvern struck. As a thundering cannonball, the Scion of the Yinglong dived from the cavern's cathedral ceiling toward the dozens of halls and rooms carved into the granite bluffs. In a burst of hysterical electricity, the Wyvern punched through the meter-thick partitions as though tearing through wallpaper, whipping its tail in a line so that six of the chambers became instantly pulverised. "ROAAR!" To secure its kills, her big bad Wyvern huffed into the passages, mixing hot breath with living lightning, lighting up the entirety of the second floor so that a disco of death-dealing plasma blew out from the opposite chambers. Before the Wyvern could finish, a second, larger explosion ten-times in size rang out. One of the rooms must have held the mana batteries for the Excavators and the Fabricators, for blue-green fire suddenly poured from the entire floor. "SKAAARRRK!" Following the Wyvern's enraged assault, Klad clad bodies tumbled from the upper chambers, their suits aflame with combusting mana. Against Gwen's expectation, the Balefire Golem completely ignored the burning squid-heads. Perhaps misunderstanding that removing her from combat would unsummon the monstrous lizard, she had become its only priority. Still stunned, her armour grew unbearably warm. Below, the Balefire's scorching Glyphs glowed white-hot as the inscribed Creature Core within its clockwork body burned with vengeful violence. "Usurp!" Jean-Paul attempted to catch the gathering mana once more, manifesting the spell directly below her. This time, his Void mote grew from the size of a pea to that of a burgeoning balloon of unstable ink within the span of a second, then to the Void Mage's vexation, his bubble burst. "Crystalline Wall!" Petra, their jack-of-all Schools Controller, was ready with a shielded, mid-air semi-dome. It was impeccable teamwork, one that would have saved her no end of grief were they not pitted against the ultimate defence weapon of a major Demi-human military force. To her teammate's chagrin, a third and fourth Lava Bomb erupted above the immobile Void Sorceress, sending her careening into the very barrier her cousin had made. _CRASH!_ Gwen acquired an intimate understanding of inertia as her Bone Armour manifested, transforming into an enormous ribcage resembling its material component sourced from Amazonia. Initially, she had desired stronger Cores, but Maxwell had informed her that the purpose of Reactive Bone Shield lied in its ability to absorb punishment and be destroyed in the process; the trick was to find a Core in the Goldilocks zone of strength and brittleness. Now, she put that theory to test. All around her, the rapidly expanding collars of bone snapped and broke, giving time for the Sanguine Mantle to turn the exterior of her body red with carnage so that she appeared almost flayed. As the spell struck, competing forces that would have rippled out her armour and transferred from overloaded shock-absorbers to her organs instead rippled out, exploding from her lithe form in gobs of gore. The Crystalline Wall shattered as the girl inside its semi-dome splattered, transforming the entirety of its exterior the hue of wine with a wet crunch of bone. To friend and foe below, the scene resembled one of complete, total obliteration. "DUCK!" "LASSIE!" "GWENNIE!" "CALAMITY!" "EEEE! EE!" Even knowing that Ariel's continued existence meant that their sorceress survived and that her Contingency Ring hadn't triggered, the spectacle was enough to drive her teammates wild. "VICTORY!" Thalmar proclaimed, the Golem's battle cry bellowing out as an orange pulse of violent mana from its glowing maw. "NOW, THOU ART FOOD FOR MURK WORMS!" "INSOLENCE!" Golos' response was to match the Golem's volume before descending onto the Balefire with tooth and claw, ignoring the chained-explosions rocking its electrified hide. While Golem and Wyvern tussled, Hanmoul received the still-breathing bodies of the limp Mages rescued by Morden's Hounds. The Commandrumm's eyes were twin bloodshot orbs, but even so, the veteran Iron Guard understood the duty his "mate" had given him. "Take the Humans and go," he commanded his entourage. "Grimgal, get ready for the next batch!" "Aye Commandrumm." Grimgal's eyes remained locked on the bloody mass of gory crystal now raining across the spell-torn granite. "Hanmoul— is Gwen..." “SHAAAA! SHAA—SHAA! SHAAAAA—!" Grimgal's answer came in the form of Caliban exploding forth from under the Citadel, finally having tunnelled through while the Balefire and the Murk Divers were distracted by their self-proclaimed victory. Caliban slammed into the Citadel's far wall with its body, crumbling the barracks and the defence structures with the fatalistic momentum of a glacier. Once it kissed the granite, the worm turned its enormous body in a death-roll, turning deep into the ruined defences like a colossal drill. "Gracie!" Petra called out, her voice hoarse from the anxiety of observing their Aberrant baiting cousin's suicide-charge. Unlike Gwen, she had not armed herself with fear-dispending Heroism. "Have you found them?" "Got them!" the Illusionist replied, completing the weaving of her most offensive Illusion spell, Phantasmal Force. Directly below Caliban's expanding maw, in a buried chamber only Petra's boxed Scry could reach, psychic emanations from Gracie manifested as ten-thousand Void Spiders hungry for Dwarf flesh. _CRASH!_ Caliban's bullet-shaped head penetrated through the ceiling, crushing in-ward the stoneworks. When it opened its faceless maw, a flood of Void-tinged digestive juices, together with writing tentacles hidden in the tenebrous goo, tore into the hidden chambers as sticky tongues of an ant-eaters fishing for larvae. Meanwhile, not far from the Void Wyrm, Golos had wrapped itself around the Golem with its gory body, bleeding mauve blood onto its hissing runic plating. The drake knew he could not destroy this creation of the Dwarves' desperation, but he understood the importance of buying its mistress time. The combat itself was primal, for the Golem was bodily slamming the Wyvern against the wall and the floor, its pinching power gauntlet tearing at scale and sinew, muscle and bone in a bid to disable the adult pseudo-Mythic. "CAREFUL! MORE Mind Magic!" Petra's warning rang out once more as her detection spell pinged. This time, the victim was Richard, though his body grew rigid for only a second while he held his ground against the alien force seeking to seize his cerebral cortex. "Cali! Left chamber, bottom!" Gracie steered the monstrous worm while throwing out yet more Void Illusions. Caliban reared upward, then dug down another storey into the floor. When it emerged, two of its tentacles were dragging from Citadel's depth a twin set of Dwarves dressed in rubbery Klads. Without hesitation, its preys entered its gullet while the other dozen of its tendrils continued to fossick and ferret the Citadel's interior for more of their kind. A second later, Richard' felt the assault on his mind abruptly cease. Together with his returning consciousness, he noted that the Mages milling about the courtyard were waking up as well. "Whoa-WHOA! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?" A few of the Mages newly shaken out of their stupor stared open-mouthed at the titanic battle above, in front, and beside them. "Where are we? What? WHAT?" "HAVE THE ABERRANTS BROKEN THROUGH?" "Where have the Dwarves gone?" "Calm Emotion!" Petra knew there was no time to waste. Without hesitation, she gave "Command" to "RUN FOR THE SWIFTSTRIDERS, NOW!" "SHAA! SHAA!" Caliban's body undulated as it pushed obscenely into the cleft its head had earlier dug. A torrent of semi-clear gunk consisting of Void matter dissolved each barrier as it sought out openings that survived its assault. "CHRIST ABOVE—!" More Mages awakened from their stupor, only to fall and stumble, tripping over debris and the smouldering bodies of their deceased companions. "FLEE!" Petra's "Command" burst from among the dazed and confused Mages even now scrambling for cover. "FLEE AS SWIFT AS YOU CAN!" Gwen hoped to hell that the crumple zone and airbags provided by Sanguine Mantle and Bone Shield was enough to prevent the newtons from rending her nerves and sinews moot. Using herself as bait was a calculated risk, for she possessed Essence and a superhuman constitution; an elastic, body-morphic second-skin that dulled all damage; and she had deployed a state of the art crumple-cushion. In hindsight, she was sure that lacking any of one of the three, she would be back in London and en route to the ER at Elvia's hospital. However, having successfully met each of the stringent conditions above, what she suffered was the debilitating, screen-fracturing whiplash endured by a new-release iPhone dropped from the twelfth storey to garner Youtube views. The result of her experiment was that while somethings broke, enough bits remained stuck together so she could be turned back on. Whatever the case, her brain now rebooted sans interference from Mind Magic, with the adrenaline and the Heroism blissfully raising her pain threshold beyond human means. Picking herself up from the broken crystalline shell, her Reactive Bone Armour rapidly regenerated, once more tapping into the Creature Core to encase her surroundings in a cage of levitating bone. Over and beneath her battered Shenteī armour, the Sanguine Mantle settled against her skin, forming a wine-coloured film that clung to every nook and cranny of her beaten body. "Shaa!" In her mind, Caliban reported that it was hunting down the last vestige of Aberrant vitality within the Citadel and that in a separate chamber, it could detect the scent of Hilda and probably Ebren. With one hand, she wiped the blood from her nose and her lips, marvelling at the way her armour wasted not a single drop as her bodily fluids became re-absorbed by her second skin. The Mages were free now, she was glad to see, and those that could flee made for the hills, where Hanmoul and his men ferried them further away from the battlefield and offered triage to those that needed it. Gwen cleared her throat of iron-tasting fluids. Above, Golos fought a losing battle against the Magma Golem, for the monsters' elements were poorly matched. Were it not for the Yinglong's superior Essence; the Wyvern would have been torn limb from limb as soon as the two engaged. Earlier, she couldn't break the Balefire with Lightning. After that, it was unfazed by her Void as well. Could Caliban swallow the thing? Would the thing allow itself to be swallowed by Caliban? Probably not. If it could tear through her double-shield, her mantle and her bone barrier with sheer firepower, then it could just as easily blow a hole through Cali's gullet. Her Wyvern cried out as it savaged the Golem. She could sense through her Empathic Link that her drake's confidence was rapidly waning. She turned to check on her team members. Richard aided the evacuation of the Mages, hollering at Lea while commanding two fronts. Jean-Paul's face was the colour of paste, continued to Usurp the Magma Bombs that sought to slay the fleeing Humans. Petra did her best to calm the Mages and provide Abjuration support for Jean-Paul. And Gracie had a Scry window on full display while throwing Illusory horrors in Caliban's general direction. _Gracie!_ An unorthodox scheme ignited in her mind, one so absurd and ridiculous she just knew it had to work. "Gogo, hold it down!" she shouted at her Wyvern. "I am coming! Buck! Astro! Go and help!" The surviving dogs, now leaving the hostages to their own devices, came on as a revolving swarm of bodies yipping, yelling and yapping at the Golem's heels, doing everything they could to pick the thing apart. "ART THOU NOT BROKEN?" The Balefire, if it could at all show emotion, was showing it now. Its face, which Gwen was sure was an immovable mask, contorted into a terrifying shape as it observed her bloody armour and her stark-bone barrier. "CALAMITOUS DEFILER! VADAM FIEND!" "No hypocrisy there," Gwen muttered the invocation to another Dimension Door. A split-second later, she reappeared behind the Golem. The Balefire spun on its hinges, tossing dogs like a salad spinner and making Golos groan. Golos tightened its grip, stretching itself so far that gouts of blood spluttered from its wounds, spraying Gwen with gore. Instantly, her mantle absorbed the unexpected bounty. As for Gwen, the forbidden invocation was already halfway on her lips and nearing completion. It was an old and complex algorithm, but one she had meticulously practised so that risk to Gracie could be minimalised. This time, she took no such care. Arming her spell for maximum disruption and absolute volatility, Gwen applied the meta-magic for maximal effect, pushing in both Essence and mana until she grew as pale as Umzokwe. Before the Golem's gears could overpower Golos, she moved the spell's collected necrotic energies to her fingertips, then touched the Void-tinged mana to the Golem's lower back, where presumably its Creature Core channelled its near-infinite energies. "ESSENCE TAP!" From her fingers, she sensed the invocation's hunger disseminate and spread, seeking a source of Essence to usurp. If her party had been in the vicinity of an Elven Spirit-Mage, the observer would have stared slack-jawed at the rush of violent energies from her Astral Body forming into a hungry vortex. Ahead of the sorceress' slavering, lip-smacking maelstrom, a spark of fluctuating Essence erupted, forcibly tearing into the inviolable silhouette of the Engineseer's tempered soul of dark steel, instigating a violent blowout of Elemental Magma into the Astral Plane. However, as no such rare figures were present, it would appear as though she had merely slapped the Balefire Golem on the belly, resulting in a playful " _Clang!_ " The Golem staggered; suddenly unsure of its footing. The combatants held their breath, unsure of what Gwen intended or what should happen next. "THOU—" The light of Thalmar's life dimmed before he even finished. As for Gwen, a white-hot stab of energy, unlike anything she had ever experienced flowed as molten metal into her Astral Body. "ARRRRRRRRGGH—" A long and drawn-out scream erupted from her throat, captivating her companions with her soulful, exquisite agony. A din with a decibel that no sound could capture erupted over and over again in Gwen's head like the tolling of a belfry where the bells were her cerebellum. She felt as though the grey fat of her brain had become the gory body of Caesar betrayed, while the Dwarf's Essence was a riotous Roman mob bawling for blood in gibbering Latin! _YE GODS! LET IT OUT!_ Like buzzing Yellow Jackets hammering at a windowpane, morbid thoughts transposed from Thalmar erupted at the forefront of her mind demanded blissful oblivion, joyous at the prospect of caking the walls so its flaming fever could end. _FUCK OFF!_ Came a second cry, her voice, more clarified than the first, and with it came Almudj's restorative Essence, overwhelming and powerful, washing over the white-hot fire with the force of a noontide, soothing her soul, smothering everything with the cerulean blue waters of Lake Eyre. "Huff— Huff— Huff—" She lamented possessing only one pair of lungs. Gwen felt her soul shunt back into her body, forcing her to stagger and fall onto her buttocks. In the ensuing turmoil of her mind, every mote of active sorcery had been erased, including her dogs. If Caliban and Ariel were not Spirits, they too would have perished. "CALAMITY!" Golos unfurled itself from the inert Golem, tearing away strings of congealed blood-slick with a stench of burnt flesh and sulphur. "Foolish female!" "Shaa! SHAA!" Caliban withdrew from the wall and headed her way. "EE! EE!" Ariel landed as well to lick its unsteady Master. "I am okay." Gwen ventilated, still trying to catch her breath as the Bone Armour dissolved and her Sanguine Mantle slid from her skin. Her body felt unsteady; her mind was a box of bees. Her over-tensed muscles felt like wet noodles hung loosely over the frame of a bruised skeleton. "How's the Balefire?" "I think it… turned off?" An instantly translocated Richard slapped the limp iron figure, slipping an arm below her waist and over her shoulder. "What the hell did you do?" "Tapped out its soul," Gwen said. "Then refused to give it a place to go. Help me up." Richard pulled her up by taking her hand, but even so, her body wouldn't respond. The damage from earlier, coupled with her Astral disjunction was taking its toll. "Did you break a bone?" Petra arrived the next instant with Gracie. "Jesus, Gwennie, you look like hell." "I don't think that's how you're supposed to use Essence Tap." Gracie checked her Scrying pool even as she strode over the blood and brittle bone surrounding their leader. "I don't sense any more hostiles, thank the Nazarene." "It's an Astral Body thing." Gwen limply waved a hand. "Cali?" "Shaa!" Caliban wiggled, affirming Gracie's conjecture, then burped. "Cali ate the Calamari Dwarves," Gracie concurred. "We made a great team, Cali." "SHAA!" "EE-EE!" "You too, Ariel." "Gwen, are you alright?" Jean-Paul arrived via a Dimension-Door. "I am alive. How're our Mages?" Gwen resolved herself to be propped up between Richard and Ariel, aided by Jean-Paul. "How many—" "Thirty-seven," Jean-Paul reported at once. "That's the ones we saved. About six are in critical condition. We need to get them transported back to civilisation right away. Hanmoul's already sent them for the Citadel." "W-what about—" Gwen paused. Her bodily control was returning now, and she could stand weakly on her own. "—Hilda and Ebren?" "They and the other prisoners are down below." Gracie continued to manipulate the Scry now that she stood directly above the lower chambers. "I take it the Calamari had plans." "I'll go find em." Petra nodded to Gracie. "Gwen, you stay here and rest. Gracie?" "Coming!" Gracie slapped her heavily Enchanted armour. "We'll need healing spells. Some of them are severely weakened." While her cousin and her ward went to find the VIPs in their escort quest, Gwen leaned back to study the Balefire Golem's husk with the "Soul" dispersed. Beside her, her Wyvern did its best to pick out bits of crushed scales so it could expedite its natural healing. Was Thalmar dead and Gone? Was the Balefire still active or alive? Out of curiosity, she placed her hand on the Golem's armour. The suit dematerialised into her Storage Ring. "LASSIE— DONNAE DO THAT!" The newly arrived Hanmoul popped his cockpit, revealing a face full of concern over her inadvertent commitment to an international, inter-species war crime. Gwen grimaced. "… Sorry, I was just curious to see if the Balefire was alive or otherwise." She quickly released the Balefire's body back into the Commandrumm's custody. Taking the Balefire would have made many people in Cambridge very happy, but the same act would likely start an underground world war. At her confession, the Dwarf exhaled pure relief, lowering his raised beard as the flush of shame and outrage bled from his face. "Don't yer test our alliance like that, Lassie. Yer making trouble fer us all, yer is." "It's an accident," Gwen simpered with a cringe-worthy expression of woe. "Truly." "I can't believe yer defeated a Balefire." Hanmoul shook his head, shook his head again, then resolved to continue shaking. "I think we'd best keep this between us. I'll tell the lads to swear on their Ancestors as well." "Is that a bad thing?" Gwen gulped. "Balefire Guardians are Deepholm's last defence." The Commandrumm looked as though someone had told him Santa was a fat Dwarf in a red suit. "By Bürumm-Dal's hammer-axe, a Soulforged Golem should be indomitable! That's why an Engineseer's flesh and blood must be paid as a price. If one can be defeated like that..." "Hanmoul, I almost ignited my soul." Gwen touched a hand to her throbbing head. "There isn't going to be a second time." "Nae, Lass, there isn't. Else all of Deepholm will be after yer skull as a trophy." Hamel placed his hand on the husk of Thalmar's former body. His Storage Ring glowed, then as with Gwen, the Balefire was gone. "Am going ter dismantle and melt this Vadam slag. Thalmar fled into the Murk, never to return, yer ken?" "Right." Gwen flexed her fingers, sensing that some of her sensations were returning. Ding! Petra's Message blossomed beside her cheek. "Gwen, we found Ebren and Hilda. The Deepdowner's fine, but her partner's in bad shape. I am going to administer healing and restoration. One thing though— They want to retrieve and wear their Klads. Your orders?" "Are they…" Gwen thought of the Mon Calamari. "They're clean." A nasty part of her still suspected whether Hilda and Ebren were complete victims. The better part of her though, informed her that making Hilda and Ebren appear in the light in front of Humans without their Klads would be the equivalent of engendering a death grudge. "Let them get dressed," Gwen said, wondering if she should get Petra to renew her Heroism before the unmitigated pain returned. "What now?" Richard spoke beside her. "Are we busting it back to the Red Citadel to kick Deepdowners and rip off their face masks?" "Sure." Gwen laid her head on her cousin's shoulders. "But for now, I need a break and a kit-kat."

Gwen heard the hiss and clangs before she saw the Deepdowners Hilda and Ebren. As a matter of station and rank, Hilda led the procession, followed by Ebren. Behind their clanking Klads, Petra and Gracie stalked at a polite distance, though from Gwen's vantage, the scene resembled two prisoners escorted by their wardens. As for herself, she sat with a purring Caliban to her right and Ariel cushioning her left in the lotus stance, with her shoulder resting against her Kirin's mane. Richard and Jean-Paul stood a distance away, documenting the dead. Hanmoul and his crew busied themselves with the wounded or stood as nervous guardsmen awaiting their spiritual leader's arrival. As for Golos, the Wyvern's healing proved far too slow in a place so lacking in the Elements he required, and so Gwen had sent her ally home. There may be a battle to come, but considering the skyscraper-sized Balefire standing guard over Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, there was little doubt that the next fight would be with words. From afar, Gwen studied the Deepdowner as she walked, feeling a palpable sense of purpose in the way the Dwarven priestess placed one foot ahead of the other, like a martyr headed for the stake. As for Hilda's purpose, Gwen needed no divination to discern her desire. At two meters, the clunking footfalls ceased. "Lady Hilda." Gwen put on her best, most disarming smile. "We humans have a saying— revenge is a dish best served cold." The domed helmet dipped, where the rebreather connected to the broad base, the mechanism inhaled and exhaled. "Aye, I find Humanity's diamonds of wisdom pleasing." Beside Hilda, Ebren lurched forward on one knee. "MAGUS SONG, WE ARE IN YOUR—" "Ebren." Hilda halted her partner before he could bowl Gwen over with vows of gratitude. "No modulations. These are friends to whom we owe the Debt of Haj-Zül." "Of course," Ebren's natural voice broadcasted through his crude vox. Unlike Hanmoul, Ebren's voice was pleasant and mellow. "Please accept this one's apologies for my earlier rudeness." "Accepted." Gwen knew the straight-laced Dwarves far favoured forwardness to meandering politeness. "But let's discuss where we shall go from here. The mind-controlled Legion is neutralised, the Mon Calamari are slain, and the Balefire Golem has—" Gwen paused to look at Hanmoul, whose brows wiggled with alarm. "— been pacified." "That goes with saying, I think." Hilda tilted her helmet. "Well done, Magus Song. I would have thought the feat impossible." "You are not upset?" Gwen raised a brow. "For banishing a selfish, Clanless traitor who put continuation over that of his people?" Hilda shrugged her shoulders. "It's a bitter truth that our Guardian has fallen. BUT, the alternative is unthinkable. For simply being here and speaking to you in my Klad, Ebren and I will count ourselves blessed by Møsvian's luck." Considering the Calamari-headed Aberrants the two just escaped from, Gwen could only agree. "Thank you for understanding, Hilda." "We're the ones to blame," Hilda said. "Now, shall we get on with business? We Dwarves aren't much for revenge, but by Brumdahr, we hold a grudge. This betrayal cannot go unpunished. Our people need to scour this scourge with flame and chisel." "I like the way you think." Gwen leaned back, feeling every joint in her body creak. She hissed, then took a deep breath to re-circulate her recovering Essence. "So, mind telling us what's the deal with the Calamari?" "Aye, the 'Dark Intellects' of the Planes between Planes." Hilda did not deny her narrative prompt. "Deepholm had known of their existence for some centuries, though never in my life could I imagine that a brood would do such untold damage to our Clan. Our Kin of the North from the Citadel of Helzink dubbed them the 'Sinneslukare', meaning Will Devourer. They were meant to be chronicled creatures from before the Sundering, Murk Ogres of the mind, myths, but obviously, that is no longer so." "Sinneslukare." Gwen breathed out, happy that she no longer had to worry about copyright. "What can you tell me about them? More importantly, if you don't mind me asking— if you were out of your Klads, how are you fine? Don't they eat brains?" "Magus Song..." Ebren cleared his vox. "It's fine." Hilda walked in front of Gwen, then sat cross-legged. "We need Magus Song's help to re-establish credibility in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth's Hall of the Eternal Cog. Let's not repeat the prideful mistake of our ancestors by pushing away potential allies in our time of need." "I am all ears, Lady Hildenbrandt." Hilda extended a gauntleted hand covered with intricate Glyphs. Gwen took it. "The rot goes deep, I am afraid. Deepholm itself is either under threat or threatened." Hilda's voice blossomed as a private Message spell. "Or fallen," Gwen drily added. "Unthinkable," Hilda denied her companion's pessimism. "Deepholm is home to millions and more. A hundred swarms of Aberrants wouldn't breach its Outer Rims, much less the Inner Sphere. Besides, if a city of Deepholm's magnitude ceases to revolve, the Prime Material's Citadels won't escape unscathed. That and the portals only we Deepdowners can activate to expedite travel in the Dyar Mokk remain functional, and those function by drawing focus from the Loci Engine at the heart of the Revolving Hall." "A city of brass may not need living Dwarves. Anything's possible if it decays from the inside," Gwen said. "The leadership becomes insular and selfish and removed from the people. They get replaced..." "I'll concede that possibility," Hilda said. "But deny that things can be as bad as that. As for why Ebren and I remain safe, I fear the Sinneslukare that had assumed the mind of Captain Farron Gahrol had more important plans for us, ones I suspect had very much to do with infiltrating Deepholm proper. In my Klad and wearing my Glyph, there is a real possibility that they could penetrate deep into the city's core." "Thalmar isn't..." "He aided them, but no." "Alright. How come the squids didn't give you a head-bug?" Gwen asked. "Successful parasitism requires toxins of the mind, and time," the Deepdowner explained with a mild tremble to her voice. "I was informed that willing subjects make better adherents, and suffer... far less degradation." "Why did they have Ebren tortured?" "I had until my Keeper bled out to make a decision..." "... So, either you agree and get brained, and Ebren dies— and you get brained and..." "Do not ask me how their cruel mind works," Hilda said distastefully. "I cannot fathom their sadistic joys." "Sorry." "Aye, so now you know. May I speak without the guise of politics, Magus Song?" "Alright, shoot." "I need to return to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. I need to regain the prestige I once wielded. I need to expel Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh, who may or may not be supporting the Sinneslukare, or even be of their kind. I need vengeance for my lost Legion of Iron Guards, and to honour their loss, I am determined to pierce into the Dyar Mokk. However..." "However?" Hilda paused. "I do not know how." Gwen almost choked on her spit. "What?" "Ebren and I..." Hilda spoke with a voice that was far too feminine. "We are crafters, Lore Keepers, scholars, Runesmiths and Engineseers, Magus Song. We are not..." "Politicians?" "Warmongers. Disruptors. Usurpers." "... I see." Gwen nodded. "I guess you're looking for a Consultant. Well, you're in luck. For my part, I am happy to say someone must pay dearly for the needless loss of our Mages. Someone has to pay in blood." "... Agreed." Gwen studied the smooth and featureless surface of Hilda's Klad-suit. Naturally, she could read nothing. "So, I'll be blunt. I've recovered our Mages, and now I am returning you, Lord Ebren here, and Commandrumm Hanmoul to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. We've got a diplomatic corp set up to settle accounts once we get back. Do you want London's full weight behind you? No problem. Give us access to the Low Ways once we punch through." "Humans utilising the Dyar Morkk?" Hilda gave pause. "That's unorthodox. The Low Ways are Dwarven." "Is it though? Tell me more about your success in keeping out Aberrants and brain-Calamari so far?" Gwen gripped Hilda's gauntlet with renewed strength. "The Shard's emphasis is to find alternative pathways to expedite resource transfer between London, Dublin and the European mainland. Assuming the Dyar Morkk indeed offers stable planar short-cuts, how much of it currently lies fallow? How many nests of Aberrants have taken up refuge? How many more years until all of the Iron Born are brained by the squids? Can Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth afford to play silly-buggers with the Sinneslukare?" Hilda grew contemplative. Gwen gestured at Hanmoul and relented on the silent Message. "As Hanmoul's friend, I am happy to be your deliverance." Gwen looked at her reflection in Hilda's visor as earnestly as she could manage. "Take the initiative to throw your lot in with us, and you'll have plenty of chips on the negotiating table. Tradition? Sure— but is it as important as gains from opening your untapped infrastructure? Think of the progress and the profits made possible by relenting. For example, new stations to house the transit nodes; Human Mage Flights replacing Dwarven Exploratory Teams; taxes collected from the transfer of goods. Gateway fees, withholding fees, dockage fees, small business for folk from the Citadel, commissions for your artisans, and unfettered access to resource from the surface— Sure, it sounds wonderful to say, 'this is the Ancestor's way!', but think about what common folk in the Citadel want. It's not spiritual elation, Hilda. The labourers want their daily Dwarf Bread, the artisans want work, time and resources to perfect their craft; Hanmoul and his warriors to fight monsters, not Dwarves and rogue Balefires..." Her eyes sparkled with the promise of investment returns. "And we want the same thing too. Human or Dwarf, I think of screwing Zairic and Zethoag as an absolute win-win scenario." Hilda did not move. Gwen rested her talkative fingers on Hilda's palm. "I mean, you can choose slow and steady— but then what? Your Deepdowners are culprits of this sedition! Will you ask for help from other Citadels? Even assuming one of your distant Kin chooses to aid you, what's the mutual benefit? How can you trust folk who offer aid when the cost outweighs the gains? You can trust the Mageocracy to hammer out a deal and stick to the rails— because mutual profit is the gospel of cooperation." "You've banished my doubt, Magus Song." Gwen could see Hilda's breathing apparatus rising and falling. "Will you aid me in seeking redress, Magus Song?" "You can bet you Kiad I will." Gwen figured she might as well do Dickie a favour now and ask for more favours after compounding interests. "Now, I am no expert on Dwarven intrigue, but from what Hanmoul told me, the whole thing we just survived was a trap. From what I saw, I don't think the Sinneslukare own Thalmar, do they? He didn't give a shit about them getting Devoured." "Correct," Hilda said. "Thalmar was acting on behalf of Zairic and Zethoag." "That's good news then." "Gwen," Hilda reminded her. "Despite the role Ebren and I hold within the hierarchy of our people, we are, as I said, Craftsmen and scholars. We pursue objectives and devise mechanisms to achieve those goals. Politics isn't in the blood of us Ancestral families from Deepholm, hence our failure to detect Zairic and Zethoag's deviation from honourable conduct." "That means Zairic and Zethoag are also new to traitorous intrigue, no? Their ploy had no alternatives and was hugely reliant on killing or braining all of us." The Deepdowner paused. "Aye, I think." "Good, help me up." The party of Humans and Dwarves solemnly watched as the Deepdowner and the Human sorceress clasped palms, with Hilda helping the resting Gwen to her feet. "Shaa!" Caliban purred. Ariel swished its tail. "Whatever happens, I don't think our party will be much good in a fight in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth," Gwen said after checking the condition of her body. Even now, the disjunction caused by the forceful deployment of Essence Tap was wreaking havoc with her Sigils and Elemental Gates. Her vitality was also nearing rock-bottom, and her companions were near OoM. Unfortunately, her wounded adventurers could not wait to receive proper treatment, nor could Gwen's party dally lest more complication would throw the developing situation in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth into disarray. Looking at the expressionless Hilda, the kneeling Ebren and the stone-faced Commandrumm beating himself over his failure to protect their Deepdowner, a cunning plan formulated in her head. Gwen's grin was full of teeth. "You know, we have another saying in the Himmseg..." "What is it?" Hilda asked, suddenly feeling fearful of the alliance with the wolfish Void sorceress. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. "There's more than one way to skin a cat…" Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth The Centre Spire. For the Iron Legion to slink through the side gates with such discretion could only mean one thing— shit had hit the fan. Usually, after marching through the pavilion, the procedure involved a general assembly that broadcasted the Legion's losses with Scribes from the Hall of the Ancestors taking the names of those returned to Deepholm. The commanding officer would then retreat to a private meeting to compose a detailed report for the Guild before his presentation to the High Council, assuming the failure did not require immediate redress. During this same process, family members of the warrior caste would receive their exhausted Kin, or receive their bodies. Other members with the requisite training would then volunteer to enter the Guard, replenishing the diminished numbers. However, this time the defeat grew dire enough to trigger a meeting of the High Council. "The Deepdowners Kül-Hildenbrandt and Varekan are lost to the Aberrants. The Third Legion is annihilated, and the First Legion decimated." That was the news that spread across the city's carriageways, flooding the Guild Hall's floors until it reached the ears of Ollie Edwards. "…Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" Ollie Edwards, Second Secretary of the Diplomatic Corps, felt as though he had lost every follicle of hair at once, even the stubble on his chin. "GOD DAMN IT, WHERE'S GWEN?" "She's returned with Hanmoul's Legion," Magister Millard, Chief Aide, declared with a measured tone of ambivalence. "Her party managed to eradicate the Aberrant threat and secure Lord Hanmoul. We don't know the details, but the subsequent attempt to retrieve the Deepdowners did not go well. The word from the lower tiers is that Magus Song has overextended her abilities trying to rescue our Mages." "Is Gwen unwell? How are the others?" Ollie felt his spine grow cold, more so than the news that the Dwarves had lost two of their religious leaders. How was he going to answer to Lord Ravenport now? How will he address Lady Grey if Cambridge's precious Void Sorceress suffered setbacks under his watch? Ollie calmed himself with a quick circulation of Elemental Air. Gwen might have fallen short of her boast to return with Hilda and Hanmoul, but she returned nonetheless with Hanmoul and the First Legion. Assuming the rumours were sound and the Third Legion was sleeping with the Murk fishes, it was arguable that their demise had nothing to do with Gwen. As London's representative, therefore, his job was to secure the best outcome for his nation despite the obstacles in their way. "Ser Millard, gather the corp." Ollie suppressed his nervousness, then called on his seniors in the room. "Magister Turner, Magus Mason, will you accompany me to the High Council? I shall act as Gwen's shield in this regard. How many of our Mages did you say returned with her?" "Thirty-Seven, with another four in critical condition already Teleported to London. At the Magus' advise, they are undergoing physical examinations and decontamination before being released back to the city." "That's… thirteen— Fourteen Mages total MIA or KIA," Turner reminded Ollie. "Enough to make a fuss?" Ollie put up a pained expression. He didn't like the idea of politicising the dead, but there was no choice now. "If we upsell the Shard's sentiments, yes," Magister Millard affirmed their Second Secretary's strategy. "Enough to maintain the status quo, I would hope." Ollie searched his mind for the weasel words that needed to be said to the Dwarven High Council. Shamefully, in service to Gwen, he found them quickly enough. Whatever the moral cost, Gwen's merits in the Murk must be protected, while her failures had to be cast-off as outside Humanities' control. "Right." He straightened his jacket with his hands. "Make the request. London will not retreat until our grievance is heard!" "Gwen!" Ollie's heart sunk as he crossed the floor to meet their exploratory team. Thankfully, all three Void Cabal members had returned intact, with only Gwen looking worse for wear. "Good gods! What did you fight?!" The young woman famous on the front page for her faultless if scandalous appearance was looking sore all over. From her singed and frazzled hair to her blood-caked armour, Gwen looked as though she had spent the last few days fighting a Gigaton Press at the Hall of Forging. The infamous Shen-teī suit that she had worn since her IIUC days was missing fabric and plating, exposing some of the inner mesh, and where her skin showed, Gwen's complexion was a clammy, unhealthy Aberrant white. He quickly greeted the others, nodding especially at Jean-Paul and Gracie, whose safety was technically also under his charge. Gwen's crew looked worse for wear, but not physically abused as she did. "Three swarms and a nest." Gwen's lips looked parched and cracked, her eyes tired and sleepy. "We cleared out the first swarm getting to Hanmoul, then had to clear a nest and fight two foes while being sandwiched between Khorok Umgor and the Hydra-head. After that, we had to clear infested Dwarves from Khorok Umgor, but by then it was too late to save Hilda." "Infested?" "Long story, but the Aberrants can eat brains and take over bodies..." "My god!" Ollie tried his best to imagine the slaughter and found his mind limited in its capacity for carnage. "Is that what happened to the Deepdowners? Did you recover the Deepdowner's…" "We didn't see them." Gwen shrugged. "But we recovered their Klads." "Good." Ollie patted his heart. "Have you spoken to anyone else on the council yet?" "Just Whurforlüm," Gwen said. "Hanmoul gave him a full report with my consent. The Guildmaster is on our side. You're all here to help, I assume." "Of course." Ollie bit back the sourness simmering at his throat. "They said you were wounded and that you failed in all but one of your objectives, but this isn't as bad as it looks. I was afraid you had Consumed the Deepdowners." Gwen gave him a strange look. "Not our objective. We cleared the tunnels and got our men and women back," Gwen said, then audibly sighed. "I am sorry there was nothing I could do for the ones we lost. Some of the deaths are my fault. I'll submit a full report when we get back to London." "You did your best." Ollie touched the sorceress' hand and winced. When his gloves came away with flaking gore. "Are you sure you're alright? Is your Essence healing not working? You look worse than ever." "Not enough vitality." Gwen shook her head. "I took a few spellcubes of healing so I'll be fine. The sickness is for show. We'll need the sympathy of the Council for what's to come— oh, there it is." _CLUNK-Clunk! Clunk! Clunk—_ The enormous cog-shaped doors to the Hall of the High Council began to part, indicating all members close enough to be present had now entered the chamber via means unknown to the Human guests waiting in the atrium. Inside, the semi-circle audience chamber filled from wall to wall, crest to dip with Dwarves, a veritable sea of beards hid sat atop a variety of clothing from oily craftsmen's garbs to the fine livery of Nobles from the Upper Spire. "Our guests, do proceed to the dais," Guild Master Whurforlüm Ironførge's booming voice invited the Human party into the room. "Our friends from the Shard, please take your place to the right while Magus Song speaks of the dire circumstances we now find ourselves." Behind the Guildmaster, flanking either side, sat the Deepdowners Zairic and Zethoag in their Deep Diving "Klads". As the brothers moved into place, he could hear the gurgle of fluids pumping through valves, triggering the hissing pistons fueling their rebreathers. Ollie and the corp took up seats on a transmuted section with resized granite suitable for a human's sitting height. Gwen and her party sat at the fore, with Gwen remaining upright while the rest took their places in the sunken pit ringing the raised dais. Opposite, in the Warrior Caste's section, Ollie caught Bromlim and Hanmoul sitting with Yossari still in their torn and soiled battle armour. Behind them sat many Iron Guards still in their Dwarven Plates, most of which was dented and damaged, with one trickling blue coolant. As Gwen said, the necessity of theatrics demanded suspensions of decorum. The crowd murmured, growing in volume until Whurforlüm quietened the room by raising a gauntleted hand. "Magus Song, as our guest and the rescuer of our Commandrumm, I invite you to speak first." "Thank you, Guildmaster. Friends, Craftsmen, Nobles, lend me your ears, for my tale is solemn..." Gwen relayed a harrowing tale of trial by combat with quiet dignity, beginning with the ambush at the Hydra's Head, followed by the raid on the Aberrant nest, the finding of Hanmoul, and finally the bitter battle at Khorok Umgor that resulted in fruitless nothings. After her epic concluded, she invited Hanmoul onto the dais. With great solemnity, Hanmoul verified Gwen's narrative, then materialised the two empty Klad suits. _Clunk—_ The sad silhouettes of Klads without their Deepdowners materialised, punctuating the council chamber's dour atmosphere with a lonesome, reverberating clang. "… Whatever happens, my heart rests knowing that Hanmoul is safe and that his Iron Guards, together with our Mages, could return home to speak with their fathers, brothers, mothers and children." The Mageocracy's premier Void sorceress returned to the Human's side of the Council Chamber. "And that's all I have to say about that." The chamber murmured. "The Council thanks you for your service, Magus Song. Your actions have gone beyond the boundaries of duty," Whurforlüm proclaimed from up on high, flanked on both sides by grimly visored Deepdowners. Gwen retreated. Ollie stifled the butterflies in his stomach, gained assurance from his peers, then motioned for his place on the dais. "O, Masters of the Citadel!" His act was interrupted by an unexpected interjection from the ranks of the Noble quadrant. "Allow this one to speak for his kin." Ollie's eyes focused on the silken attire of Brugal Brumdahr and knew immediately that here was a born shit-stirrer trying to practice his natural talents. As a member of the Diplomacy Corp, however, he was not in a position to silence the Noble, at least not before the Dwarf Gwen had prior shamed exercised his opportunity to outrage the Council. "You may speak." Whurforlüm likely did not wish to appear to favour the Humans. "Start taking notes and have a retort ready," Ollie informed his aides, who responded by laying their hands on data slates with the poise of duelists resting their palms on the oaken shafts of Wands. With the same flourish and arrogance as his prior performance a year ago, Brugal, direct line to Haj-Zül Brumdahr, strode until he stood beside the two suits of empty Klads. The Dwarf ran a hand down the side of Hilda's armour as if in reverence, then looked up at the two silent Deepdowners behind the Guildmaster. "SPEAK YOUR HEART, BRUMDAHR," came the supporting act from the Zairic. Brumdahr turned to face the chamber. "Magus Song," the Dwarf spoke with an elevated pitch of accusation and mockery. "Before I raise the enormous question ay yer culpability in the loss of our dearest mistress Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt, last of the Varekan-Kül outside the Halls of Deepholm, she who brings the Lumen into our halls— allow me tae say this: Ye and ya ilk, yer greedy Human folk, will NEVER have reign in the Dyar Morkk!" Ollie felt his hair roots wilt as the accusation rang out. He knew that within the Citadel, the conversation regarding the Dyar Morkk, whether as a joint-project or as a lease, had been met with doubt. Never had he imagined there could be overt hostility. "We were at peace, Magus Song, before the arrival of yerself and your Himmseg Kin! Now, gaze upon at what yer've brought us? War! Endless War! Not only the fight against the Red King of Scarred Peak but Aberrants besides! Murk monstrosities beyond comprehension! Our Kin has lived a hard life, Magus Song, but we were content, and we survived because of the purity of our purpose, our tenacity as Dwarves!" Brugal's resounding voice rang across the stone halls. "Hear-hear!" "That's the Stone's Truth!" "Out with the Humans!" Compared to the Noble Quadrant, the craftsmen's section remained mostly mum, though the commons and the quadrant inhabited by the upper spire Dwarves grew increasingly loud. "—my friends." Brugal silenced the group. "Now, we have lost a Legion! AN ENTIRE LEGION! The Third Legion of our finest Iron Guards under Captain Bronzehorn! One HUNDRED golden-blooded Kin in the prime of their lives, LOST!" Ollie felt his breaths deepen as the noble's incitement filled the room. "Yer is trying ter twist the truth!" Hanmoul growled over the group. "Brugal, yer scummy—" "SILENCE, HANMOUL! By mine House's honour, I'll cast yer from the title of Commandrumm!" Brugal's face flushed with the excitement of victory. "Yee failed to return with, Engineseer Hildenbrandt and Keeper Ebren! Yee helped Humans more than our Kin! Please don't embarrass yer duty any more than yer already has!" Hanmoul appeared on the verge of popping a gasket. Ollie grew contemplative. Looking at Gwen, he could see that she appeared stunned, or at least devastated and different to her usual confident self. The battle, he figured, must have taken its toll. Satisfied, Brugal continued. "I do not mean in any way to disparage the memory of Lady Hilda, but allow me to say this. Her dream of Deepholm was right, but her methods were wrong. Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth was happy and content; we donnae need the Humans to help access the Dyar Morkk. Had we taken the same path in our pure way— the Dwarven way, slow and steady, there would have been no tragedy. Our lives are long, and our Kin would still be alive." A ragged cheer broke out among the council chamber's upper half, infecting the lower half through its riotous volume. Ollie smelled the conspiracy in the air as clearly as the stink of violence on Gwen's armour, but he had to be patient. "In my capacity as the head of House Brumdahr, I motion, therefore—" Brugal took a deep breath. "—To EXPEL the HUMANs and return Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth to its original path!" "Nonsense!" The Guildmaster struck his table with his gauntlet. "Brumdahr, you overstep!" "WE SUSTAIN THE MOTION," a pair of mechanically synced voices rang out from behind the Guildmaster before he could continue. "IRØNFORGE, THOU ART A DWARF. ACT LIKE ONE." Ollie knew that it was now or never. With complete disregard for the disarray in his mind, he stood from the block of granite that served as his chair. "The Shard objects together with the Guildmaster!" He amplified his voice with Clarion Call. "As the representative of London and in our capacity as an ally of the Citadel, we oppose to Ser Brumdahr's outrageous attempt at undermining the trust that we have spent centuries cultivating." "Centuries?" Brugal snorted. "For a race that matures in the same span as a Murk Eel?" Laughter filled the same portion of the chamber. "Master Whurforlüm!" Ollie raised his voice, drawing from the ever-thinning air to inflate his courage. "This rudeness is unbecoming. Must I remind the Council that we have paid dearly as well? Our men and women have given their lives in service of the Citadel's cause, of Lady Hildenbrandt's shared desire to bring her people home to Deepholm!" "They died for HDMs!" Brumdahr shouted. "SILENCE!" Whurforlüm barked. "Do you wish to be expelled?" "— I understand that your people have suffered dire losses." Ollie continued to speak, ignoring his hecklers and receiving notes and suggestions from his aides via their silent Message Devices. "But we too, have lost lives: seventy-six in the nine months since the operation began, and fourteen just now in the tragedy of today. They too had Kin in London. Mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, some even children, though that may be difficult to conceive for long-lived folk such as yourselves. They came here to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth to pursue a dream and to aid in a cause. One, they too desired to return our allies to their ancestral homes, and two, they too risk their lives to unearth the secrets of the Murk!" Ollie felt himself fall into a comfortable rhyme as he continued, with annotations from his peers flowing into his mind as a stream. "And regarding Aberrants, Lord Brugal— Do not think for a minute that they appeared because of us! They were there, always! Since time immemorial, they had lusted after your city and your Kin, ambush them in the Low Ways! In your Empire before the Beast Tide, how many of your folk have perished to keep the path operational? If you accuse us Humans of inciting the Aberrant swarms— then what say you of your Ancestor's efforts?" "Dare you to accuse us of failing our Ancestors, Human?" Brugal's face twisted as cruelly as Ollie's logic. "When my ancestors ruled the Murk, your forefathers were still chattel under the hoofs of the Mongol Shaman-Lords!" "That may be true." Ollie felt buoyed by supernatural confidence. "But is that relevant to our present case? Are you saying that our Mages have died for a cause— your cause— of no worth? Is that your opinion of our belief in Lady Hildenbrandt's hopes for her Kin?" "You warp words as well as your sorceress." Brugal sneered. "But no matter how you twist and turn, Magus Edwards of the Shard— the Dyar Morkk is closed to you! Your toxic solicitudes will not mar the mind of our people, Human. Us Dwarves are tempered iron, and we shall not yield even if you hold our natural honour hostage!" "Then you do confess that—" "Brugal—" Whurforlüm growled. "SPEAK!" A metallic holler came again from the twins behind the Guildmaster, sounding like raw Pyrite being crushed and sorted in a circular press. Whurforlüm fumed. "Of course, my Masters." The Noblemen bowed. "Let me ask you once more, Magus Edwards. Do you concede your presence in the Murk? Will the Shard retreat while our people remain on friendly terms?" "Never, we will honour our word." Ollie folded his arms. "I trust Master Ironførge and the High Council to honour theirs. Gwen and I will never concede that we would abandon our comrades in their hour of need." "Camaraderie? Yer say?" Brugal's expression sent another jolt of ice into Ollie's spine. "Hahahaha— so be it! Yer put this on yourselves, Humans. MAGUS SONG!" The noble turned to Gwen. "That was a good story you told, but allow me to cast a shard of Lumen in the darkness of your tale. Here, I have a Message from the esteemed Captain Farron Galrol of the esteemed Murk Divers…" The Noble produced a crystalline device Ollie recognised as a Resonator, one used by Dwarves to circumvent distance and distortion within the Murk. Under the gaze of all, Brugal pressed a Glyph. Before Gwen could respond, the device began to play loudly. "… Lords, the Devourer of Shenyang is making quick work of the Aberrant Swarm. The monsters are numerous, but they are no match for the Void Mage's voracious hunger. Her creatures, the Earthen Wyrm and her dark dogs are even now breaching the walls of Khorok Umgor. Her ravenous fiends have already overpowered the Iron Guards under Lady Hilda's command, and I fear for her and Lord Ebren's safety…" The Message ceased reverberating around the room, but its intent was clear. Ollie felt the pit of his stomach fall and his testicles withdraw, killing all future potential for virile hair growth. Did Gwen eat the Deepdowners after all? How did she get Hanmoul to cooperate with her? Slowly, he watched Gwen rise to her feet once more to take the stage. An inexplicable change had overcome the girl's tired expression. Her eyes gleamed. Her lips curled. There was as perceptible hunger about her vital body. It was the look, Ollie realised with a gulp. The look of a very hungry Caliban.

According to Niccolò Machiavelli, any leader worth his or her salt must paradoxically be the fox and the lion; because the lion cannot defend himself against snares and the fox cannot wrangle wolves. Therefore, it took a fox to trigger the traps and a lion to terrorise the wolves; else a prince would only be prey. For this reason, Gwen did not despise her reputation as the "Devourer of Shenyang". She even worked to cultivate her infamy, for Nick also said that fear was better than love, and given enough profit; every advantage to break faith would be pursued. In contrast, the threat of bankruptcy preserved loyalty like no other. Ergo, in her mind, Zairic and Zethoag, octopus-bearded or otherwise, were fools to think they could compete with her and Hilda's gospel of progress. As frogs in the same well, Zairic and Zethoag's factionalism offered nothing of note to the folk who held up Dwarven society's base. As she approached the inflated Brugal, Gwen passed the sweltering Ollie and patted his shoulder. "Take a seat, Oz, I got this. There'll be accolades and rewards once you deliver the good news, trust me." Bathed under the gaze of hostile Dwarves, Gwen slow-strutted up to the dais, then made a stand with her legs slightly apart and her off-hand aggressively resting on her hip. Gazing down on the smug noble, she then raised a reprimanding finger, imitating a headmistress chiding misbehaving schoolboys. The theatricality was enough to make her party members cringe, but the Dwarves appeared enthralled, for they were simple folk not usually given to grandstanding. "Scarcely a word comes out of your mouth without it being a lie," she stated openly, weaving in a spell of Clarion Call so that her confidence filled the vaulted hall. "Since when do Dwarves deceive so readily and without embarrassment? Are you in actuality an Aberrant dressed in Dwarf-skin, or has one of those Murk-Squids replaced the real Brugal Brumdahr?" The Council Chamber expectantly erupted with collective protest, though Gwen's focus was on the two Deepdowners behind the Guildmaster. She sensed the Dwarves' elevated vitals and knew her choice words had struck a nerve. "Yer defence is ter accuse me of lying?" Brugal spluttered in disbelief. "ME! BRUGAL! The theme of honour's tongue since the time of Haj-Zül Brumdahr—" "Brummy, I thought we're already over that Honour of Theme's Tongue crud." Gwen waved her hand dismissively. "Look, you have a recording. So what? It's 'hearsay', a word on the wind! Why are you so confident? Were you there, Brugal? Did you see me murder the Iron Guards of the Third Legion with your own eyes? If so, why didn't you make a Lumen-recording? Why didn't Farron?" The Dwarf snorted at her weaselling. "Farron is the Captain of the Murk Divers! She has served the upper spire for sixty cycles, never failing in her tasks! Guildmaster Whurforlüm— perhaps yer could inform this clueless Human that a lying usurper cannot doubt Captain Gahrol's report!" "Magus Song." Whurforlüm's voice remained neutral. "That was indeed Farron's voice, and if that IS her— Captain Farron is as trustworthy as Brugal proclaims. If you insist that Lord Brumdahr is deceiving the High Council, the onus of proof shall fall on you." "Fine, where is Farron?" Gwen whipped around to face Brugal once more. "If I am accused, I want it told to my face. I did not expend mana, vitality and my one-of-a-kind suit fighting Aberrants for twelve hours just so that a faceless Message recording can twist the truth and paint me as a turncoat." "Farron Gahrol has not returned." Brugal's voice grew low. "A highly unusual prospect. Perhaps ye can tell us where she went?" "Me?" Gwen smiled. "What makes you think I would know?" "Her last communication was of ye, Magus Song. If yer pacified the Third Legion, what's to say yer Wyrm hasn't discovered Farron?" "So now you're accusing me of murdering Farron?" Gwen reared back with a look of disgust. "Why not accuse me of nixing your Deepdowners as well? By reputation, I rarely leave witnesses." "HA!" Brugal's eyes lit up. The precarious "gotcha" she had allowed him was making even his moustache erect. "The Human confesses! Yer the reason we lost Mistress Hildenbrandt and Keeper Ebren! Woe betides the Kin of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth who art cheated for so long, Kinslayer!" "BRUGAL!" A bark erupted from the warrior faction. Hanmoul was not having it. Gwen blinked, she had told the Dwarf to act the best he could, but improv-club champion he was not. "YER SCUMMY MURK RAT!" Gwen pretended to stop the Commandrumm. Hanmoul strode on stage in his Dwarven plates and performed the only rebuttal he knew— by grabbing the startled Brugal by the silken collars and— _CLANG!_ Hanmoul must have an iron plate embedded in his forehead, Gwen thought, for the Dwarf head-butted the nobleman with the force of an oaken beam striking a brass temple bell. "ARRRGGGH—!" Brugal fell back, tripping over his own feet as his brain rattled against his skull. "B-brute! Yer a brute, Hanmoul! How can yer defend a Kingslayer?" Hanmoul wasn't done yet. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or perhaps it was the pressure from their obfuscated Deepdowners clad in Golem plating below the dais, Hanmoul's eyes glowed with mana like a miniature Balefire. The Commandrumm, Gwen suspected, was living out his fantasy of pummelling the slippery noble to death before their big reveal, knowing he may never get a chance like this again. "STOP— help!" Brugal rolled left and right when Hanmoul tried to stomp his guts out. Dwarves were uncomplicated people; if Brugal had any martial merit, he would have defended himself— if not, a beating wasn't unreasonable. For this reason, the High Council watched impassively. On their side, Hanmoul's men did not move for obvious reasons, and from what Gwen could see, the opposition lacked enough love for Brugal to jump in. "The Commandrumm's gone berserk!" "Barbarity! Strip him of his title!" "This isn't the pre-Sundering…" A Whitebeard rolled his milky eyes. "Fool young un's..." To Gwen's bemusement and amusement, the nobles yammered and shouted— yet no one stood up for Brugal. Her heart grew strangely sympathetic. "ENOUGH!" A booming command halted the Commandrumm in-between his impassioned gutter stomps. "SON OF DWOMRUL! WHURFORLÜM! THOU KIN OVERSTEP TOO FAR!" The Deepdowners were smart, Gwen observed, to place the onus of fault on Whurforlüm. Catching a glance from the Guildmaster, Gwen placed a hand on Hanmoul's shoulder, appearing not unlike a cruel mistress holding back a deranged attack dog. Underneath his armour, Gwen could feel Hanmoul's body smoulder with wrath, the heat of his burning blood transferring across the dermal cladding to warm her fingers. "Peace, Commandrumm," she said loud enough for all to hear. "We know you're not the traitor here. Have faith, those who put their interests over that of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth will receive their just desserts quicker than you think." Not far, Brugal picked up his torn body, fixed his jacket with a dignified air, then wiped the blood from his bloodied nose. "Yer'll pay for that." The noble swallowed what must be a set of teeth. Gwen ignored Brugal and instead looked up toward the Deepdowner behind Whurforlüm. "Milords Zairic and Zethoag— You're Dwarves underneath that Klad, yes? What should one say to a Noble who peddles lies as easily as he breathes?" "THOU DARE—" Both began. "Tone down your vox mods," Gwen barked back dismissively. "What's there to hide?" Her abrasiveness possessed such high grit that the two bit-back their next words. When they replied again, their roaring accusation was proceeded by rippling Earthen mana. "VADAM WITCH!" Zairic or maybe Zethoag declared. "GUARDS! EJECT THIS HUMAN FROM THE COUNCIL HALLS." From the noble faction's quadrant came the clanking of armour. Unfortunately, the guards' progress ended at the base of the speaker's dais, where Hanmoul's men stood in their way with crossed arms. The move was enough to trigger a flurry of additional guards with gleaming impractical Golem armours polished to perfection. That particular reaction catalysed a roar of protest from the Craftsmen's section, causing more Hammer Guards to rise, some clad in Golem plating and others materialising spellhammers and spellswords. In a matter of minutes, the Chamber had split in twain, with the nobles of the upper spire taking the west wing with a faction of the commoners' aldermen. The neutral Iron Borns native to the Citadel formed a barrier toward the east wing, joined by Craftsmen with weaponised tools. Ollie stood with the rest of the diplomatic cabal behind Gwen, joined by her party members, who appeared entirely relaxed and in need of exploded corn covered in crystallised caramel. The atmosphere grew gradually thick enough to slice as the ambient mana clashed. "THOU WOULD DEFY HEARTH AND STONE?" The deeper of the two voices that Gwen anointed as Zethoag ran short of patience. With a grunt and a series of hisses and clicks, he shifted the enormous bulk of his Dive Klad and made his clanking way down to the lectern platform, followed by his brother. "SHALL THIS ONE REMOVE HER HIMSELF?" Hanmoul moved to intercept and was in turn blocked by Gwen, who stood without a change in stance or expression, waiting to call the Deepdowner's buff. "UN-DWARVEN!" Zairic declared. "PITH VADARAM!" The declaration caused some consternation among the Dwarves still unsure of which side to join. "Milords." Gwen circulated the Essence she had since mustered, pushing herself through the haze of clashing mana. "Pray, answer my enquiry— what makes you think that these Dwarves, your warriors and craftsmen, are 'un-Dwarven'? What makes you think you're 'Dwarven' when overt deceit is Vadam by nature?" "THOU ART AN OUTSIDER," Zethoag declared. "WE ART THE LEARNED KEEPERS OF UMGOR ÈRON VARÈKAN! OUR WORD IS LAW!" "Aye! The Keeper's words art backed by lore," Brugal retorted now that there was a Deepdowner by his side. "Give up the lode, Human. Yer cannot win without despoiling the city yer need to profit. Yer path to the Dyar Morkk art blocked, Usurper!" Gwen laughed in Brugal's face. It wasn't every day that one got to skin a cat hedging multiple lives. "Magus Song!" Gwen's simple, honest fun was interrupted by a call of clarity from the Santa-Dwarf seated above the pitched battle below. "We are igneous folk, Gwen. Please get on with it." "Very well." Gwen swiftly returned to the meowing Deepdowners and their cat-in-heat, Brugal. "Friends, Kin, good masters of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth," she announced to the hall. "I am innocent, as are my companions of these accusations— because I have irrefutable evidence that the demise of Ser Ebren and Lady Hilda came from within the Citadel itself. Commandrumm Hamoul and I did our best, but our effort was overwhelmed by treachery and deceit. I didn't initially mention this, because who would want to doubt our allies' veracity? Yet, never would I imagine that your esteemed Keepers would attempt to lay the fault on me." "LIES!" Brugal spluttered. "DISHONESTY!" "VARADAM!" the trio called out as if in sync. "If ye has evidence, then illuminate our minds!" Brugal's voice rose in volume, though his tone dipped from confidence to doubt. With the two Deepdowners behind him, however, the noble was entirely committed. "That or accept expulsion, Human! Yer art a Calamity upon our Citadel, yer very presence soils the sacred stones of our domain." Gwen ignored Brugal and turned instead to the Deepdowners. "How about a round of Ankrumm?" The room collectively paused at her unexpected demand. "… Gwen." Ollie's silent Message bloomed beside her ear. "Ankrumm means er… 'contested wager', yes, but the implication is that the loser quaffs enough beverage to pass out, so I am not sure what you intend here…" "… Oh." Gwen's cheeks grew rosy. She had genuinely intended Ankrumm to imply honour-bound acquiescence or ante. Nonetheless, Brugal's perplexed expression and the stunned silence from the Deepdowners was pleasing enough. "… Also." Ollie's voice filtered across once more. "Some Deepdowners abstain from alcohol. It's a part of their monastic preservation. Umgor èron Varèkan is one of those places." Gwen felt light-headed. A little knowledge was a troublesome thing. "Ankrumm!" Hanmoul dismissed her consternation, joined a split-second later by Yossari and Bumrorlim. Following their examples, the warriors and the craftsmen roared. Of all the Dwarves, their castes' delight in destroying ethanol-processing organs were most widespread. "Ankrumm! Ankrumm! Ankrumm! Ankrumm!" Gwen concluded the peanut-crunching crowd also did not care for such a thing as snobbish Keepers from the Cavern of Enlightenment. Even across races, the division of class was an easy sentiment to underestimate. If a group of Darjeeling-drinking Magisters in Cambridge showed up in Leeds to lecture the local labourers, they should also expect awe to sour into loathing. "Ankrumm! Ankrumm!" Even the conservative aldermen appeared affected. Gwen took another step forward, bolstered by the jeering. Even if her Ankrumm was a faux pas, it was Brugal and the Deepdowner's problem now. "Ankrumm?" she cheekily made another attempt at butchering Dwarven cultural conventions. "This isn't a tavern." Brugal's retort was pure venom, an effect exaggerated by his bruised face. "If you desire Ankrumm, Magus Song, then let us up the ante. By mine honour and my Clan, I call for Bëldarak!" The crunching peanut gallery quietened. "You'll have to enlighten me." Gwen spread her hands and shrugged her shoulders. "What's Bëldarak?" "The Trial of Truth, as told by Byllelynn Møsvian in warning to the Dusk Kin of Fulroth-Däl, traitors to Deepholm," their Guildmaster delivered his impartial advice from above. "If you have faith that your words will illuminate the lies of your foe, then speak the vow." "And if one breaks the Vow?" "For us Dwarves, it means having one's Clan name stricken from the Ancestor's Halls. It would mean our Core would never rejoin the Elemental Plane of Earth, never to be reborn or remembered, no matter one's achievement." Brugal's voice rose several octaves. "Do yer dare, Magus Song?" _Ah,_ Gwen nodded. _Collective punishment. Very good._ "I am not a Dwarf." "—I'll swear in her stead." Hanmoul raised a Brugal-stained gauntlet. "—And I'll accept exile, including pulling all of London's forces out of the Murk." Gwen grinned wolfishly. The colour drained from Brugal's face. Opposite, Ollie lost all colour as his diplomatic corp scrambled. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Her party munched on ration bars in place of exploded corn. "I double-dare you..." Gwen's taunt lay ticking at the Deepdowners iron-clad feet. "As the Guildmaster says, let us all abide by this Bëldarak. Let truth light the way." Perhaps not expecting her to call their bluff, the silence form Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh was deafening. "Well?" Gwen wasn't about to give her enemies time to balance the risks and rewards. "I thought you folk were from Umgor èron Varèkan, the cavern of Enlightenment. Isn't that where Varekan-Kül sang that 'The lumen in the dark always lights the way'?" The aphorism had been taught to her by Ebren, who suggested that a few well-known psalms could sway the mood of the Council. Brugal's eyes flittered from her to the Deepdowners, but Gwen could see the poor sod was at a loss for words. Maybe he thought she had misunderstood the implications of betting on the Bëldarak, or perhaps he thought she was bluffing as well. Either way, the noblemen's blackened-eyes hardened like burnt honeycomb. "House Brumdahr accepts the trial of Bëldarak." The Council Hall collectively inhaled. "Brummy, I don't give a Murk squid's entrails about you or your Clan." Gwen's next words made their exhalation catch in their throat. "I want those behind you to stand trial. I want their apology or their commitment to this Bëldarak. If you speak for them, tell them to shut their beaks and return to their swamp, or Bëldarak. We don't need librarians steering the business of the Citadel, especially liars who can't take a Jäger Bombe." Following her multi-pronged assault, Brugal's complexion polymorphed into Ollie's when he delivered Farron's Message. With his flushed lips forming a severe line like a slit-wound, the pallid noble turned to his masters for direction. Gwen knew the Dwarf did not dare speak for the Deepdowners, but that was the point. Her deal with Hilda was to hammer Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh into the Void. Without pushing them against the wall, how could she rip off their masks? Only with the pair permanently removed could Hilda and Whurforlüm bulldoze the conservative faction and move their people toward cosmopolitan globalisation. "THOU—" Zairic the younger wound up but was cut off by Zethoag the older with a swipe of a gauntlet-clad hand. "WE ART KEEPERS OF LORE. LORE CANNOT BE DENIED," the older made his case. "HUMAN, IF THOU HAST PROOF, CLAN BRUMDAHR SHALL ACT AS SURETY. THOU ART NOT DESERVING OF MORE." Gwen tsked. The old codgers are trickier than she had imagined. Then again, if they were smart enough to trap Hilda and Ebren and try to make her cop the responsibility for their death, she shouldn't be surprised. Brugal Brumdahr took on the look of someone who in his very bones knew he was looking into a depthless abyss and that Hanmoul was about to shout "This is Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth!" and give him a final stomp. Gwen subtly looked up at Whurforlüm, whose beard twitched affirmatively. As a people, the Dwarves were too honourable to endure. "I swear by this Bëldarak of yours," Gwen decided to maker her move before Brugal grew any softer and slipped out. "If my evidence fails to satisfy, then I shall remove myself and all Human presence from not only the Murk but the city itself. Furthermore, I shall pursue no further the death of our Mages." Brugal's breath came hard and fast. He glanced once more at the Deepdowners, then puffed out his chest like an unapologetic bushranger wearing a noose. "I accept. I, Brugal of Clan Brumdahr, swear by my Ancestors. By Bëldarak, I speak the truth and seek not to deceive mine Kin. If there is deceit, then I shall accept exile from Clan and Kin in Deepholm, seeking forgiveness in the Hall of the Eternal Cog." As the Dwarf spoke, his spine straightened and his voice grew firm. Such was the power of desperation, Gwen observed with a mote of empathic sadness. How strong was Brugal's hope? Did he not see that his masters had refused to back his sacrifice with their own? "Good, are we now witnessed?" She turned to the Deepdowners, glanced at her co-conspirators, then toward Whurforlüm. "Thou art witnessed," Whurforlüm delivered his verdict, speaking for the otherwise silent High Council. "Proceed." "Good. Here's the truth." Gwen passed a hand over the dais, releasing her cargo with a clang. "Let's hope you can handle it." The crowd of Dwarves leaned in, some physically, others with remote-viewing devices. "Farron Gahrol!" One of the Dwarves from the noble quadrant confirmed their suspicions. "She killed Farron Gahrol!" Gwen rolled her eyes, then pointed to the facial portion of Farron Gahrol, Captain of the Murk Divers. "… What is that?" An alderman had to step back from revulsion. "Has it mated with her head?" "That's… a _Sinneslukare_!" a helpful and more knowledgeable voice declared from the Craftsmen's wing. "I am sure of it! I've seen the diagrams in the bestiary! A Mind Eater!" "Impossible! They're a myth!" "What do yer call that then?" While the crowd argued, Gwen studied the Deepdowners Zairic and Zethoag. Once more, she could sense their disquiet through their fluctuating vitals. For someone with her hyper-attuned senses, focusing on a particular detail like the sound of fluids pumping through tubing wasn't as tricky as it would seem. "Earlier, you said—" Brugal appeared lost for words, his face ashen. "That's—" There was no question that the body belonged to Farron. Any Dwarf worth their salt in any capacity could check what remained of the Glyphs embedded into the Captain's body to declare without a shadow of a doubt that the flesh was Farron's, even if the head was not. "Are you allied with the Sinneslukare, Brugal? Are you bartering Kin to the brain-calamari for power and profit?" Gwen prodded the panicking noble to see if he would jump into the abyss of his own accord. "NO!" Brugal's refutation came as a scream. "Never! How dare—" "If not you, then is it them?" Gwen pointed a finger toward Zairic and Zethoag. "You swore, Brugal. You imputed that I was killing Iron Guards and may have murdered Hilda and Ebren, but your proof hinged on this thing? An Aberrant that has taken over the mind of your precious Captain? The theme of Honour's Tongue, indeed!" "I didn't know…" Brugal moaned. "How could I know?" "I think you mean they didn't tell you," Gwen addressed the Deepdowners once more. "Well? Are you guilty of alliance with the Aberrants, milords?" "WE ART DECEIVED AS WELL." The pair did not relent but stood taller instead. "HUMOUR US, HUMAN. WHAT HAS THOU DONE WITH THE ESTEEMED ENGINESEER THALMAR?" "Thalmar?" Gwen raised her chin. "Who or what is that?" "DOTH THOU THINK US FOOLS?" came the retort from a pair of hissing suits. "WE FEARED THY TREACHERY, HUMAN. WE ASKED THE ETERNAL THALMAR TO RETRIEVE OUR SISTER. HE DID NOT RETURN NOR DID HE REPORT— THEREFORE HE MUST HAVE PERISHED BY THY HAND." The murmuring Council Chamber grew quiet once more. All who entered the Soulforge had their names engraved upon the Ancestor's Hall's hallowed plaques, and so all knew of Thalmar, once Engineseer and now an eternal engine. Gwen could see that the knowledge they lacked was that Thalmar been sent on a secretive and seditious mission. "I don't know who Thalmar is," Gwen lied as effortlessly as she breathed, confessing that she didn't know anything about Thalmar other than the echoing agony of his dispersing soul as she pulled its Essence from the Golem's Creature Core, a detail she omitted. "But if you're going to accuse me without evidence, then I've got a good one, just for you." She moved her hand across the dais once more. Three more bodies appeared, all preserved by Caliban. One was intact, the rest were mostly digested but for the head. All possessed the inert brain-attachments of the Sinneslukare for all to see. "Here's an accusation," she said to Brugal. "Your precious Murk Divers were trying to set the Aberrants onto us. They were mind-controlling the Crawlers, Centaurs, Hulks and making them attack us relentlessly. How else do you think Hilda failed to hold Khorok Umgor? She had a LEGION with her, Brummy. Twenty Rock Smashers, forty men and women in Golem plating, forty engineers and auxiliary staff AND she had a Fabricator Engine digging up minerals to manufacture fuel and ammunition. How do you lose with a setup like that if not for infiltration?" The Council Chamber exploded at her revelation, causing Brugal to shrink. "Now, now." Gwen gestured for the members of the crowd to approach and inspect the bodies at their leisure. She addressed her primary targets once more. "Milord Deepdowners— where were we?" Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh both raised their gauntlets. "MAGUS SONG, THOU TREAD A DANGEROUS PATH." "Yeah—Nah." Gwen shook her head. "I don't think so. You know what? I think that under those armours of yours, we might find some suckers..." If the High Council had acted prior like the audience of a tragic opera, now came the moment when all the devils of hell spiralled into being around Dante Alighieri, descending into the abyss whilst a sea of strings screeched on the minor scale. "Care to remove your helmets?" Gwen placed a hand on either side of her hip. "Show me I am wrong. Else there's no reason for us to return to the question of my guilt." "YER DARE?!" Brugal inflated like a blow-up noodle man. "T-these are our sacred Deepdowners!" "These are your _sacred_ _Sinneslukare_!" Gwen bit back with a snarl. "Guildmaster! As an ally of the Citadel and friend of Hilda, I ask for the Council to take action in the interest of the city's security! These two, honoured as they are, have acted to obstruct every attempt at contacting Deepholm, going so far as to endanger Kin, if not outright result in their demise. Until we have confirmation, no justice can stand!" As she spoke, electricity sparked, for such was her delight in vengeance. Of course, she had no evidence that the Deepdowners were Sinneslukare. She was bluffing. Her outright accusation of the Deepdowners was a Hail Mary pass, one that as far as Gwen could see, had no setbacks. With Hilda and Ebren hidden among Hanmoul's Iron Guards in the second round, a game-winning touchdown was a matter of time. If so, there was no reason NOT to attempt such sensible manipulations. What if she guessed correctly and accidentally saved the whole Citadel from Sinneslukare subversion? The Saviour of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth as a title would surely turn some heads, especially Dickie's, who she needed to rat-fuck the Militants out of her Isle of Dogs. Which was why she felt no need to respond to Brugal but instead stood and awaited the Deepdowner's response. To her surprise, the Deepdowners were slipperier than Murk eels. "WE ART DISAPPOINTED," the pair spoke in twain to their perplexed audience. "DOTH THOU BELIEVE THAT THE ABERRANT MINDS OF THE FAR PLANES WOULD KNOW THE LEGACY OF NÖRN-ZUR'S ALCHEMICAL CREATIONS? OR OF GUL-ZÜH'S OIL-BEGETTING FORMULAE?" Zairic pointed an iron-clad digit at someone in the noble faction. "WOULD A SINNESLUKARE BE ABLE TO ATTUNE THE FROST-FLAME GLYPHS OF HOUSE VADOR?" Zethoag addressed the aldermen from the commons. "CAN A SINNESLURKARE DISMANTLE AND REASSEMBLE A THREE-CENTURY TIEFWASSERFILTRATION UNIT MADE BY ENGINESEER KASTOR KORRUUM?" Gwen sighed as the audience murmured their approval. As the Deepdowners said, the peanut-crunching audience did not think that a squid-brained Dwarf could employ apex-tier Dwarven blood-runes, and even if they did, the real knowledge of Deepholm isn't something so quickly usurped without accumulated effort over centuries. In only a few sentences, the pair had turned the silence against her. Such was the boon of having home ground. "You do not wish to remove your visor and prove your innocence?" Gwen said. "Then at best, infiltrators you are not, but traitors you still are. Your Klads are not off the hook yet, milords. Why did you prevent Hamoul from receiving resupplies? Why was Hilda left to her own device for months on end in Khorok Umgor? Why are you blaming us, who fought side-by-side with Hilda and Ebren, and not yourselves for her demise when you confessedly did 'nothing'?" "WE REFUTE THY ACCUSATIONS." Their twin iron bodies appeared immovable. "IN THESE HALLOWED HALLS, ONLY DEEPKIN MAY QUESTION DEEPKIN. AND NEVER A HUMAN. WHERE ART THOU EVIDENCE? OR ART THOU BUT PEDDLING HEARSAY AND DECEIT? ART THOU A PAWN OF THE SINNESLUKARE?" The nobles lent the Deepdowners their greedy ears, with more than a few broadcasting their open agreement. Their hopeful faces said that having Gwen's accusation turned against her was a breath of fresh air. Conversely, Gwen was happy that finally, she had gotten the Deepdowners to invest. "I think." She approached the pair but stopped short of facing them directly. "That even if you're unwilling to show your true faces, you should be willing to enter into our Bëldarak contract. Did you forget that I fought the Aberrants, purged their nests, rescued my men and secured Khorok Umgor only six hours ago? And you say I am a liar? If you're so guiltless, shouldn't you at least have the honour and the gall to commit to a vow? Even Brugal gave his name— what makes you better than anyone else here? Do they not deserve you? You who hail from the Cavern of Enlightenment?" Once more, the silence turned against her foes. Gwen knew that the Deepdowners would not take the oath. They were too slippery for that, and their natural position ensured that no Dwarf, not even the Guildmaster, could force them into such a contract of truth. With the stalemate dragging out, she figured prolonging the agony had lost all profitability. It was now time to strike for the jugular and put an end to the charade. "I see," she said. "Tentacles might have caught your tongues, but here's someone who does wish to have their grievances heard— Hanmoul? Bring forth our witnesses." Hanmoul ordered his Iron Born to spread out. From their number, two stepped forward, clanging onto the stage in their damaged Golem plates. At the Hammer Guards' behest, the crowd was forced back, leaving only Gwen, the Deepdowners, Whurforlüm and their two newcomers in the middle of the dais. Pssssssht— The first Golem armour released its torso and helmet, revealing the face of a youthful Dwarven woman still dressed in the dermal-layer of her Klad. The second armour showcased an older Dwarf, a venerable-looking fellow with white hair and a knotted beard in a shabby, loosely-hanging dermal-suit. The crowd was not familiar with either of their faces, but there was no mistaking their identity. Each Deepdowner, Gwen supposed, had their unique auras, ones that were unmistakable when put on full display. The fairer of the pair opened her hand and produced a Glyph for all to see. "Lady Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt!" Brugal's orbs appeared almost to remove themselves from his skull. "Lord Ebren!" Sounds of rushing fluid erupted from Zairic and Zethoag's Klads. "Milords Gul-Zūh," Hilda's tone hailed from the glacial caverns close to the Para-Elemental Plane of Ice. "Engineseer Thalmar sends his regards. Hanmoul!" _CLUNK—!_ Without delay, Hanmoul released the "corpse" of the Guardian Balefire, filling half the dais with the enormity of the unmoving Golem. The grand hall ceiling was a dozen meters in height, even so, the five-meter form of the dead Balefire appeared to fill the place from granite nadir to lumen-runed zenith. _Phsssst—Phsssst—Phsssst—_ From the sound of their hyperventilating suits, the brothers had finally lost their composure. Beside them, Brugal appeared as though he had lost his mind. "Clan and Kin!" Hilda refrained from using her vox-caster, relying instead on her sweet and feminine voice. "You know me— as I have been among you for the last three decades and more, stoking the crystals in the Hall of the Eternal Cog so that our glorious city burns as a bright beacon against the endless Murk." Hilda waited for her audience to quieten. Already, Gwen could see bodies belonging to vocal objectors attempting to retreat. A few even tried to exit the High Council Chamber, though the Guildmaster had given express orders to let none leave. When they hissed at the guards to move, the Hammer Guards' Spellblades hissed back. "Lord Thalmar…" Hilda's voice reverberated. "... Came for us. Valiant as he was in life, he fought with every mote of mana against the Aberrant horde. Yet, even with his indomitable spirit, the combined might of the swarm, together with the wicked mind sorcery of the Sinneslukare, proved too much. Even with the arrival of our Human friends and Commandrumm Hanmoul, the Murk Divers infected by the Aberrant brain-worms proved too wily and disruptive. While Ebren and I were besieged by their pallid bodies, the swarm was driven into an unholy frenzy, exhausting the hastily-forged Thalmar with their unholy sorcery." "What she said," Gwen finished up for her companion. "I am sorry I couldn't have done more, Hilda." Hilda shook her head, touched Gwen's gloved hand, then looked up to the brothers Gul-Zūh. "I do not know if both of thee art still Dwarves, Lord Keepers, but I know that you withheld my resources. I know that you delayed Hanmoul and that you're the reason this— all of this—" The female Deepdowner's voice grew suddenly firm and vengeful. "A HUNDRED DWARVES! Keepers Gul-Zūh! One HUNDRED gold-blooded Hammer Guards born of iron! Gone! Perished! Reduced to Murk meat by the Aberrants because two errant scholars coveted influence and power they should not have wielded to begin with!" The brothers' Klads continued to ventilate. They were in a room full of angry Dwarves, Gwen observed. Most importantly, they were in a room with her. Surely these Gul-Zūh folk weren't thinking of making a break for it? What would be the point? "THOU HAST NO PROOF…" came their vox-warped retort full of incoherence, grasping at Murk reeds to battle the sucking mud of despair. "Are my absent Hammer Guards not proof enough?" Hilda's voice was almost a feral snarl. "Is your support for this—" She pointed to Farron's rotting squid face. "— not enough?" She pointed to her and Ebren's Klad, even now sitting empty. "THEY KNEW THE RUNE GLYPHS TO UNLOCK OUR KLADS, GUL-ZŪH! Do you expect to tell me SOMEONE ELSE present could access the Hall of Records?! That there exists another Dwarf in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, a Deepdowner Keeper, who comes from Umgor èron Varèkan?" And that was it. Gwen unclenched her mind. That was the Maximised Lava Bomb. She had no idea how Hilda became un-Klad in the first place— but this tale they concocted was as good as a mithril-clad biblical revelation delivered straight from Hilda's mouth. "Ironførge!" Hilda turned to Whurforlüm, who had been awaiting this moment for the last hour. When finally she called on him, the old Dwarf visibly glowed with pleasure. "By the Lumen and the Runes of my Ancestors Hildenbrandt, Varekan and Kül, I proclaim a Decree of Exile against these two shameless ingrates, these unDwarven bookworms that may even now be calamari!" Whurforlüm rose to his full height, which wasn't very tall, albeit the Earthen mana radiating from the Guildmaster could probably levitate a nimble-bodied Àlf. "I CALL FOR A VOTE—" "NO NEED," Zethoag's voice cut across the Guildmaster's command. "WE CAN SEE THAT THOU HAST PLANNED THIS, LASS OF THE LUMEN. THOU SENIORS ART MOST DISAPPOINTED." "IF WE ART NOT WELCOME, THEN THE KEEPERS OF LORE SHALL LEAVE THE CITADEL AND RETURN TO UMGOR ÈRON VARÈKAN," spoke the other. "THERE NEED NOT BE BLOOD SPILT, FOR THE BLOOD OF KIN IS GOLD." The atmosphere visibly relaxed. Gwen sighed. So much for nixing the bud in-house. She looked to Hilda, whose expression remained unmoved and acknowledged that they would soon proceed to her auxiliary backup plan. It was an outcome she loathed— but that didn't mean she would shy away. Long ago, in as a dark and claustrophobic a place as the Murk, she had learned a hard lesson from Gunther. Her late Master as well had demonstrated the consequences of allowing sentimentality to fester until sepsis took his life. "BRUGAL." The brother did not abandon their fool. "MAKE WAY." Gwen watched, pregnant with hope that someone would throw a spell or stab one of the Deepdowners in an attempt to pry open their helmets. She was to be disappointed, for these were Dwarves. They were honourable, foolish and romantic, with reverence for the elderly and the wise hardwired like nerve stems into their cast-iron brains. Instead of anger, the mob watched in silence, their eyes full of shame. Notably, it wasn't shame heaped upon the Deepdowners and Brugal— but that they fell for lies and powerplays. In the aftermath, a hundred Dwarves or more were dead, as was an Eternal Soul, and if not for Humans, Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth would have lost Hilda and Ebren too. From the dais to the cog-driven doors, there was a path of a hundred metres. Gwen could imagine that for Brugal and his Clan, the slow-retreat must have felt like an eternity. Across from her, Hilda too sunk into her Golem armour, too emotional to speak, unable to swallow the self-loathing of lying to her people. Besides her, a kind Whurforlüm wisely repeated ancestral anecdotes in his calming radio operator's voice to soothe her toiling mind. _CLAK—CLAK—CLAK—CLAK—_ The exit doors rolled to either side. A troop of Iron Guards, soon to be joined by others, marched out in their Golem plates, Spellswords raised to expel the disgraced deceivers of Kin. Ebren stepped from the dais, said his peace, then left with the Hammer Guards, for somewhere out there was a Balefire Dreadnaught that needed coxing. Silently, Gwen retreated to stand beside her Human counterparts. "… That was…" Ollie licked his lips nervously. "Did you just start a coup?" "In China, we call it 'The People's Will'," Gwen drily replied. "Dickie would likely need to know all the details, after all, and you're the bringer of the good news." Ollie looked into her eyes then furrowed his brows. He was reading her, Gwen could see, and from the twisting grimace now distorting his face from relief to horror, she could see Second Secretary Edwards's hair-roots cry out in pain. "What? What is it? What else are you going to do? Please, Gwennie— not more trouble…" "No, not more trouble." Gwen looked at her crew, who stood and nodded. They were rested now, meditated and restored and ready to rumble. She patted the future Sir Oliver Edwards on the shoulder. "For Christ's sake, Gwen," Ollie pleaded. "What are you planning now? Where are you all going? Can we talk about this first?" "Don't worry. We're nixing trouble." Gwen's smile did not reach her eyes. "I am closing the deal I made with Hildy, Ollie. Tell Dickie to post Quests for survey teams and guards. After today, the Shard will have unfettered access to the Dyar Mokk from John o' Groats to Southsea."

Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. The Low Ways. In every Dwarven fortification, auxiliary pathways existed as a part of the Demi-human's philosophy of construction. Ironically, Gwen and her companions' route to reach the dim-Murk on the outskirts was the same one Thalmar had taken at the brothers Gul-Zūhs' behest, a transit involving rapid Teleportation Stations that resembled Dimension Doors, each with a range of a kilometre, and each hardwired through Glyph-wrought Runic nodes. "I can see where we got our ISTC inspirations," Gwen remarked to Hanmoul's cousin. "Ha! Yer Humans are good at 'borrowing' Spellcraft fer sure." Bumrorlim, who had volunteered as their guide, kept up a forced cheer. Though originally Gwen had wanted to perform her final act of cleansing alone, only Dwarves of a specific bloodline, possessing Glyphs of particular Clans, could utilise the auxiliary trail. As Hilda and Ebren had to wash their hands clean for what was to come and Hanmoul's position was too sensitive, Rori offered herself as their Judas goat. Once the party buffed up, summoned their Hounds and settled their Familiars, they waited for their guests. Gwen looked down the passageway, her eyes piercing the Murk until the tunnel angled away. The brothers Gul-Zūh would soon arrive— that was her gut feeling. Their ambush point was the only node by which they could safely access the Low-ways parallel to the now-defunct Dyar Morkk. An alternative for returning to the Caverns of Enlightenment would involve trudging through the Murk without an entourage, an unimaginable prospect for two scholars and a few exiled nobles. A quarter of an hour later, her victims lumbered into view. Together with the Gul-Zūh siblings walked the dejected form of Brugal Brumdahr and a small entourage of his relatives cast off by the Clan like a Murk lizard severing a bitten tail. None wore Golem plates, though almost all held onto Spellswords with their sweat-stained hands. The men's fine clothes, which they wore to the High Council meeting, were stained with dust and debris. Their flawless beards, which had been oiled and impeccably trimmed, struck out randomly, rebelling from the golden bands that kept thick strands in check. The Deepdowners among them hissed and clanked, moving with an air of exertion. The brothers' Klads, Hilda had specified, must be returned to her people or consigned to the Void; in either case, Rori would witness the act and report back as necessary. While the exiles approached, Gwen stifled her deep-seated feelings of discomfort for committing what any jury would agree to be premeditated murder. Each time a little worm of doubt began to gnaw at her conscience, she danced on the seedling to stymie her natural compassion. These are the monsters who would murder legions of their own for a little power, Gwen reminded herself. If she were a regular Evoker, like those Adventurer-Mages, she would now either be dead or brained via Mon Calamari. In a kinder world, the defeated may deserve compassion; presently, no good governed her actions, only pragmatism. Down in the dip under the tunnel's snaking ceiling, her victims stopped. Above them, burrowed in the transmuted stone, Caliban coiled its serpentine body, ready to strike. Gwen stood in the middle of the path, awaiting their arrival, a pale spectre of death, a lithe reaper in blue-white and blood-caked Shen-teī armour. "… Magus Song," Brugal's voice croaked. Gwen boldly measured each of her targets, her Void-tinged aura licking their Astral Souls with bouts of vertigo as invisible tentacle-tongues. Earlier, she had asked Rori if the Dwarves could avoid the Dyar Morkk. Rori replied that the Deepdowners could flee by turning the stone in any direction they liked, but how long could their mana last? Their Klads' offered powerful sorcerous effects unmatched even by Rock Smasher Golems, but that didn't mean they ignored the equivalent exchange of energy. Ten kilometres— twenty— that's how far they could dig. But then what? Break into the natural caverns in the Murk to battle flora and fauna? Dwarven expeditions rarely ventured from the Citadel without a resupply train and a Fabricator Engine with good reasons. That and Deepholm never lacked for Deepdowners, but that didn't prevent them from losing access to the Dyar Morkk. _Psssht—_ _Pssssssht—_ The sound of deep-breathing respirators filled the quiet air of the passage. Gwen steeled her resolve. "This can be quick." She splayed both hands, praying that the Dwarves would resign themselves to their fate. At the very least, she could give them painless dignity. "And you can return to the earth. Or this can be complicated." She felt sick hearing the words come out of her mouth. How was it that Gunther and Alesia did their duties untouched by weaknesses of the mind? Even with cause, her skull swarmed like a nest of duelling scorpions busting out of a rotten, fungi-infested log. Brugal's face grew three shades paler, as did the complexions of his Kin. With some desperation, he turned to Hanmoul's cousin. "Bumrorlim… yer—" The newly minted Captain of the Murk Divers shook her head. "Perish with honour, cousin Brugal. What ye and yer Kin has precipitated is Varadam. Why does yer expect compassion when yer little better than a howling Aberrant? When yer chose to stand with Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh, were yer not reminded that the lumen will always light the way?" How simple and how faultless, Gwen thought. Varadam— Un-Dwarven. Brugal and the Keepers were in the eyes of their Kin no longer "Dwarves", for a Dwarf would have known better than to send an Eternal Soul and a hundred Iron Born to a purposeless death, then lie to the High Council, then swear by the Ancestors. And if these are no longer Dwarves, then slaying them bore no more moral cost than crushing a Murk rat found thieving from the granary. Opposite, the Keepers appeared to have made up their minds. When faced with certain death, some chose acceptance. Others fought to the bitter end. Some acted only when it was too late. Such paradoxes marked the nature of higher-thinking beings. "OUR ALLIES WILT—" Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh made Brugal's choice for him. Before their final taunt even finished, an eruption of Void sorcery smothered the Dwarves. Phantasmal Forces from Gracie materialised as stabbing shadows to send the casters reeling, ignoring armour and defence, bypassing the Klads. Hold Monsters spells freed from Spellcubes by Petra reinforced the psyche-devouring illusions, holding the Deepdowners in place. Usurp ate up the ambient Earthen mana and half-manifested defence spells triggered from the Klads and the Spellswords. And from Gwen came a merciless, wide-area suppression— "Enervating Orb!" A miniature black sun dawned overhead amidst the Dwarves, draining away all life and vitality. Brugal and the unarmored nobles were the first to be reduced to pale cadavers. Comparatively, Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh stood in place, unable to move, fighting the spell with their Klads. Gwen ignored the mana sparking off their grotesque silhouettes and instead focused on increasing potency. When the unarmoured Dwarves died, she had felt a surge of vitality, but now her output far outpaced the drain. As anticipated, Enervating Orb was best against clumped, high-vital targets rather than against small numbers of elite units. Likewise, the penetrative impact of Enervating Orb against upper-tier targets was lacking. That said— "Enervating Orb!" A second black sun materialised beside the first. The vital drain remained unsatisfactory. "Enervating Orb!" A third joined the hovering twins. She could cast as many spheres of enervation as her mana and vitality allowed. Simultaneously, so long as the orbs remained in orbit, they were self-feeding or relied on her vital pool but otherwise required no concentration to control and manipulate. With three in place, the flow of life energies doubled. That's how magical resistance worked. Rather than a percentile diminishment, a creature's spell resistance was a linear reduction like armour. Once superseded, the target may as well be defenceless. The effort to maintain three orbs, however, was significant. "Duck." Richard patted her back after she had counted to twenty. "I am pretty sure they're dead. You pour any more Negative Energy onto them. The corpses are going to rise…" Gwen ceased her spell casting. She felt gutted and hollow, a symptom of overdrawn vitality, or so she told herself. Not far, Brugal and his fellows were now dry husks, so dry that Gwen wondered if their remains were brittle enough to break from toppling over. As for the Klads. "Richard, can you do it?" she coaxed Ariel near, then slumped against the Kirin, not wanting to look at her handy work any more than she needed. "I am a bit tired." "Sure." Richard took the lead. Petra arrived beside her and placed her arms around Gwen. "Let's go home after this, Gwennie. I think we all need to see some sun. Else we're going to go mad. I bet Dede misses you." Her other teammates agreed. Gwen buried her face in Ariel. She wanted to fall into her Kirin's fur and sleep like the dead until she was back in London. Whatever cleanup was left in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth would be the domain of Ollie. Richard approached the Klads with Bumrorlim, tasked to retrieve Klads once their occupants perished. After a few Glyph sequences, Zethoag's "unoccupied" Klad hissed open, spilling out its guts of tubing and white vital fluids. Inside the oversized Dive Klad, the shrivelled body of the Keeper appeared like a giant infant with an immensely disproportioned head, his limbs almost entirely atrophied by disuse. Tubing connecting to the dermal suit kept his torso suspended in the runny, embryonic liquid while mechanical components protruded from plugs railed into the shrivelled flesh. "… Jesus Christ." Richard gagged at the smell. "How come Hilda and Ebren aren't like this?" "They're not relying on the Klad to stay alive." Bumrorlim put on a rebreather unit. "You want to do the honours?" The Dwarf obliged. That was her duty. _Phsssssst!_ Bumrorlim pried open the helmet with a hiss, releasing the pressure and revealing the Deepdowner whole hog. "… Unexpected." Richard now felt glad that Gwen hadn't succeeded in making the Deepdowners show their faces back in the Citadel, for though Zethoag still had his head, with his beard either shaven or fallen out thanks to the liquid, the Dwarf resembled a pale Aberrant more so than his stout Kin. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. "No Sinneslukare…" Hanmoul's cousin emerged half-drenched in the milk-white gloop, one hand red with fresh gore from the corpse-husk. "Does this mean…" "That they're WILLINGLY working with the Sinneslukare?" Richard marvelled with a whistle and then placed a sympathetic hand on the Dwarf, holding the Iron Born steady. "Goodness. If this is the standard with your upper crust, then Deepholm— is fucked." Westminister. Norfolk's Office. "Mori" shivered with pleasure as she processed the reports flooding in from the Dwarf-controlled Murk. The majority of the missives were passed on from the Diplomacy Corp working under her Master. Others were from the Adventurers and the merchants operating in the Murk, detailing juicy tidbits about Cambridge's Void vixen, the limitless profit potential of the Dyar Morkk, and the grand meeting of the Citadels currently being planned in Bavaria. Suffice it to say, the Devourer of Shenyang had done it again. A dozen times, Morrigan had watched the lumen-recording Oliver Edwards had sent over, analysing every word, savouring every move the young woman made to corner the Dwarven nobility and their Deepdowner allies. What a fiery catalyst the girl continued to be! If Morrigan had met the sorceress a millennia ago, she would have desired the girl to be her Champion, and she, her Goddess of victory! The plots Gwen had revealed, exposed, kept for another day, and had yet to uncover were enough to make the Patroness of Secrets salivate. The Dwarves as well, though they were a race Morrigan had known since the dawn of Anno Domini, had demonstrated as much malicious political intrigue as their habitual abstractly hoarding of knowledge. And the Sinneslukare! A whole race shrouded in secrecy! What delicious morsels might they provide if they were to escape onto the surface? Not even Morrigan had a holistic understanding of the Far Planes. She wished that Gwen would remain in the Murk to oversee the final push into the Dyar Morkk, but Ravenport had capitulated to Lady Grey's wishes that Gwen returned to finish the trimester. It was a shame, but then again, on the other talon, the girl's return meant "Mori" the crow could once more woo the sorceress for her Essence, though she had to take care so that Ravenport wouldn't grow rebellious to her little experiment. Last time, when a simple "Mori" danced past the tip of Gwen's tongue, her Master had delved into a deep bout of suspicion, going as far as to invoke the old rites to make her speak. Under such astral bindings, Morrigan was incapable of lying and so confessed to all. "Mori" was contacting the girl to better spy on her. "Mori" knew the girl had a habit of talking to animals, particularly avians. "Mori" figured Gwen knew she was a Tower raven, so they may as well exercise transparency. "Mori" stated that a tiny droplet of Essence for a being like Morrigan was nothing, a gift less substantial than a tuft of hair plucked from a herd of oxen. That and she had other murders stalking Gwen in the dark, while "Mori" was merely a distraction. The more critical to the Mageocracy the girl became, the more eyes they needed on her, not so much to guard the girl but for preventing others from crossing her path. Likewise, if any agent with foreign designs would tempt their precious sorceress, Ravenport would be the first to receive a collection of freshly-plucked eyeballs. Did "Dickie" believe her? "Mori" decided on yes. Both her and Ravenport understood that while Morrigan was incapable of deceiving her contractor, their Faith-bond could not prevent her from withholding information on a contextual level, else the millions of messages entering the catacombs each year would explode a reigning Duke's head. Sighing, her Master allowed the matter to lapse, promising to review the case pending the usefulness of "Mori's" contact with Gwen. To invoke a modern idiom, the Duke of Norfolk had bigger fish to fry, such as the fact that the Devourer of Shenyang had once more changed the whole dynamic of a battlefront. In four days, she had soothed the Dwarves' protests, rescued the trapped Adventurers, rallied the Craftsmen and the Warrior Caste in supporting the Shard and opened up the Citadel's crafts to London's Grey Market. Most importantly, she had rescued the "good" Deepdowners. Then, she shucked two more out of their Klads like Oysters, not to mention lay waste to the Soul Core of a Balefire. Morrigan recalled that the Duke of Norfolk had become so shocked that his mana momentarily escaped his control, making his favourite porcelain cup so brittle as to shatter, spilling Earl Grey all over his documents. The cup was one of four in a Royal Albert set gifted to him by the Queen, and now the collection's flawless symmetry had gone the way of the Deepdowners. Compared to her overworked Master, Morrigan had sadistically savoured the colours flashing across Ravenport's stone-faced mien. Having known Mycroft since boyhood, she knew it wasn't every day that the unflappable Lord Marshall had to stop processing documents and pour himself a stiff tumbler of Macallan Highland single malt. The last time her Master had inhaled a glass alone in the dark was when the Red Dragon tore through Paddington after ripping a troop of Griffin Guards to shreds. As for now, a hundred and one things required his attention. "Morrigan—" Across the table, the Duke flourished his confirmation signatures over and over again across a dozen levitating data slates. "Send these to the Shard. Tell Simmons to prime the Teleportation Circle." "Where to, milord?" Morrigan was very obedient these days. "Buckingham," her Master replied. "Ser Douglas and I have an appointment." "Is this about Magus Song?" Morrigan asked. "It is." The Duke did not withhold his thoughts. "The reward this time will be substantial." Morrigan pursed her lips. _Bind the girl?_ The Ex-Goddess of Secrets chortled. Could London afford a second Isle of Dogs to give? While divinely ordained forces debated the nature of suitable rewards, the svelte source of the city's hypertension lounged on the Duck Pond lawn, enjoying the evergreen enchantment built into its surroundings. Presently, the Devourer-in-residence rested against the feathered breast of a docile Dede defenceless on the dew-laden turf, watching Lumen recordings. Whenever students passed, they would politely skirt the domain of the indomitable duck. Freshmen would ask, "who is that?" To which College Seniors would tsk and say, "This is she! The Master of the Duck! Newly returned from the Murk!" The newer students would then gulp and acknowledge their place in the food chain, leaving their HDM tithe under a glimmering bush already laden with crystals. As for Gwen, she had decided to delve into work and education to banish her lingering feelings about murdering in the Murk. In another world, she might have managed with an electronic miracle of a device, watching minute-long videos of men and women making a fool of themselves in hopes of becoming "viral". In this world, she alleviated her disquiet by budgeting for the Isle of Dogs and revising her end-of-Michaelmas examinations. Not that she needed it, for three of her first-year Magisterial courses were a cake-walk. For Foundations of Politics and International Relations, all she had to do was compose essays based on real-world exemplars of dilemmas currently facing the Mageocracy. As the whole paper favoured speculation, she should have no issues bullshitting her way through to a High Distinction. Likewise, Contemporary Issues in Government and Frontier Governance, and Politics, Peace and Persistent Prosperity required students to give in-person presentations, a skill that she already mastered. For her work, she chose to exercise a proposal for developing the Dwarven Frontier— unsurprisingly the definitive "Hot Topic" in London's Mage circles. The one subject she lacked in confidence in was Advanced Astral Theory and History, the foundational course for Stage II Metamagical Dynamics and Advanced Metaphysical Manifestations, both compulsory courses she needed to complete her higher learning next year, after which a "normal" Magus or Magister candidate had to pick a specialisation. From Maxwell's informative blabbering, Gwen gathered that upper-tier Mages slipped into specialisation based on the number of Schools of Magic they mastered, as well as their Affinity with each School. Evokers specialising in Thermodynamic Mana Theory, for example, had the choice of joining rare Cabals attempting to master Climate Control. Abjurers with Schools in Transmutation and investments in either Enchantment, Evocation or Divination gravitated toward Planar-Spatial Engineering. Conjurers who wanted to fortify a complete understanding of transposing matter took up Astral Trans-Planar Dynamics. Enchanters tapped into Transmutation, Evocation or Abjurations could alternatively take up civil and industrial applications in Civil Sorcery and Quasi-Magical Materials. Ones with interest in Heavy Industry such as Golem-crafting took up programs like Dwarven Magi-tech and Mechatronic Applications. With her powerful Omni-Magic and her proportionally woeful knowledge of Spellcraft theory, Gwen was suitable for precisely none of those limit-testing courseworks. As each mastery consumed between one and three decades. Compared to career scholars, she just wanted her qualifications to make substantial changes to the world around her. For a "Political Candidate" like herself, Maxwell Brown, her career advisor and Supervisor, suggested participation in real-world excursions. With her successful subversion of the Dwarven situation, the Shard, Ravenport's Department of Foreign Affairs and Oxbridge had officially recognised her uncanny ability to swing stalemates into stunning successes for the Mageocracy. Hers was a talent that ventured beyond conventional Spellcraft, they said; the Tower Master who wastes nothing wants not. To misapply such a sorceress on Spellcraft that any Magister with enough time, talent, and resource could obtain would be a tremendous waste. Instead, in the quoted praise of Lord Magister Seamus Burbank Hammond, Tower Master of London, Gwen was, "A lass with a true talent for the push and pull of diplomatic tango, leading the Mageocracy and its allies toward mutual profit." As there existed no higher praise from a man with so much sway in London's academic circles, the statement had graced the front page of every paper from the Sun to the METRO, framing an image of Gwen in her blood-stained Shen-Teī. In Oxbridge's opinion, therefore, there was no better test for Gwen's subsequent years than experience and practice so that she could attain her self-professed goals faster. The girl's spell-damage potential was already at an eye-watering tier; what they desired now the mental fortitude to apply faultless governance. "A year ago, we had all thought your adventure in Burma was a fluke." Maxwell had been very enthused by her return and her growing infamy. "And later, the Dwarven city as well. But now, you've tapped us into the Murk! Bloody hell! I, for one, will be the first to sign any application for extracurricular excursions, assuming you complete your accelerated theory work, of course." When she asked, Maxwell implied that Gwen would be invited to participate in Frontier governance, pending her accolades from the Lent and Easter terms. Since the Spellcraft revolution, Oxbridge and Royal Imperial's affiliated Magisters had operated on a tenure system where Magister candidates travelled to various Frontiers to gather data, train local Mages, act as government auditors, or perform civil or military maintenance. To volunteer on such "Quests" marked the beginning of the "Magister's Path". "Enlighten me," she had asked her guidance counsellor. "What's on the menu?" "There's an ongoing civil war in the Niger Delta the Shard is struggling to mediate," Maxwell had said after taking a minute to tally the Shard's latest international atrocities. "As per the Mageocracy's foreign policy, we're on the side of the losing side." "Ah—" Gwen nodded, for this was nothing but history repeating. "I take it the losers are losing a little too hard?" "… very astute." Maxwell smiled, appearing to affirm his bias of her innate gift for foreign relations. "Indeed. We're pushing more resources in than we're getting out." "Sounds straightforward enough. What else?" "Mermen problems. This one's stuck around like rotting fish. I heard you were involved in one of the reports? There's talk they worship the 'Pale Priestess'." "You mean the freighter Gunther returned?" "Yes, in the South China Sea." Maxwell nodded. "Interesting pot of trouble brewing over there. Singapore's fleets are suffering a not-insignificant loss of transports, meaning they're forced to hire superstructural vessels from Denmark at reduced margins. Meanwhile, whatever this cult is, it's developing quietly out of control. We're seeing the Shoals as far as the Australian west coast and up to the Sea of Okhotsk. I don't know if there's any correlation, but the entire South-East Asian region has a SPAM shortage. The world's getting stranger, that's for sure." Gwen considered her likeness that the Mermen privateers had pirated. Ruì had continued the contract with Homel Foods to use her likeness for SPAM. Supposedly, this year's IIUC for China had straight-away returned to the dark days of grinding through the preliminaries via tears and blood. The pyrrhic victory was such agony to watch that citizens preferred propaganda reruns, bringing a new bout of recognition to the team and especially Lulan, who had all but disappeared from the public eye. "Alternatively, if you want to try your hand at governance, Meister Bekker over at London Imperial will be taking Mage Flights to the Northern Steppes with your friend Jean-Paul," Maxwell spoke with sudden recollection. "There's a whole string of chaos whipping up within the southern Elementals Sultanates that's driving the Hoof-folk nuts. Very foreboding, even if we have no idea what they're up to or what the Americans stirred up this time." "I thought Centaur-folk ran the Steppes?" Gwen recalled Richard had written a paper on the continued chaos in the region. In the Mongol days, the Demi-human Centaurs had an iron-age empire spanning continents. Pre-beast tide, the Mageocracy that replaced it possessed Protectorates stretching from the Red Sea to the Elemental Sea and from the Mediterranean to the Bay of Frost and Fire. Post-Tide, the Mageocracy was left with only trading stations eking out a living collecting whatever the Elemental Sultans of the Fire Sea were willing to trade. Were it not for the Djinns' preferences for warring among "worthy" threats such as their Kin; their sudden emergence would have cowed every terrestrial race. " _Neigh_ , the glory days of their Khaganate are centuries past." Maxwell had bitten back a smile. "Back then, they fought their own, they fought us, and they fought the Wildlands. Considering how reliant we were on physical walls and a handful of Mages holding up each city, it's no surprise their empire stretched from the South China Sea to the holy seat of Istanbul. These days, not much has changed— better food and water, more resilient animal husbandry and magical arms perhaps, but think about the foes they now face: Undead spilling through from Northern China, Bloodsuckers filtering through Lower Eastern Europe, Elementals flooding over from the Fire Sea, AND us, pulling their hind legs." "Did you just..." Gwen could have sworn the cheeky Magister had tried to Dad-pun her. "Their entire region's full of untapped Crystal veins, precious gems and minerals, rare earth metals, magical flora and fauna and everything in between," Maxwell explained. "Our success, Magus Song, implies enough materials to build a second London." "Well then..." Gwen recalled grinning at her instructor, the tip of her pink tongue quickly dabbing her lips. "That sounds like a good place to start a Tower Fund…" "Ha!" Her Supervisor had laughed. "So, which one do you fancy?" "You forget who you're talking to—" Gwen recalled snorting hot air at her instructor. "If this is a multiple-choice question, Max, then I choose D."

"Our Drakaina has returned to her cavern." Eric Walken's smarmy grin made Gwen briefly think of the man she had initially encountered in Sydney. These days though, her Executive Officer's smugness was a part of his confidence and charm. Besides them, the always handsome Dominic Lorenzo chortled, nursing his Maotai. This late at the "Bunker", most of the employees had left, leaving Gwen with her two most trusted lieutenants to traffic in her study of London's intrigues. With the loan on their Fabricator unit and its crew now extended for at least two more years, Gwen grew once more confident of Phase III's profitability. As for the request she had prior left with Walken, evidence gathering and sly testimonials from assured NoMs took time, especially if the IoDRP desired to excavate a slippery Sarlacc pit of litigation for their opponents. That said, the Militants' thieving vermin claws had dug more than skin deep into her fundraising project, breaking the skin and tapping into her golden veins. As a famed financier who usually did the marrow-sucking herself, she felt personally assaulted. "They've accumulated properties worth 247,231 HDMs?" Gwen's teeth felt like she had tried to bite Golos, especially after reading the interim report. "You know, regimes have fallen for far less." "I am worried less about money and more about open opposition to the Exeters," Walken said. "A quarter of the METRO's annual turnover should cover our losses. That or since the Dwarves are staying with us, we can expect to cut construction costs by one-third." "The total tally involves seventy-eight parties with various leases and holdings," Lorenzo explained. "There ARE legitimate sales mixed in with the bad faith trades. Block 21-C to 27-D had leaseholds belonging to a lesser aristocrat. 44E and 11C, respectively, are owned by family members of the House of Lords. It's the smaller, single-block leaseholds that are most under threat. The ones that have been here for generations." Gwen scanned the map behind Walken. "That's a huge lot. Enough for a shopping mall or six multi-storey apartment-hotels. Is it those Barlow fellers again?" "Yes," Walken said. "Or the Barlow Trade Consortium, if we go by the Grey Market." Gwen furrowed her brows. "I assume that's the same schmucks who own Canary Wharf upstream? The ones refusing to dough out the METRO at their outdated trade hub? The same one who expelled our NoM paper-handlers?" "The very same." Walken tapped the table. "They're an old nemesis— particularly if we assume they started paying attention to you from the incident at Lady Astors. Whether intentionally or otherwise, you've stiletto-heeled their toes more than once." "Enlighten me." Gwen crossed her legs. "They're in the property business, the newspaper business, the train and tram business, the transport business, the print business..." "... Fair enough," Gwen concurred. "So, we're mortal enemies. But Le Guevel never mentioned a Barlow Group in her lectures." Lorenzo was ready for her enquiry. "The executors of the 'The Barlow Consortium' is a collective formed by London's militant-inclined industrialists. Magus Le Guevel didn't mention them because their officers are not aristocracy; some aren't even Mages. They service their betters, who provide them with backing and muscle. The Duke of Exeter and his ilk act as a figurehead, among others. As for their origin— Gwen, are you familiar with Henry of Monmouth?" A year ago, Gwen would have known nothing. Thanks to Le Guevel and Lady Grey, her tier of royal trivia was now on par, with supplementary rumours, insights, analysis and evaluations to boot. "The 'Argent' King," Gwen repeated from Holinshed's Chronicles of English Propaganda. "England's Gloria, the 15th-century predecessor of Gloriana, He of all Humours, Hal the Omni-Mage, Fifth of his Name, King of France and England, Wales and Scotland." "Just Henry V will do." Lorenzo gave her a thumbs up. "Do you like titles? O MVP of the IIUC, Devourer of Shenyang, CEO of the IoDRP, She who Rides the Beast of Many Heads, the Woman who is the Great city, which reigns over the Kings of the Earth..." Walken burst out in laughter, after which Gwen got the joke. "Oi! You're bruising for a cruising, mate!" Lorenzo didn't dodge her punch. Luckily, Gwen was no longer possessed of her Draconic strength; else, he would have made a Lorenzo-shaped exit through the rune-reinforced concrete. "If there's one thing that links the Militants, it's the Lancastrian line," Lorenzo continued, controlling his mirth. "As you should know, Her Majesty hails from the Saxe-Coburg and Gotha bloodline, a fact that has irked the purists since the Hanovers took the Crown during the beginning of the 18th century, ending with Eternal Victoriana." "Ah yes, the three surviving Royal families." Gwen nodded. "I've heard of this. But what does this have to do with the Barlows?" "The Lancastrians are historically the purist branch of true 'English' Monarchs, at least in their eyes. They hail from the Plantagenet's mystically potent blood. They claim all heirs hitherto from Monmouth to Elizabeth, the formative period of England's pacification of the Demi-humans Wildlands. For the Barlow Consortium, membership is exclusive to those with blood-ties. To us commoners, the very idea is absurd, but the Lancastrians possess both the sorcery and means to take advantage of the Mageocracy's long recovery. Their encroaching on the Isle is one such example." "Ah—" Gwen understood the underlying politics between the nobles' faction-within-factions immediately. "Do they have anyone worth their salt in a fight?" "At least a dozen," Lorenzo warned her. "You know your Exeters, and they are closely tied to Scotland's Tower of the Magi as well." "Your talent gives them all the more reason to hate your guts." Walken laughed. "Henry of Monmouth was an Omni-Mage, so the Lancastrians boast. One would imagine they've been breeding like Lady Grey's bloodhounds to try and reproduce the right combination passed on by their progenitor. Imagine the existential chaos in their Cabal's upper ranks when you showed up wielding every School of Magic, Lightning and Void and the ability to rally Dwarves and whisper Elves." "... you forget investing with Dragons," Gwen added. Walken and Lorenzo shot her disgusted looks, deriding her smug Lightning Affinity. She shrugged. "So what's their stake? Sounds to me like they want in on the developer's buffet?" "Who wouldn't?" Walken walked over to the map behind Lorenzo. "See here— Canary Wharf, C21, D34, F23, G22... they've acquired ownership over these portions." "Minor Image!" Gwen helpfully tossed up a few Illusions to overlay the map, aiding Lorenzo's fingers. "… Well done," Lorenzo praised her. "Yes, the red parts. While we're here, these portions, including Mudchute and the lower portion of Cubitt Town, belong to Lady Grey as freeholds, while the IoDRP owns these." Gwen added the shades of blue. Cobalt freeholds meant the title-owner possessed the land. It differed from the teal leaseholds, where the tenant owned an apartment or a serviced unit, but not the land. "Thanks to Lady Grey's good governance, these are all her leaseholds." Lorenzo pointed to the gaps. "But here and there, D12, D17, E12, B12-21 are leaseholds owned by independents, among others." Gwen added purple and green. The resultant quilt-work of ownership made their foe's plans self-evident. "Ah— so that's what our industrious little rats are after..." She could see that if the Barlow Group had taken Millharbour and South Quay. With these properties, they could add secondary overland rail and ferry stations to rival the IoDRP and occupy one-third of the waterfront space to become a commercial centre within her commercial district. In another world, this would be the free market doing its thing. In this world, she alone was responsible for terraforming upended river dredgings into HDMs. Thereby, every percentile of return from now and into the future belonged to herself and her investors, more so if she wanted to attract more than one local-lizard to serve on her Board of Directors. That final detail was pivotal for Legion. How dare they steal from a Dragon's maw? Gwen fumed. Did the Barlow Group not know that pilfering profit was no less than slaying one's lover? They might as well try to murder Evee! "I think I understand your position." Walken read her like a young adult light-RPG fiction. "We will figure out how to best prevent their next phase from taking place." Prevention? Gwen shook her head. Fuck prevention. You can stop a thief for a day, but how do you mitigate the risk forever? There was bound to be ways to screw over the IoDRP if their foes kept trying. What she coveted was their thieving hand on a silver platter. Gwen pondered the map, her mind furiously brewing up the economic equivalent of Void-induced ultraviolence. When her brain brushed over the miniature-scale models of their phase III apartments, malicious and maleficient thoughts of malpractice materialised. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. "What were our phase II construction stage outgoings? How about III?" "On paper? Mid Six-hundred thousand HDMs," Walken said. "But that's with support from the Great London Metropolitan Office. Phase III's gamble is our own, early estimates, even with the Fabricators in place, is close to two million." "Any debts on our balance sheets?" "None. Lady Astor, Lady Grey, Duchess Rothwell, and the Duke of Norfolk have all chosen to reinvest their dividends." Gwen rolled her eyes. Dickie was making money off her sweat and blood, and he still wanted her to tour the Elves? The man had better give her the show of a lifetime when the time came to fleece the Lancastrian nobles. "Just for the afflicted area, what's our projected five-year return?" "Including rentals, taking into account inflation and land speculation, about nine to twelve million HDMs," Walken replied with relish. "Enough to keep a fully-staffed Siege Tower fighting for a month. You're not thinking of sponsoring the Shard for an invasion, are you?" Gwen's eyes grew cold. "If the Barlow Group takes that shoreline and builds cheap apartments, they're going to undercut our prices. Conversely, if they built high, our leases will see stiff competition. All that is going to hit our bottom line, hard. That means we might have to delay phase IV." Phase IV being "Legion", a bottomless Crystal pit, but one she knew would bring tangible change to the life of Humans and Demi-humans everywhere. And goodwill. And endless, boundless profit. Unlike Gunther, if she was to have a Tower, she had no desire to be short-changed by politics, funding, and lack of talent. All of her Tower's future obstacles would be solved by bashing HDMs at problems until they begged for mercy. In this world, she would be Carlos Slim, Mukesh Ambani and or Masayoshi Son. None began in telecommunication, but their golden billions would have been unachievable without investing in an industry with explosive growth. But for her gamble to succeed, she had to have secondary industries feeding her primary monopoly, a stratagem well proven by companies like Samsung, Viacom and Intel. For primary infrastructure, the rules of investment were inversed. More capital. Greater scale. Less risk. For "the masses" mitigated the potential of catastrophic collapse. The more coverage, the more customers, the more clients, the more assured the company's capital base. And likewise, the more likely the government had to step in. As for the IoDRP's landholdings— she didn't expect to become a real estate Baron. "Land" was always a tricky investment. There were too many competitors, and someone was bound to be willing to bet their life while she wasn't. And like she discussed with Mia, Marong and Ruxin, "Legion" needed obscene volumes of HDMs, enough to pay for research and development, land acquisition, hardware and software, storefronts, multiple headquarters on par with Frontier Towers sans offensive capabilities, and thousands of staff in every region they conquered. Or at the very least, she needed enough collateral to borrow that much money from mutually-interested parties, such as the Shard, or the Crown, or the city of "insert metropolis here", or the Mageocracy. And the Barlow Group was standing in her way. Which meant it was standing in the way of history. "I recall you said the Militants are short on funds," Gwen said. "Is that still true?" "With the Niger Delta and the Steppes as they are," Walken answered. "I doubt they are shipping back anything worthwhile." Upon hearing such familiar places, Gwen told Walken of Maxwell's suggestion that she furthered her studies through practicals and fieldwork, further fortifying her credibility. "Magister Brown's not wrong." Her executive officer rubbed his chin. "We know you're an Omni-Mage, but I doubt anyone's expecting you to be the variant whose academic depth could bring about advances like Superstructural Mandalas. You're on good terms with Jean-Paul as well— I don't see why Meister Bekker would refuse to tutor you together with her pet. If anything, I can see her being very keen on it." Angie's father wiggled his brows. "The boy's not a looker, but..." "I don't think Jean-Paul and I are going to be like that," Gwen cautioned her Magister. "He's even given up on Gracie, now that she's not going to expire anytime soon." "Why so controlling if you're not keen?" Walken gave her a strange look. "What does it matter to you what they do?" "Did we forget Sobel?" Gwen huffed. "Why she went mad?" Walken said nothing else and instead drank his tea. "So, the Lancastrians. Shall I take care of them while you gallop around the world, saving the Mageocracy from one financial disaster after another?" "That's my curse," Gwen returned to their original topic. "So how are the Lancastrians sourcing their funds? State banks, private entities? Stealing from the treasury?" "All of the above. The Royal Reserve holds a certain volume that it issues as military bonds. The Bank of England under the Crown is generous to its frontline aristocracy. And many of the Lancastrians sit on the board of old companies. Their liquidity comes from the Hong Kong Shanghai Banking Conglomerate, who also acts as the central currency exchequer for the Frontiers." She pondered the new information. "Assuming we catch them red-handed and Dickie puts his weight behind us," she said. "How many contracts can be voided?" "About forty thousand. Enough to hurt." A negligible volume that wasn't enough to even bruise. Gwen returned her eyes to the multi-coloured map. "How about…" she paused. "I don't know about the legality here, but the Barlow Group borrowing money means they have to return interest. This month, the Royal Reserve is at 4.72%, correct?" "That's right." "Naturally, they're not going to need to borrow to buy properties from the NoMs but to demolish, rebuild and furnish these waterfront properties. They'll need at least as much HDMs as us, if not more." "Certainly, since they lack both Fabricators and Dwarven engineers. Even if they tap into the Royal Engineers, that's still Human-made equipment. Their Mages and Golems will eventually get the job done, but they won't be as swift or efficient as our construction team. At best, it's a seven-year project for them." Gwen rested her eyes while crunching the numbers. When she opened her eyes again, her compatriots shivered at the inner light of greed glimmering within her amber-green orbs. "Right. Here's what we'll do." She turned to Lorenzo. "Keep gathering evidence. Leak a headline now and then between the next phase of our plan. As long as you've got the facts straight, snitch like a mad bitch. They're sure to come knocking, then keep evidence of their coercion of the METRO as well. If they cross the line, get the Dwarves to hold the fort. I'd love to see what Her Majesty and her Shard has to say if greedy merchants try to destabilise a major infrastructural project that'll bring back the glory days of the Mageocracy's trade channels. If they even bruise one of our Demi-human allies, then we've profited." "Right." She turned to Walken. "Eric, find out as much as you can of the Barlow folks' financial situation. Most importantly, who they borrowed from and how much." "Alright, and?" Gwen grinned. "I'll speak to Lady Grey and Lady Astor. After phase III, we'll play it safe and keep a high volume of liquid capital, at least around a million HDMs of float. I can draw from my Dragon bank if the IoDRP reserves fall short." "Why delay?" Walken furrowed his browns. "Don't you want to race the Barlow group? If we can sell our units before their's complete…" "Hee hee hee." Gwen's teeth glinted in the dusky light of Walken's ornate office. "They're building with borrowed funds, meaning there's an obligation to reimburse HSBC after a specified period. If they're unable to, there's not only the usual usury but compounded additional interest for breach of contract. Correct?" "One may assume so. Business is business." "Good. Then what if the Barlow Group purchases the land, demolishes the homes and the workshops, invest north of a million HDMs into their new project, only to be exposed that they robbed the poor and tried to destabilise the Mageocracy?" Both Lorenzo and Walken opened their mouths. "I don't think that'll stop them," Lorenzo replied with an eye on reality. "Who said I want to stop them?" Gwen snorted. "I want to DELAY the construction. The folk they ripped off deserve justice!" "Justice?" Walken did not believe a single word passing between her pouty lips. "Of course. I almost forgot your primary motivation." "Who am I to argue with the METRO that will print the same developing story week after week and with evidence? Not only that, I want you to look into their other business dealings. Ask the Cabal if you have to; God knows they owe us one." Lorenzo's breath grew heavy. "I want you to put down headlines like 'Barlow Bankrupt yet another Victim' and accuse their vertical corporations of the same double-dealing. Delay their construction schedule for six months, a year, as long as you're able." "That's going to drive the Lancastrians up the wall for sure." Walken touched a hand to his heart. "Good God, Gwen, you're a piece of work." "We're not even in the first circle of hell!" Gwen gave Walken a look that said she was disappointed by his lack of vicious ambition. The two men fell silent once more as cold sweat drenched their backs. "Once there's enough fear and instability and delay," she continued with complete confidence. "I want you to approach HSBC and whoever holds Barlow's trading identities." Walken's eyes grew glassy. "Jesus…" "Jesus might not save them," Gwen said. "But I will. When their investors start to sweat, I want you to buy their bad debts at a discount. Push the price down as far as you can. If they're desperate, I think half-price for insolvent loans that are unlikely ever to see returns would satisfy their lenders. If the Barlow Consortium panics beforehand and their members pull out— we might be able to buy-in at one-tenth the cost." ".. and then?" Lorenzo was slower than Walken to comprehend her economic buccaneering. "… and then we litigate to put down the Barlow Group like Atticus Magic Missiling a rabid Corpse Hound." She carelessly let loose an allusion to her novel. "After which we'll drink up all their holdings in the Isle of Dogs, or depending on their corporate structure, force them to declare bankruptcy. If they're smart, they'll trade their controlling shares— not that their shares will be worth anything by then. Once we have enough to subvert the Board of Directors, we'll strip them for parts, dissolve the unprofitable divisions and vortex up the rest. I don't mind shares in the Sun Herald. Do you?" Walken pursed his lips in thought. "If you get to that point, they're bound to come for blood. Will you be ready?" "I am the Devourer of Shenyang. I brought the Dyar Morkk to Dickie. He's going to be my shield, or I tell Hildy and Ebs they should think twice about the reliability of their allies. Tell you what, we'll extend an olive branch to HSBC or whomever when the time comes as well. That'll put the stake in their coffin." "Fair enough." Lorenzo scratched his stubble-strewn chin; the man's eyes scanned their crystal-mad witch from her bouncing hair to her dainty little heels. "… just like that?" he said after a moment, still in shock. "This is the Barlow Group! The money bag for the Militants! A Lancastrian Consortium!" "Yeah. Just like that," Gwen said without hesitation. "When you mess with the Devourer, you get the Caliban up your snoot." Walken winced. Somewhere, a Wyvern clenched his cheeks. "Isn't all this a bit too…easy?" "Why should it be hard?" Gwen retorted. "We spent time and money and capital to develop the Isle of Dogs. Then we reinvested our profit. Thanks to our Dwarven engineers, we're as stable as a Pyramidal Necropolis. They're borrowing money to steal from our citizens, to snatch the meat from our jaws! Why shouldn't we bite back? When they have no foundation to fall back on, why shouldn't they fall like a troop of Gobs trying to block a Rock Smasher?" "Alright, alright." Walken backed away defensively. "Lorenzo, never anger our Void Drakaina." Lorenzo disguised his discomfort with empty laughter. "One more thing." Gwen figured she might as well save some time. "Yes?" "You said the Exeters and the Barlow folk are invested in this Elemental Fire Sea Sultanate Northen Steppe Centaur ordeal, right?" "The Militant Faction is." Both men drew back a cold breath of suddenly chilling air, though Walken understood her immediately. "Gwen, you're not thinking..." "Of course I am." Gwen skulled her glass with one swig, then exhaled fragrantly in the direction of their faces. "Haven't you heard the adage? Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned; nor hell a fury like profits pilfered…"

Gwen's Michaelmas exams came and went. Due to her direct involvement in the Dwarven intervention, her various "Murk" showcases met with resounding applause. Her Almudj-enhanced memory, a talent usually reserved for strangers and grudges, proved enough to hit the Distinction range for Astral Theory. However, as she added nothing inspiring to her meticulously regurgitated notes, Gwen barely scraped the D. Nonetheless, she was glad for the taxing work, as the repression from her black-handed murder grew muddled as she mired her mind with academia, IoDRP statements and future intrigues for January. Now, with Christmas and 2006 so close, it was time for family. On advice from Lady Grey, Gwen gathered Elvia, Richard, Petra, Jean-Paul and Gracie to grace the historic manor owned by Lady Astor. The offer had come from the Lady herself, who, as a vital IoDRP stockholder, expressed the desire for Gwen's goodwill and that she dearly missed Evee, a sentiment shared by both women. At the Lady's generous behest, Ferrier's Cottage, a recently renovated, pre-Tudor stand-alone structure quietly sitting by the Thames, had been made available to Gwen and her company for the week, inclusive of a luxury barge and a team of cooks and servants hand-picked from the main house's retinue. As for the Lady herself, she would receive Gwen and her companions on Christmas eve in a grand ball. Both before and after, they were free to use Cliveden until real-world business once more required their presence. Before the boon, Gwen had thought to take an ISTC hop back to Sydney or Shanghai. But considering Astor's invitation and her intimate "family" close at hand, she settled on being pampered at home. "I'll visit the Elves in January..." she promised herself, eyeing the days left in her remaining calendar. "With their long-lives, the knife-ears could surely afford more patience. As for her upcoming week, she had research to conduct and an Elvia to visit. Hastings. Battle Abbey. Elvia Lindholm, Knight Companion Elect, tensed every muscle in her body as the Devourer enveloped her with outstretched arms, her body language resembling Spider-ban's maw. "E-E-Eveeeee—!" The Void Witch of Cambridge enfolded her petite figure with both arms, her smooth cheeks pushing against Elvia's own as she lifted her off her feet. "Oh, how I've missed you." Elvia buried her face in Gwen's bosoms, drinking in the familiar scent. With her Draconic senses, she could taste the pulsing seed of Divinity within her companion's Astral Body, knowing her friend had grown yet again after usurping monsters in the Murk. Having not seen each other for so long, she allowed Gwen's hands to meander. "You've grown stronger!" Gwen remarked after squeezing her arms, which now possessed some definition to go with the bones. Simultaneously, her companion waved an unenthused hand at Mathias, who looked on like a pup whose master had gotten a new boyfriend. "...And taller!" Gwen marvelled. "But then again, so much has happened, and it has only been a year, Evee. Can you believe it?" Elvia could. It was precisely in the same week of December one year ago that Gwen had arrived in England and collected her from Mathias' thankless quest in Merthyr Tydfil. There, Gwen had accidentally saved Hanmoul, berated Mathias, Purged a Troll Warren, then set in motion what would catalyse the Mageocracy's bugle-blaring march into the Dyar Morkk. For any other nineteen-year-old, Gwen's feats would enter the realm of mythoi. For the Gwen in Elvia's heart, it was just another Monday. With an arm wrapped around the tall sorceress' waspish waist, Elvia considered her friend with whom she had spent ten days cheek to cheek and then the major part of a year apart. If Gwen's observation was that her "Evee" had changed— then Elvia could only say that Gwen had changed even more. In her eyes, Gwen now displayed a commanding presence that only elders like Seneschal Ashburn or her teacher, the Rectrix Theodora St. Claire, readily possessed. It was the confidence and aura, Elvia discerned, of an administrator whose word and will could at a thought, sent hundreds of families, both Humans and Demi-humans, to heaven or hell. "How fared Northern Ireland?" Gwen continued off from their last conversation months ago. Elvia's smile froze for a split-second. "It was rough." Rough was not a word that could begin to describe the Fomorian's annual Wild Hunt in the Prime Material. Yet, Elvia chose to downplay the hardship, for she had no wish for her friend to once more descend into righteous madness, at least not before Tianjin came to pass. Still holding her hand, Gwen turned to Mathias. "Mattie? What happened in Northern Ireland?" "The Fomorians were out in force. We drove them back, but they got what they came for." Mathias' response was far less considerate. Still, she couldn't blame her bodyguard, for where the Knight possessed the pride and enthusiasm of a prancing pony a year ago, recent events had rapidly repressed his optimism. In a way, both she and Mathias had the Fomorians to thank for their rapid acquisition of perspective. "But that's a story for another time. This way, please, the Rectrix is waiting." "Come on, Gwennie." Elvia relished the secret thrill of once more calling Gwen's nickname. In the Northern Ireland campaign, were it not for the Yinglong's blessing and Sen-sen's outrageous combat multiplier, she would have been Evee-napped and taken to the sacred soil of the Tuatha Dé Dannan to serve some nefarious purpose. Still holding one another's hand and scandalising the passersby guards and trainees, their party passed under the imposing gate of Battle, its portcullis built for its namesake. Inside were several cloisters that resembled the ones in Rosebay, through which they reached a courtyard with a half-moon garden and a gazebo, in the shade of which stood Theodora St. Claire, former Duchess of Beaufort and Somerset, grandmother to Emily Greyson Rothwell, and Elvia's warden. On the roof of the pavilion sat an inch of December snow. Yet all around the structure grew a profusion of multi-coloured flowers. "Kiki, Sen-sen." Elvia released her Familiars into the evergreen garden, for it was due to her Familiars that the mortal plants repelled the winter's ravages. "Ariel, Cali." Gwen performed likewise. "Cali, stay away from the plants…" A few meters from the smiling Rectrix, Elvia's teacher received them with open arms. As one of the Holy Ordo, Rectrix St. Claire, possessed equal-rank to that of a Diocesan. As the co-head of a militant order, she also kept pace with the state's Generals. In the year Elvia had spent with the Rectorix, she recognised the woman as genuine and compassionate yet flexible and pragmatic— the polar opposite of Senechal Ashburn, who was as unyielding as a redwood. "Your Grace." The Void Sorceress curtsied like a pro. "Welcome, Magus Song." The Rectrix took Gwen by the hand and led her into the pavilion's interior, where a hearty breakfast of jam, honey and scones had been laid out. "It's still early. Have you eaten?" "I could eat." Gwen waited for the Rectrix to sit before taking her seat. Elvia sat adjacent; Mathias took his place beside her, stoic as a sentinel. "Mattie, sit," Gwen said to the Knight. "… That's improper," Mathias recited flatly. "Do sit, Mathias," the Rectrix implored. "This is Evee's friend, and so she is ours." The Knight loosened his polished cuirass, then sat with his buttocks nearer the edge of the seat. Elvia gave her Knight an encouraging smile. "Chip on his shoulder?" Gwen mused at Elvia. "Mattie's unhappy about what happened in Lurgan," Elvia replied euphemistically. "The Fomorians broke through the defence line and overran the triage centre. Mathias protected me. Many Mages died, as well as several of my fellow Clerics who did not have a Knight of St Michael at their side." "I see." Her companion allowed the matter to drop. Passing a hand over the empty half of the table, she materialised several obsidian Creature Cores. Elvia's nose wrinkled. There was something terrible and wrong about the Essence emanating from those Cores. "Rectrix— my mentor sends her regards. She said that these might be useful to you?" It took Elvia a second or two to realise the misshapen, kidney-stone shaped Cores were the remains of Aberrants harvested thanks to Golos' presence. From their Element, Elvia could see that the Creature Cores, each with its admixture of Elemental Earth and Ooze, were uniquely suited to ancient Abjuration magic, which were crude but unfussy about materials. A place like Battle was thus perfect for giving roughly-aligned but potent materials proper utility. As to what utility, Elvia could only guess. "The Ordo thanks you, Magus Song." The Rectrix passed a hand over the Cores while her other hand, glimmering with a faint aura of Faith, touched Gwen's fingers. "Elvia. Let us pray for your friend's health. O rise, King of the eternal, immortal, invisible, wrap this blessed soul in purple, O Lord By Christ's cross and Adam's tree, Look, o Three-personed God, and find thy sermons— Thy honour and glory be eternal. Amen. — Greater Bless." Motes of Faith rose from Elvia's body, forming a brief halo around her brow, mirroring the same phenomenon on the Rectrix. Soundlessly, the spell discharged, its psychic energies of belief manifesting as a "Miracle". Gwen's expression turned from surprised to wonder, then to awe as the last vestige of any negative feelings she might have held coming into Battle faded into oblivion. From her broad, sunny smile, Elvia recalled a girl living her happiest moments in Sydney, before the Mermen invasion, before Debora-turned-Faceless. "I am honoured." Gwen bowed her head. "Please, enjoy the food," the Rectrix commanded the trio. "Waste nothing. These scones are hand-made by our Acolytes for the occasion. The jam is from Seneschal Ashburn's private reserve, and our acolytes in South India hand-picked the tea leaves." The youngsters performed as told while the Rectrix watched. "Maxine has told me that you wanted to ask about the Northern Steppes?" Elvia sipped her tea, watching her friend's thoughts transmute. Undaunted, Gwen affirmatively buttered, creamed, then jammed her scone between her reply. "I have a mind to get down there and see how I may contribute to resolving the local tension. As you know, Meister Bekker was tapped to reinforce the local garrison and put an end to the insurrection, and my friend Jean-Paul is going with her. As a part of my Magisterial course, I'd thought I could spend the month between now and mid-Lent term helping out." "In your capacity as the Devourer of Shenyang?" her Rectrix was all smiles. "And do as you had done for the Murk?" "Well," Gwen replied with a hint of smugness. "I have a knack, or so the Tower Master says." "What do you know?" The Rectrix wasn't one to waste breath. "From my research." Gwen pointed in the sea's direction, a misaligned gesture Elvia understood to mean Cambridge. "I understand that the Mageocracy has spent centuries fleecing the Centaur-folk from Dushanbe to Karagandy, adding fuel to their inter-tribal grudges every few years. From the local region, there are small mountains of HDMs to be made selling skin, fur and Creature Cores, not to mention rare-earth Crystals needed for Mandalas. After the Tide, when Elementals arrive en mass and the Fire Sea manifested as-is; the entire Frontier pulled back from Baku, and had been pulling back ever since." Gwen had done her homework. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Elvia's knowledge of the region was only thanks to Lord Ashburn's campaign there to exorcise a corrupt governor, one that was driving the local centaurs into the arms of the Elementals' domain. "As a result of the Fire Sea's emergence, the balance established by the Mageocracy collapsed, leading to a plethora of problems today. Foremostly, the Khitani Khanate has absorbed the refugees fleeing from the lost Turkmen lands and the tribes exiled from Afghanistan— rapidly outpacing our outposts. Two, the Elementals have begun to enslave and transmute tribes with appropriate affinities into Changeling war hosts. With both concurrently in motion, the Mageocracy knows that a sea-change is coming, but to resist the incoming Tide, it needs to maintain border buffers." Gwen took a deep breath. "As a result, the Shard is in a bind. There's the Ukrainian line to the west, the Kazakhstani line to the north. The Pakistani line to the west. And Sinai to the south— albeit the Americans are responsible for that fiasco. The point is that everywhere around the steppes sit precarious positions that could spiral out of control at a moment's notice. When they do, the Mageocracy's tenuous control of Central Asia will cease to exist." "Yes." her Rectrix nodded. "Our Empire is stretched as thin as beaten gold." Gwen looked over at her attentively, then sighed. "When I was in China, we talked about the Mageocracy as though it was a hegemonic Leviathan. The Empire where the Sun Never Sets, that sort of thing. Now that I am here… it feels like we're trying to catch water with sheets of Swiss cheese." The Rectrix laughed. "That's an observation Lord Ravenport shares, to be sure. Elvia, you've studied the Steppe Campaign under Ashburn. What do you think of your friend's concerns?" Elvia cleared her throat, then began to speak in a melodic but meticulous manner. "Gwen is correct, though she lacks details which make the situation worse than it is. The Death Cult of Egypt has its history and conflicts, but we can at least agree they're not going to ally with the Elemental Sultanate. The Undead Aristocracy of Eastern Europe as well, is as opposed to the Elementals as the Mageocracy. To the east, there's the Himalaya divide and the Old Kingdoms of Delhi that fear the Sultanate more than they loath the Mageocracy, which means there is only the problem of the Northern Steppes." She took a sip of the tea, then continued. "What happens if the newly risen Khanate breaks off its reliance on the Mageocracy? What if, God forbid, they lay down their arms when the Elemental hosts come knocking? Without the ore, wool, leather, Cores and agricultural produce, who would supply the Eastern European Frontiers? Where would the Mageocracy find another raw-material export zone?" "Where indeed?" The Rectrix threw the question back at their guest. "Which is why I've come to the Order." As Gwen spoke, she reached out under the table and squeezed Elvia's hand, signalling that she would soon require her aid. "As one of the Holy Ordo with interest in genuine peace with the Elementals and the Centaurs, I would like to ask for your advice before I commit myself to the plans I've devised for the Steppe region." Rectrix Theodora St. Claire raised her classically elegant face. Despite her deceptively youthful mien, there was no ignoring her aura of authority and the experience she exuded. "The Ordo's goals," the former Duchess of Somerset announced. "Is in general alliance with Her Majesty's role as Governor Supreme of our Church of England. Our interest in harmony isn't one pursued out of ethical consideration— but one seeking to preserve the fragile status quo hanging over the Holy Land. What you might see as charity, sympathy, mercy, compassion, inclusiveness and ardent pursuit of peace, is in reality, the product of ulterior interests. Do you understand?" Elvia recalled being shocked when Ashburn gave her the full dose on her and Mattie's first foray. The good performed by the various Ordos were not acts of inherent selflessness but actions taken to maintain her Majesty's hold on the Mageocracy. In a time when competing interests within her Empire would put House Windsor's interests below their own, the Holy Orders were the monarch's flame and scalpel. Compared to the Towers or the provincial governments of the Commonwealth, the fundamental dissonance was their vows as the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ, with strict pledges restricting their access to pleasure and property. Instead, the crown supplied their coffers while they reaped Faith from the masses. To take herself as an anecdote, her soup kitchen in the IoDRP, her orphanage, her clinics and her actions in Northern Ireland all contributed to her and the Ordo's reservoir of Faith. "I do." Gwen nodded, untouched by the realpolitik. "Rectrix, you've seen how I've dealt with the Mageocracy's dilemmas in Burma, in Peru and the Murk. You've also seen how I've performed in forming diplomatic ties with the Dwarves. Likewise, in London, I have some sway with the public through my paper, the METRO. Just as well, both the Shard and the Foreign Affairs Department are indebted to me for services rendered. If I can apply pressure from both sides, we may not stop the warmongers, but I can twist their arm and divert their claim. Can you tell me more about the Steppe's internal conflicts?" The Rectrix motioned with her Mage Hand, refilling her cup. "We're a monastic order, Magus Song. Not politicians or financiers. I can only tell you this— if the Militants and the Greys can give up their unnatural occupation of the resources belonging to the Khitani Khanate, we may yet gain a potent ally against the Tide. If not…" "You think an outbreak of war from the central region is inevitable?" The Rectrix slightly shrugged her shoulders, then fixed her habit. "Nothing is predestined, though if you look at our politicians and corporations, at how they squeeze the Frontiers for resources and reap wealth from the corpses of the Demi-humans, it should hardly come as a surprise. You come from the Frontier, do you not? What did you learn as a child?" "That we Humans are at the mercy of the Demi-humans and that we're eking out a living in between their warring factions." "Do you consider this to be true?" Gwen thought of the general fear and anxiety Sydney-siders lived in, even with someone like Gunther at the helm. "I can't deny it." "Your's is a fear London's Militants do not possess. Imagine if you were born in the heart of the Mageocracy as they are," the Rectrix explained. "Picture your aristocratic ascension in a city that has never fallen to the Wildlands, that not only remained standing but reached out and profited from its Frontiers during the Tide. You open the papers each day or watch the vid-casts on the Lumen-channels. On every front, the discussion is what region should the Mageocracy next usurp, which race has capitulated to the Shard's pressure, and which Lord as profited from what war." "Ah, the old military-industrial complex," the Void sorceress surmised with a Gwenism. "I get it. Invariably, that's the source of the Militant's confidence, their funding, as well as why they must keep conquering out of jaw-clenching reflex. They've built themselves around a myth, and they're driven forward by the momentum like an ouroboros of ambition, eating their tail inch by inch. So long as their gains exceed their loss, they maraud onward like Micah's Juggernaut, crushing the Godless, revelling in plunder, believing themselves the Masters of the Earth!" Elvia could see her teacher was very impressed. "Indeed, that's the force you'll be trying to divert if you want to bring stability to the region," the Rectrix concluded. "We tried, God, knows the Ordo did its best— but alas…" Elvia could feel the Rectrix's frustration and so lowered her head. She understood her teacher's feelings well. In Ireland, against the endlessly mutating Fae and their reality-warping Faery Circles, against the Changelings that replaced one's allies, she had felt the same. In Toner's Bog, she recalled the village they had entered, where her patrol found the missing children swimming in a bubbling Hag-stew— there was no healing Sen-sen or Kiki could manage that would bring back what Mattie and herself had lost in that campaign. If the Northern Steppes were worse still, what would Gwen do? What if their foes weren't Centaurs but Mages from London? Even with the Shoggoth at her beck and call, what could she change? Currency. Crystals. Greed. Those were Gwen's weapons as well as her Void and Lightning. If so, would she buy them out of the Steppes? How could she guarantee that the Militants would stay away if there is so much more wealth to be made by reneging on agreements? "Thank you for that," Gwen thanked her Rectrix. "I think I understand what the reports won't say. Now then, Milady St. Claire, may I ask for a boon?" Elvia looked up to see Gwen's gaze washing gently over her. She blinked as their eyes met. "Could I borrow Evee and the Ordo's aid?" "For the Northern Steppes?" "Yes." Elvia's oldest friend placed an assuring palm on the Cleric's knee. Her breath quickening, Elvia's eyes grew as large as pigeon eggs, while beside them, Mathias turned pink as pippins. "Mattie can come along as well. I'll pay for every expense. If you're worried, I can have Evee attend in custom Dwarven Golem Klad to mitigate the danger. If the region is as unstable as you have prescribed, we'll need a gentle hand to deal with the local folk. In that regard, Elvia is far more suited than I, though she'll need support in terms of logistics and a Class VI War Mage to stiffen her resolve." The Rectrix appeared amused by the idea. "Elvia, dearie. What do you think?" On the field, Knight Companions played both leader and follower, but here in the Fortress Monastery, Elvia knew better than to lecture her betters. That said, she did desire to work with Gwen once more, not as a sycophant but as an equal. As Gwen had proposed, there were things only Gwen could do and things only she could do. Gwen possessed the threat of total annihilation and HDMs, while Elvia had her healing and the Ordo's reputation. Together, what couldn't be overcome? "Your wish is my command, your Grace." She bowed her head, conscious of Gwen's hand still arresting her knee. Theodora St. Claire returned to the Void Sorceress in their midst. "If Elvia has no complaints, neither do I. The Ordo will not oppose you, considering your record so far. However, may I suggest that you scout the Steppes with Meister Bekker? Elvia still has her duties here and training in London's Great Hospitals. I will grant you access to our Chapel Chapter in Aktau. When you need her, the Abbot there can arrange for Elvia's Teleportation, as well as answer any questions you may have. Does that satisfy?" "A wonderful arrangement." Gwen struck out the hand warmed by her knee. Ignoring their difference in rank, the Rectrix took it. In front of Elvia and the wordless Knight, the two women shook. "Well, now." Gwen sidled up to her Evee. "I'll be taking her to Lady Astor's as discussed. Her ladyship has dearly missed Evee." "Don't forget our Cleric has sworn to be a Poor Fellows of Christ." The Rectrix shook her head in the manner of a gentle mother warning her bright-eyed daughters. "No liquor and nothing her fellow Brother and Sisters in the Ordo wouldn't do. Mathias, while the Nazarene sees all, only you can keep an eye on our future Knight Companion. Can I trust our Brother Ordo of St Michael on this?" "Yes! Your Grace!" Mathias left his seat and saluted, finally relieving himself of the accused chair. "She'll be safe with me, Ma'am!" The look Gwen gave Mathias made Elvia's hairs stand on end. After that, they were dismissed by the Rectrix, returning Gwen and company to the upper battlements where she had initially landed to the dismay of the temple guards. Elvia allowed herself to be Gwen-handled. It wasn't that she couldn't do the same, but her friend's height made it impossible for the smaller woman to take the lead. "Can you fly yet, Evee?" Gwen lead her by the hand, her mind once again turning mischievous. "Not yet." Elvia shook her head. "Mattie and I have Orbs of Lesser Flight." "Well then, tell me about Ireland on the way." Her too-friendly companion put her arm around Elvia's tiny waist. "Mattie, Cliveden isn't far. Catch us if you can!" Buckinghamshire. Cliveden. Ferrier's Cottage. "The Prince of Wales once sat in that chair." Richard gingerly slipped his arse onto the gold-threaded cushion. "… firmer than I imagined." A few moments later, her cousin hailed the group tour to the master bedroom. "The Prince of Wales once slept in that bed." Richard ran his hand over the velvet and crimson laced quilt. "At the very least, two Kings have fornicated on…" "DICK!" "Richard!" "God damn it, Rich…" Gwen threw a pillow at her laughing cousin. "Don't you dare ruin this for me!" "Hey, you're the one who wanted to come to Cliveden." Richard cackled. "And holy shit! Ferrier's Cottage! This place is full of history! Scandalous, perfumed history. Isn't that why we're here? You even brought Evee— is that a completely innocent gesture?" The Cleric's face grew instantly red. Besides the perplexed Gwen, their other guests looked on with confused faces. Jean-Paul was South African and so knew nothing. Petra had never been to England or been taught the trivia. Mathias would never learn of such scandal, and Gracie was a bookworm of an entirely different species. "You don't know?" Richard roared. "Oh-oh-oh, Duck, you innocent flock of waterfowls…" At the country kitchen, Richard ordered anytime High Tea from the team of discrete servants living at the main building, then settled the crew down to storytime in the country dining with its lavish decor. "The main building isn't originally the Astors," Richard began between gulps of English Breakfast, leaving his teeth stained pink with intrigue. "It was originally built by the Lord Duke Villiers of Buckingham, Richard's right hand. He built it not for his long-suffering wife but the stunningly beautiful Lady Talbot, a married woman. This land and its entire property, the most expensive in England at the time, was a gift to his mistress." Richard pointed at the picturesque bridge just out of view. "When Lady Talbot's husband found out his wife had been taking equestrian lessons atop Buckingham, the Earl of Shrewsbury challenged the Duke. An Earl! An administrator! Against a Duc! A war leader! You can imagine the outcome. And so, on that bridge yonder occurred the first love-induced Mage-duel-to-the-death in English history— which was why Lady Astor ALWAYS hosts stag-duels whenever there's a part at the river garden. " The listeners made O shapes with their mouths. "But of course, a one-sided slaughter is hardly romantic. What's infamous is Lady Talbot's performance while the two men duelled." "What did she do?" Gracie trembled as she asked. "She stood on the Duke's side and held his horse while the men fought. In the aftermath, she frenched the Duke in front of the witnesses while her husband turned to dust." Richard's audience drew in deep breaths. The boys weren't much into the aristocratic drama, but the girls were no less thrilled than modern-day homemakers watching the season finale of Downton Abbey. "After that, the House of Lords ordered the Duke to stay away from Lady Talbot." Richard thumped the table with a suggestive rhythm. "So naturally, the two took to creaming discretely in Ferrier's Cottage…" The girls put down their biscuits and teas. "… and later gave birth to the Duke's favourite bastard in one of those beds upstairs." Richard took another sip. "Not to be outdone by her brother-in-law, Lord Villiers' wisp of a wife had a vivacious vixen for a sister who the Duke occasionally fancied as well. Since she had free reign of this building while Lady Talbot and the Duke were away, she decided to outdo her brother-in-law by entertaining both King George I and later George II in her lap of luxury… somewhere around here…" The girls began to doubt what the inch-thick Ursine rugs were hiding beneath. The white-washed walls were starting to look a little too white. "After that, of course, there were a few centuries of peace until Lady Astor's in-laws took over the estate— But not before falling to the cottage's unique charm. One of Lady Astor's relatives was well-connected to the Germans during that unnatural bout of ambition from the Central Continent and used Cliveden as a sort of royal whorehouse for information gathering. Naturally, he chose a secretive and private portion of the estate…" "Oh, my God..." Richard grinned wolfishly. "Finally, it was here that Lord Magister Profumo, War Master of the Mageocracy's Mage Flights, was revealed to be entertaining his nineteen-year-old Apprentice in private equestrian lessons as well. Of course, old aristocrats chewing on young tobacco leaves isn't news— but the fashionable sorceress wasn't just a side-piece polishing the War Master's golden knob— she was a bona fide Mind Mage; hailing from the ice country…" "OH!" Petra's eyes grew wide. It was rare for the trained Mind Mage to be so excited. "Magus Kabiccaya! I know of her! She's a legend in our Tower. There are even portraits of her. That was here? I thought it was the Spring Cottage?" "After that fiasco, they renamed the cottage." The ex-Mind Mage rose from her seat to study the room anew, her eyes full of stars. "Do you know which room they used?" "Pats..." Gwen pulled her cousin down. "And there you have it." Richard allowed the dollop cream to dribble from his spoon, then looking to Gwen and then to Elvia; the man wiggled his brows. "Welcome to Ferrier's Cottage, Ladies and gents, hand-picked by your Magus Song truly, a sordid homestay with an orgiastic history of sex, spies and scandal!"

Gwen's original plan was to have an old-fashioned girls' sleepover in the spacious extra-king-sized bed of the master suite, where all four women could lay beside one another and yet have room to spare. After Richard convinced the party of the possibility that the Cottage may inspire spontaneous orgies of debauchery, Gwen's companions slept on the couch, the floor, and behind pillow forts on the bed. The next day, the crew took a ferry up the Thames, stepped onto quaint old docks while enviously watched by passersby and shopped to their hearts' content from Maidenhead to Medmenham. At night, a traditional farmhouse feast was abruptly demolished by the always-famished Void Mages, leaving the others to ring the main house for replenishments and snacks. After a second night of listening to Gwen and Elvia exchange horror stories of War and destruction, the party's female members grew close. Gracie especially found an ally in Elvia, who overflowed with vitality and magnanimity, particularly after the woman confessed to being Gwen's soul-subordinate. Gwen replied that Gracie's humbled obedience was wrongly attributed and that she was a free Void Sorceress soon to gain her footing. In response, Gracie grew red-eyed with heartfelt gratitude. On the third day, a pair of dangerous birds arrived at Cliveden, alighting at the Rose Garden, requiring Gwen's party to emerge from seclusion. The intruders were one black and the other white and were both known intimately to the Devourer. The 'black' was Mori. The 'white' was Dede. According to Ariel, both "missed her dearly", which Gwen took to imply the birds were thirsty for Essence. Out of morbid curiosity, Gwen introduced the pair to Elvia, her fellow "Vessel" and an authentic Draconic practitioner. "Evee… I want to see what happened if you offer them a mote of the Yinglong's Essence…" After some clamouring from the birds, Gwen suggested they experiment in mixing their juices. As a biometric academic and a Creature Mage, Elvia's natural curiosity convinced her to entertain Gwen's idea. Surprisingly, when the girls manifested a clear drop of golden Essence, the avians grew wild. "Quack! QUACK!" Dede flapped its wings at Elvia, threatening her with its glorious white breast. "Caw! Caw-CAW!" Mori, much to Gwen's confusion, was no less hostile. The offence from Mori and Dede was enough to warrant a response from Elvia's defenders. "Kiki!" Her Alraune Sprite perfumed the air with protest. "Sen-sen!" The elder Ginseng as well, rose to wrestle the duck, proving itself the superior combatant. "Looks like the Yinglong and our Almudj don't see eye-to-eye," Richard remarked for their companions. "How curious. I read that lesser beings taken with Essence are susceptible to morphic resonance, resulting in undying loyalty to the patron. The more Essence, the more changes, the more they identify with their Essence-giver. Usually, it's a Draconic phenomenon, but I guess Al's no less an ancient drake, if not more." "How do you know this?" Gwen asked. "The King's library is very extensive," her cousin replied. "HOLY HELL— DEDE!" "Quack!" Dede howled as Sen-sen spun its avian body via its mass of tendrils, turning it just enough to piledrive the bird beak-first into the soft turf. On the other wing, Mori let loose a mighty "CAW!"— summoning a dark murder of crows enough to weigh-down a nearby, splendiferous oak. Enraged, Dede excavated itself from the floor. Digging into its fluffy breast, it retrieved, then popped an HDM into its beak to replenish its energies. "Quack!" “SHAAAA!” Caliban entered the fray, believing the contest some great grand melee. "CAW-CAW-CAW!" "QUACK!" "KIKIKI!" "SEN!" "WHOA!" "Ouch!" Raging torrents of free-flowing mana clashed, ripping up the dirt and wilting the grass, sending drifts of free-falling snow and rose petals in every direction. "SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!" Gwen calmed the farm with a Clarion Call, steam rising from her in spontaneous streams. "We're guests here, for God's sake!" The Familiars cowered. The Devourer of Shenyang turned to the ongoing party that had all but ceased at the Rose Garden, each drawn by the spectacle of a duck wrestling a root vegetable while a murder of crows bickered with a flower, with a Kirin mewling for peace and a Richard taking bets. "Lady Astor… I am so sorry…" The Lady of the house was with her entourage and joined by a dozen guests who had earlier arrived to celebrate Christmas Eve's festivities. Gwen's party had wandered up from Ferrier Cottage, seeing as they were holiday residents. Had Dede and Mori not descended, they would not have met until the evening. Lady Astor was staring wide-eyed at the crows, evidently recognising their origins and their purpose. "Caw!" Mori dispersed her flock with a cry, leaving a wordless group of aristocrats and mid-tier bureaucrats thoughtfully sipping gulps of wine. Their hostess quickly recovered, then invited the students forward to be introduced. Both groups of guests exchanged titles and names, then mingled. When Gwen asked who Astor was expecting to attend, she said that this year, there would be no Ravenport and no Lady Grey, not even a Rothwell in attendance. The advantage Gwen had materialised with the Dwarven alliance meant the Duke of Norfolk was holding a private soiree in his estate for members of the Grey Faction. Being more Middle than Grey, the Lady decided to break from the usually tense and intrigue-charged gatherings at Cliveden every other year. "If you want excitement, I can ask the Exeters to send the twins over." Lucy Astor sipped from a flute while standing beside Gwen with a smirk. "Care for some payback for last time? With your present standing in the Tower and the news cycle, you'll be able to push much harder than they're willing to push back." "Thanks for the offer, but I'll pass." Gwen looked to Elvia, who was scolding her two Familiars for their un-lady-like behaviour. "I want this year to be fun and relaxing. Next year we've got Phase III to digest, and after that, our coffers permitting, all of us needs to start laying the foundations for Phase IV." "How are your studies?" "Going well, racking up credits," Gwen said. "Hopefully enough to pick up the Magisterhood in another year or two." "I heard from St. Claire that you and Evee are thinking of heading up to the Steppes?" Astor remarked, her eyes drifting past Gwen's Familiars to the crow now perched on a vine arch. "With Meister Bekker there, I doubt you'll face much danger. That said, you ARE headed for the Steppes, a Black Zone! Do you think you can turn the deficit void-chasm there into profit?" "I think the Mageocracy can do better than snatch-and-grabs, general oppression and stoking civil bloodsheds," she replied in a low whisper. "If there are as many crystal mines, rare herbs, leather and Cores as they say down there, I think we could manage an import-export consortium. Keen to invest? It could be a new Silk Road." "If you manage to wrangle the political situation there, sure." Lady Astor nodded. "That said, I do have traders operating out of Istanbul. I'll give you their contacts. When you arrive and are ready to begin operations, tell them I sent you." "That'll be lovely." Gwen gave the Lady an affirming nod. Their hostess passed a contact Glyph between them, then turned to Elvia. "My little Evee, my-my, how you've grown. A future Knight of the Bath! Incredible!" Elvia curtsied. "Your Ladyship." "I wonder how those sows at GOS would see you now," the ex-Secular Cleric, now House of Commons member, mused. "Probably scrap for scraps at your feet, if I had to guess. Especially the Matrons who used to bully you and those other trainees from Black's too, I wager. Ever thought of going back?" "I haven't thought of them much." Elvia's expression remained pure and serene. "The Ordo has much work to do." "True." Lady Astor hugged the girl, squeezing her shoulders hard. "I heard about Northern Ireland. I am so sorry you had to experience that." "It was a lesson I had to learn. One I don't regret." Elvia gave the Lady one of her signature, heart-melting smiles, one that made both Gwen and Lady Astor sigh with maternal longing. "Enjoy the party." Lady Astor withdrew, expressing that she had already spent too much time with one group and must now continue her free-flowing meandering. "Merry Christmas. We have high hopes for you all, you who are our nation's future. Magus Song—" "A merry Xmas to you too, Lady Astor." Gwen curtsied, then hooked an arm around Elvia's inner elbow. "If you don't mind, we'll return to Ferrier's before the crowd arrives. Dede! Cali! Ariel! Mori! We're going!" "Suit yourselves." The Lady touched a hand to Elvia's cheek and gave it a satisfying squeeze before leaning in to bid them both a fair holiday season. "Keep our Essence-sucking money tree safe, Evee. We're counting on her to pave the Middle Path with crystals." As a business owner, Gwen understood well the concept of there being no rest for the wicked. The Tuesday past Boxing Day, while the rest of London returned to their repetitive labour, so did the Devourer of Shenyang return to her Isle of Dogs to crunch debit tables and balance expenditures. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. In the aftermath of the Shard's "New Deal" with the Dwarves, Yossari returned with more of her folk to help expand the Westferry Print Works, concurrently providing Petra with more opportunities to delve into the secret of Runic sorcery. At the same time, Nesatin the Smith, Doussed the Rune Tuner, and the two Whitebeards, Thulgig Flinthide and Danmurim the Glum had reached their one-surface-cycle contract and were due home. For their return trip, Gwen gifted caskets of Maotai and rings full of surface goodies from sweets to cured meat, as well as trinkets and Lumen-recordings that she hoped would lure more young Dwarves into exploring Himmseg. Two days before New Years, Jean-Paul invited her down to London Imperial, concurrent with a Message that his Meister would be expecting her to join her for a working luncheon. Having already met with Meister Bekker upon her previous return, Gwen made her way down to the grand avenues of South Kensington. She rather admired Jean-Paul's university, though more imposing than the fourteen Meisters under London Imperial's name or the Royal degree marking its inception was the fact that London Imperial has the most generous endowment of any learning institution in Europe, emerging the principle collegial benefactor of Victoriana's colonial conquests. Even now, among all of the universities of the Mageocracy, graduates from London Imperial rank first for employment prospects, dwarfing even the majesty of Oxbridge's combined might. Recently and infamously, a late Meister Stephan Grimm had committed suicide in the college's now repurposed Royal Spellcraft Hall for reasons unknown. In the aftermath, perhaps more tellingly than the Dust Meister's untimely demise, it was the coverup and the subsequent revelation of the faculties involved in executing factional rivalries, petty jealousies and bitter spitefulness that marred the college's two-century-old name. Of course, the scandal did not diminish London Imperial's imposing approach. Outside its entrance, the Void Sorceress stood tall as a winter tulip in pale-blue boot-cut jeans, with a light wind jacket just reaching her knees. It took all but a minute for a gaggle of snickering young geese to descend from the steps to surround her, crowding every angle so that her only escape would be via Flight. "Young Miss." One of the young men bowed his head in a gesture of feigned gentlemanliness, not unlike Dede fossicking for HDMs. "You're a pleasure for sore eyes, have we met?" Had the man's pick-up not being so tacky, Gwen would have reminded the boy he'd probably seen her on the front page of the METRO. As it were, it had been so long since she experienced harassment by strangers that the encounter felt refreshingly candid. What further enhanced her thrill was the fact that these young drakes had thought themselves cornering a hen when in truth, they were waltzing head-first in a slavering Caliban. "I am waiting for a friend," Gwen answered demurely, feeling every inch a cat swishing its tail in front of mesmerised mice. "We can stand in for your friend," another of the young men said. "Where you do hail from?" "Sydney," she replied. "I am new to London." "Then we can show you around." The third managed with gusto. "I know the best pubs—" "GWEN! Over here!" Gwen was just about to agree to drink the men's wallets dry when Jean-Paul appeared from the main building's double-glass doors. Perhaps the Void Mage was in a hurry, or maybe he was a masochist, but Jean-Paul dressed his lower half in slacks and the top half in a cashmere jumper. Above the ugly Christmas sweater, he even had on an orange and blue beanie. The overall effect could only be described as something the Void had regurgitated after an unsuccessful Christmas eve binge. "Sorry, fellers." Gwen gave the men an apologetic shrug. "I'd love to get to know you all, but my special buddy is here." The men's expressions fell several storeys and died on impact. Perhaps they knew of Jean-Paul and knew of his reputation, or mayhap they didn't; either way, Gwen took the opportunity to slip past their guard, leaving only a trail of perfume. "Miss—" Their leader took on a pained expression of self-doubt after seeing Jean-Paul's exquisite face. "Are you seriously suggesting…" "Sorry, but it's true." Gwen winked back with a smile. "JP's not good-looking, nor is he rich, but I don't know anyone else with a worm as impressive and useful as his. No other man compares." The young Imperialists looked as though devastated by a Barbanginy. Gwen left with a thrilling laugh, quickly leaping up the stairs in twos and threes with elegant dancer's strides to join Jean-Paul. "Hey, bud." "What did you do to them?" Jean-Paul furrowed his brows. "Desolation Aura?" Gwen gave her Quasimodo a hearty slap on the back. "You think I'd experiment on students of London Imperial?" Jean-Paul's expression inferred she would. Gwen followed her fellow Void Mage through the main foyer, turning heads and catching eyes as she passed. At the atrium, she saw an enormous silhouette four storeys tall in technicolour that Jean-Paul identified as the Astral Body scan of a medical Meister specialising in imaging Divinations. The building's interior was enormous, easily the size of Kings College's main campus cathedral plus the Old Court, with a section of Peterhouse added as the library wing. Jean-Paul took her through a maze of corridors that would surely spell her doom, arriving finally at a secluded area reserved for Magisters, Meisters and upper-tier administrative staff. "Meister." Gwen bowed as she approached. Meister Engela "Mevrou" Bekker, one of three Meisters to emerge from Cape of Good Hope and now a resident researcher at London Imperial, had the atypical appearance of a Boer, with salient ash-blonde hair and piercing, cerulean eyes. When Gwen first met Bekker vis-a-vis, she was shocked to discover that the famed Pretorian scholar was an Ooze Mage, for the clean, austere appearance Bekker maintained was usually reserved for those aligned with Ice or Mineral. Though in her early fifties, the Meister had enjoyed the likes of Vitae Fruits and rejuvenation treatments, possessing the appearance of a well-kept woman in her thirties. Unlike Lady Astor or Rectrix St. Claire, however, the Meister's appearance was to Gwen a facade, for she lacked the natural youthfulness that came with Positive Energy. "Gwen, come sit." The Meister was one used to command. "Jean, be a dear and get us fresh beverages, aseblief." Gwen sat, keeping at arm's length from the Meister. Here was a woman whose achievements in Spellcraft, academia and politics she could not yet challenge. As for wealth and luxury— she doubted someone sitting at the apex of the sorcerous pyramid would care for something she could acquire at a moment's notice. In Gwen's eyes, the "Madam's" relationship with Jean-Paul was a strange admixture born out of experimentation. To say that the Mevrou felt love for Jean-Paul wasn't wrong, but it was the leftover sentiment of having a dog by one's side for so long that one felt amiss in its absence. In their everyday interactions, the Mevrou's command of Jean-Paul was absolute, treating the talented Void Mage as something between a scion and a servant. Yet, Gwen also bore witness to how protective the Mevrou was of Jean-Paul. Engela's was a fierce, maternal emotion the Mevrou herself may not fully comprehend. For instance, in the trimester she had spent with Jean-Paul and Gracie, the girls had attracted unwanted pursuers more than once. As a deterrence, Gwen regularly half-jokingly used Jean-Paul as a Shield to discourage prospective suitors. Unfortunately, there was no lack of young men un-accustomed to women with attitude in a place like London. When Jean-Paul, "friend with benefits" to Gwen and Gracie, fell victim to unkind rumours, he did not need Gwen or the METRO to step in. Instead, the Mevrou stamped her foot. Later, the culprits issued public apologies, with one going so far as to withdraw from the college. The Mevrou was married in her youth but did not have children of her own due to her rapid sorcerous advancements. Jean-Paul was the closest thing to a son, Apprentice and heir she had. In the privacy of the canteen with no one but themselves, the trio settled down to business. Meister Bekker's wish was to hit the Steppes just after the Gregorian Calendar turned over to 2006. As for the journey itself, with Gwen joining them, the Meister advised taking the Eastern European route. They and their party of two-dozen Magisters and Maguses would arrive at Kyiv and then take a short-hop ISTC station to Volgograd, where the Russians once halted the German's eastward ambitions through spellfire, blood and enough bodies to start a second Undead War. From there, the Flights would have to proceed on-air, hopping down the Volga River for half a day, resting at a trading post on the shores of the Caspian Sea, then take a two-day, two-thousand-kilometre flight across a southern section of the Caspian now renamed the "Fire Sea" to arrive somewhere between the land of the Uzbeki and the Kazakhstani Centaurs, both presently held under the Golden Banner of the Khitani Khanate. As to where their FOB might be, not even Meister Bekker could be sure— for the Golden Pavilion was forever on the move, following the rains, clouds and the seasons of the plains. Jean-Paul remarked that Gwen owned an Orb that could arguably direct the party toward the desired location through mystical means. If she consciously set her mind on the Golden Pavilion, there was no reason why the Omni-orb couldn't circumvent that particular complication in Meister Bekker's quest. "… How quaint. If I were a Diviner, I would say fate works in strange ways." Meister Bekker sipped her coffee. "As I am not, I shall abide by an old saying from the Steppes, that 'one shouldn't count a gifted Slave's teeth'." It took Gwen a moment to catch the Meister's implication. "Does that idiom mean what I think it means?" Gwen's eyes slightly narrowed. She had only the slightest clue about flesh-trading among the Demi-humans of the Steppes, at least not in enough detail to suggest it was a part of the everyday fabric of life. "War is constant on the Steppes. And so is the caste system used in the region," the Mevrou flatly replied. "We'll be making extensive use of it, so keep your eyes half-closed and your mind wide open." "I was under the impression that the 'slavery' was a form of indentured servitude—" Gwen thought she'd ask once more. "Or something like prison camp labour derived from the defeated." "No," Jean-Paul's teacher assured her of the implications. "These are SLAVES in the sense of American history. There's no euphemism implied. We're talking people as property to treat and trade as you, the owner, sees fit. It's a speciality of the Khanate and one of the principal economic forces that drive inter-tribal conflict. Every battle proceeds with a fatal charge of the slave-corps, after which the main force commits its finest archers and riders." Gwen acknowledged that reading up on the Golden Horde's history may have warped her understanding of local customs. So far, she had gathered that the Steppes, consisting of plains, tundras, plateaus, reliefs and endless estuaries descending from glaciers to the north and east, was home to hundreds of Demi-human tribes. What she did not realise was that the medieval method of victory through enslaving your opponents was alive and galloping today. "That's crazy. Outright slavery! I mean, not even serfdom! In this day and age?" "How much do you think the Northern Steppes has changed since the time of Genghis' Golden Horde?" The Mevrou stirred her coffee, re-heating the liquid with a stern glance. "Whatever system of government they had devised was effective enough to rule the largest land empire on Terra— why should the 'Nayzağay Qanı' Kin that hail from his golden blood desire administerial modernisations hailing from France?" "Alright," Gwen conceded her human-centric worldview. "What do you mean by we'll be using… the slaves?" "Use that big brain of yours." Engela Bekker drew her a picture. "On the Steppes, there are many commodities to be traded. Crystal currency, rare earth minerals, Creature Cores and magical ingredients are what we're after, but what do you think the 'Nayzağay Qanı', the 'Thunderblooded' prefer for trade in a place so vast and full of danger?" "… Labour?" Gwen dreaded the fact that she knew the answer. "… and Food? Wait... Jesus Christ." "During winter, the two are not exclusive," Jean-Paul's teacher's reply made Gwen's toes curl. "The Thunderblood Marauders of Khitan think nothing of using the docile Tasmüyiz for nourishment. We don't think much of our sheep and cows, and neither do they. Further north, the Wolf Mothers of the Qasqır Clan pay extremely well for teams of Şöpter slaves. During spring and summer, the Şöpter tend to the fields and nurse the pups. In winter, they make for good sport— and if the weather remains foul for too long…" "… Strewth." Gwen had to put down her fourth croissant. "It's the fucking Dark Ages out there." "Don't be like those old fogies in the Anthropological Section," the Mevrou chided her. "The Steppe is life in its purest form, raw and free, unbound by petty rules to protect the weak. There's much we could learn, as Mages, from those Centaurs." Gwen grew contemplative. "This is harder than advertised." "Did you think this would be easy?" The Mevrou laughed. "The Golden Horde was responsible for the Dark Ages, after all. Our job, Magus Song, is to drag the Khitani Centaurs kicking and screaming into the 19th century." "Do you mean the 21st?" "Your optimism is commendable." The Meister gave her a look of disapproval. "You're going to be my assistant Administrator, Gwen. Not the Second Coming of the Nazarene."

Isle of Dogs. The Bunker. Gwen plotted out her timetable for the foreseeable future. She had four days until the New Years, a day of many celebrations. Yet for the Devourer, her holidays were looking like a period filled with preparations. After all, the Mageocracy's centaur crisis waited for no woman, not even one still idling on the invite to Trawsfynydd. She decided to utilise all four Storage Rings for her imminent venture to work with Evee, undermine the Exeters and usurp more money yet. One for sundry. One for HDMs. One for equipment and materials. And her original loot Ring from Sobel's underling would hold shoes, shirts, skirts and personal effects like a wardrobe. The Steppes, if it was indeed a crash course in Dark Age ethics, could not be easily overcome through municipal management. Yet, at the same time, Gwen couldn't help but feel strangely aroused by the thought of so much untapped chaos awaiting her therapeutic touch of order. Even in this world's limited understanding of global macroeconomics, the Frontier was a meaty beast ripe for rapine. As the top-scorer in her governance and 4P course, Gwen had sniffed out financial dynamics even her lecturers lacked the perspective to see. In the Purple and Black Zones, her teachers observed resistance to the Mageocracy's imperial government system, preventing investments from ruling class prospectors. They pointed their wands menacingly, principally as a means to subjugate, subdue or coerce local powers into servicing mutual interests, hence the Mageocracy's passion for supporting minorities and "losers" in regional conflicts. Therefore, the profitability of Frontier ventures lay in untapped raw material markets made possible by infrastructural barriers to foreign investment. Australia, for example, outside its coastal Green Zones, possessed a Saurian-dominated north verdant with untapped HDM mines, lumber, agricultural estate and Magical Materials. There, Gunther's diplomatic strategy of "shock and awe" alternated between the carrot and the stick, with Humanity conceding a clear-cut boundary they would not cross. In exchange, the Saurians had to operate a trade channel where humans could acquire materials and goods from the Daintree tropics. Concurrently, the Saurians had to resist the temptation to hunt outside their sizeable domain. Naturally, considering the tribal politics of the Saurians, no small number of them overspilled from the prime rainforest as a result of inter-tribal conflict. In these instances, Gunther would demand the Saurians settle accounts on behalf of Humanity. It was a hard-ball method of "scorched earth, one only someone with the gall of Gunther could show their two-pronged neighbours. Conversely, the Coral Sea was home to riches that would arguably make Sydney and Brisbane as wealthy as Singapore were it not for the unceasing vermin-tide in the form of Merman. Unlike the Saurians, whose home Gunther could threaten and who threatened Brisbane and Cairns in turn, there was no chasing Mermen Wave Riders five fathoms deep into the Pacific Kingdoms. As a result, like a reverse Rural Fire Service, Gunther and Alesia had to spend random allotments of their time setting ablaze rising waves of clamouring fish that could appear anywhere between Melbourne and Cairns— not that they minded. A significant portion of Australia's export produce came from the ocean, further exacerbating the endless skirmish. If anything, history in her present world had proven the futility of Humanity trying to govern Demi-humans. As a whole, her species had settled on Democratic Socialism, Constitutional Monarchy, Theocracy or Communism. Conversely, the Demi-denizens of the world privileged entirely different social-political frameworks. Take the Dwarves, for example. Hanmoul's homeland contains a social system that made no sense in Human terms. At the top of the Dwarven pyramid were Ancestors academics, venerated but removed from holding seats of power and politics in Deepholm. In the Cog Hall, the Dwarven council was formed by a feudal coalition of Clans and Guilds, together holding the reins of Dwarven society's mineral veins. Therefore, the Dwarven people ran a theocratic, decentralised feudal meritocracy with a socialist policy creation system that relied on tradition, honour, and general honesty. How would that even work, knowing Humanity's propensity for anarchic outbursts of individualism? Likewise, for the Álfar staying rent-free in her mind thanks to Dickie— Was there even a word for a system of government centred around the maintenance of a tree and a Wyrm? The Elves she had met so far all seemed to act both independently while at the same time appearing to know their exact, multiple roles. If she had to draw an analogy, the whole of Tryfan seemed more akin to a colony of Giant Hornets than svelte and lithe supermodel Elementalists inhabiting an arboreal pocket dimension. Gwen exhaled as her eyes swept over the construction site with its teams of Golems large and small, hammering away at concrete and stone with bursts of purple Transmutation and vivid Evocation. If possible, she wanted to delay her Tryfan visit until after the Steppes— but from the sounds of Meister Bekker's business there, one month might not cut the mustard. And if she neglected the visit for too long, say until March or April, the favour Dickie promised might waste away, and she might even eat into the goodwill he owed her for the Dwarven situation. Hence, she would visit Tryfan on Friday. At worst, she would be back by NYE. With her mind made up, Gwen set others to task. For any other War Mage, even a Magister-tier operator, they would have to source their materials for their quests themselves or through relevant departments. A Tower Magister, assuming they had appropriate sectional powers from the Shard, could outsource the legwork to apprentices and aides. For Gwen, she merely stopped by the Isle of Dogs with a list of the following to be delivered no later than a day or two into the new year. 50,000 HDMs, newly minted by the Bank of London in various denominations. 50,000 HDMs, in raw crystals of various Elements. 144 Potions of Healing. 48 Potions of Remove Disease. 25 Potions of Greater Healing. 12 Potions of Restoration. 6 Potions of Haste. 6 Potions of Heroism. 20 Pallets of Military Rations, assorted. 8 Pallets of SPAM in Regular, Cheese and Bacon. 2 Pallets of survival equipment, enough for three Mage Flights. 2 Dwarf-forged Omni-suits for small civil projects. And armour and arms for herself, Evee, Mathias, and whoever might join them. As Gwen's stay in the Steppes was strongly correlated with Meister Bekker's designs for her Tower Operations in the region, only she and Evee would be semi-permanent. Even if her family, like Richard or Petra, wanted in on the action, she would have to pay to get them teleported down, and even then, there was the risk of flying solo to find the Golden Pavillion in a Black Zone without Divination Towers. Unlike Evee, who had the Order of the Bath to back her, there would be no secret transit nodes for two 'lowly' Magus-tier casters from Cambridge. As for armaments, a Dwarf-forged Spellsword was something Gwen had promised Mathias almost a year ago, but both parties had been so busy that what should have been a celebrated and longed-for kit refresh had wholly escaped them. After returning from Battle, she had reminded Walken of the fact. After that, the Magister had informed the Dwarves working at the Isle of Dogs manning the Fabricator. The next day, the Order of St Michael delivered the material components and an order outsourcing the manufacturing to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. As for the armours, her Shen-Teī suit was presently in tatters and beyond its ability to self-repair. She could send it back to China, or she could order another one, but now Gwen was interested in something Hanmoul had mentioned a long while ago. The possibility of creating armour from Big Bird feathers. So that the Citadel could put hammer to anvil, she had given Hanmoul the go-ahead to craft something "local" that would serve as an improved suit of Shen-Teī. As a Mageocracy War Mage, to have Sinomach sent her a new bodysuit would likely tickle some beards, especially considering how the Shard felt about "Inferior" Communist state enterprises. Just as well, she disliked owing favours to the Greys and especially the Militants, not when she could manage the supplier herself. She wanted something sleek and svelte and held up well against both elemental and physical damage, a quality that nothing short of Master-tier Dwarven Runecrafting would provide. As for the Creature Core component, she had several Hulk specimens with Negatively-aligned properties that would serve as the suit's conduits— considering her future abuse of Sanguine Mantle and Bone Shield; she didn't mind more Negative Energy drain. And in the concourse of waiting for her suit to be made, she figured she might as well have one crafted for Elvia as well. The Order of the Bath possessed its own Enchanter Brethren, but Elvia wasn't of the rank necessary to pursue their services. As such, Gwen gave Walken instructions to find Elvia something suitably "Saint-looking" to both protect her friend from harm and harness Faith from folk she would rescue in their future expedition. When she had mentioned this idea to Elvia during their restless night at the Ferrier's Cottage, the Cleric accepted her gift of a suit in the mid-five-figures range. She then asked: "Who am I saving? Is this for the Steppes?" Gwen's response had been, "No idea, but I know from whom you'll be saving folks." "Who?" Elvia had cocked her head with sweet, unknowing innocence. "… me." Trawsfynydd. In the end, Gwen decided not to risk Dickie's ire and the Elves' further impatience. Therefore, from London to Birmingham then to the skies, she had blazed her way north-west at full belt while following her Divi-orb, arriving finally at her fated meeting. On the grassy knoll approaching the trade station, the Hvítálfar receiving her wasn't the lithe Hierophant Sanari but a black-clad warrior dressed in a scarab-shell battle mantle. Arch-Warden Eldrin, she recognised the look if not the Elf. The Wardens wore mantles of different length, each resembling gossamer insect wings, with the juniors sporting a single pair of silken fabric. From the looks of the luxurious waterfall of semi-transparent material behind him, the Arch-Warden possessed no less than four pairs. Was the fabric merely ceremonial? Gwen wondered as she landed with the biggest smile she could muster. Or were they magic items of sorts? Either a form of transformative armour or maybe something akin to wings that could enable supersonic flight. Different to Solana's ageless mien of tender benevolence, Eldrin's face was more angular and cruel, with a hooked nose that reminded Gwen of a down-turned horned beetle. He was tall even for an elf, standing past two meters from greave to headpiece, all in satin crow-black. Solana the white. Gwen mused to herself. Eldrin the black. One took care of the tree and distributed its benediction. And the other, if the cosplay was anything to go by, was the kind who dispensed violence in the dark, doing clandestine deeds to satisfy Solana's needs so that the rest of the Hvítálfar could look each other in the eye and say "May the Bloom be Eternal" without fear in their leafy warrens. Gwen inhaled the nourishing air. The first time she came to Tryfan, she had expected Rivendell with a twist. Now armed with renewed Planar knowledge, she had a better understanding of the Hvítálfars' position. According to Cambridge, the conjecture was that Elves were symbiotic colonisers of the Prime Material. Theirs was a way of the world that had been conceived in a time when men still walked with hunched backs, and Dwarves cowered from the hungry things swimming through the Murk. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. "Greetings from the Shard." Gwen bowed deep as she landed. "I have come for an audience with Eldrin, Arch-Warden of Tryfan." The Elf's pupils were the usual chromatic gold common to the Hvítálfar, and thanks to the dark garb of the Arch-Warden, Gwen felt as though acutely studied by an alien beetle with an insectile mind. From her position, boundless potential energy seemed to encase the Arch-warden's conforming bodysuit of chitin, making him appear melded with his carapace armour. In place of stitchings, straps and seals, the suit was unblemished by manufacturing, appearing wholly home-grown. No doubt, Gwen whistled internally in her mind. The battle suit was unique, mayhap was as rare as the giant Red Dragon Core the House of Windsor displayed in London's Tower. "Magus Song." Eldrin didn't even grace her with a nod. "You've kept us waiting." "Duty called." Gwen indicated in the wrong direction that wasn't the Shard. For some reason, she felt strangely rebellious against Dickie's advice to fawn over the Elves like her peers in the Tower. "Lord Hierophant, you weren't standing here for months on end, were you?" The Arch-Warden's facial muscled moved a micro-millimetre. "Come, we shall speak in a more appropriate place." Gwen glanced at the phantom "Tree" in the distance that seemed to rise into the heavens. It was an impossible sight, for the weight of all that wood would make its physics akin to an inverted K2 sitting atop the Matterhorn. "Okay." She followed like an obedient kitten. Another Mage would question the wisdom of following an elite Elementalist into an abode within which they held complete control over time and space. As for Gwen, the last time she was here, Almudj had a heart-to-heart with the Bloom in White, momentarily transforming the elfin goddess into AC/DC's 1990 Australian classic, "Thunderstruck". Gwen felt guilty that once more, she was piggy-backing on Al's good graces, despite her Patron having given no such consent. Of course, with the Path of power she had plotted out for herself, such crutches would not remain permanent. Within ten years, she was confident that she would attain Sobel's sorcery level, then far surpass her Master's wife. Why? Why Legion, of course. Short of usurping the telecommunication conglomerate from her, no one in their right minds would allow such a categorical advancement in quality of life to be rescinded from the world. Even if the Mageocracy tried their darndest, she wasn't worried. Short of Undeath, they would have to pry the controlling shares from her cold, dead hands. Beside her, without need for an existing tree, Eldrin willed a trellis gate into existence, then opened a portal into Tryfan. "Tree Striding is SO incredibly useful…" Gwen remarked as she stepped through. "Henry could do something like this," came the cold reply. "So can you, if you are willing to learn." Inside of the portal, they unsurprisingly arrived on the foliage of the grand trunk. The pair was not near the heartwood, as Solana's abode had been, but a balcony overlooking the Cloud Sea below the Plane of Radiance, a sight that hinted at the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Steam having drifted close. They were on a private viewing platform, below which the Great Tree extended into the white unknown and above which the vibrant, jade-leaf foliage tapered toward a blue infinity. There was an elegant table wrought of vines, fossilised and then carved meticulously with wood-shaping spells, erect amid two equally elaborate chairs. The motif, as far as Gwen could tell, was a narrative tapestry of sorts. "I have waited upon you, Magus Song," Eldrin began. "Because in my capacity as Arch-Warden, I had been a companion to your Master, Lord Henry Kilroy." "Thank you for being patient," Gwen said with a tone of apology. "I didn't know you knew my Master." It was a white lie. Considering that Henry had a bloody secluded abode where he lived with a bleeding Void Sorceress, there was no possibility that he was on bad terms with the head of security. Still, there was no reason to demonstrate her foresight. Against her seniors, especially older men, Gwen had long learned it was best to pretend that she was ambitious and brilliant but low on wisdom and cunning. Eldrin gave her a critical glare. The Essence in her Astral Body instinctively roused, stiffening her spine and adding colour to her cheeks. "I understand that we are both individuals with more matters of immediacy than time," Eldrin remarked. "Nonetheless, it is The Bloom's wish that you come to understand the arrangement your Master and Tryfan once shared." "Time? Our lives are as mayflies to willow's compared to yours, Lord Warden," Gwen returned. "Even so, I am surprised the Hvítálfar experience impatience." The Elf studied her with his chromatic orbs catching the Radiant light. "You speak like one with a limited life, you— who is a calf of the old ones." "I am still young." Gwen shrugged. "Two decades is all I've known." Eldrin's unconvinced face made her self-conscious. She felt like an older woman trying to convince the young buck at the bar she was still in her twenties. "The arrangement we had with Lord Henry stems from the Accord," Eldrin said. "A good number of your Human leaders on the continent you call Europe likewise share this understanding with our kind. Your species may be native to the Prime Material, but our kind has been here far longer than you. Without our presence, the Prime Material will be far more vulnerable to the Astral law of entropy. Without its Great Trees, the Prime Material would have never existed, nor would it continue to exist." "I understood some of that," Gwen replied stiffly, conscious that they'd been standing the whole while. Unfortunately, since Eldrin stood still as a sentinel, and she had to oblige likewise. "Magus Song." The gangly and giant Elf loomed. "Will you, as Lord Kilroy's scion, join our Accord?" "Is Gunther a part of this?" Gwen asked in turn. "Is Alesia?" "Magus De Botton and Master Shultz are a different breed compared to you and Lord Kilroy," Eldrin answered. "They stand at the apex of your kind, but they are not of interest to the Accord. Master Shultz would have suited our Bloom's purpose, but Lord Kilroy had by choice took him from our commonwealth into his. Now, in Master Kilroy's vacancy, we turn to you who is closest to him and whose potential may be greater." "Hold up." Gwen put up both hands. "I'll have you know that no one ever explained what the Accord was to me. As far as I know, it's air." Eldrin appeared to study her face to read the thoughts coursing through her head. "I see. Shall I elucidate its purpose?" "Not if it means I have to join," Gwen said quickly. "Sometimes, ignorance is bliss." "You are not curious?" "Curiosity killed the Displacer Beast," Gwen replied. "Then sold its skin for five hundred HDMs at the Grey Market. I should know. I've got the coat in my Storage Ring. Beautiful colour." "I see." Eldrin considered her words. "Then, in my capacity as Arch-Warden, I shall consent to give you a certain degree of clarity without charge. Do you still wish to know?" Gwen was tempted to ask whether it was possible to discuss the issue in her flying Tower a decade from now but also recognised that the Elves were likely starting to take her seriously as a threat, or at least as an unknown element that shouldn't be left alone. Back in the day, Solana had said that they had left Henry to his devices— the consequence was Sobel, then and Henry's death. Likewise, she still had to report on Sufina's proposal, though she would not make that demand of the Elves until she had some leverage to lubricate the discussion. Gwen sighed at her indecision. "You are a very peculiar specimen, Magus Song." Eldrin's expression remained unchanged. "How many of your kind have perished to be let into the Accord so that they may know the deeper secrets of the Prime Material, and yet, you dither at the threshold. We are offering an olive branch out of diplomacy, Gwen. And out of consideration that you are Henry's true Apprentice." Henry's true Apprentice. Her breath quickened. She liked that. "Fine, I'll bite." Gwen shrugged her shoulders. "Don't you know that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing? How much are you willing to give for free, and if I listen, what choice might I have in remaining neutral to Tryfan's cause? I wasn't staying away out of arrogance, Arch-Warden. I was staying away because there might be prospects far beyond what I can or am willing to handle." "… And the council complains that you Humans rush forward without consideration for consequences." Eldrin finally revealed a less stern expression. "You may sit." "And if I refused, were you going to portal me out?" Gwen rolled her eyes and sat. "I am all ears, Arch-Warden." Eldrin joined her in the adjacent chair. Elves have long torsos, Gwen observed. Eldrin's sitting height made her feel like he was still standing. "The Accord," Eldrin began again. "Is both simple and complex. The World Trees are the source of the Prime Material's stability. In its health, there sits the Bloom in White, Master Tyfanevius, and we. In this, they are three and yet; all are one." "There is always a woman, a snake, and a tree," Gwen mouthed to herself. "While my kind has made our home here for longer than you can imagine, beings like Humanity are the true inheritors of the Prime Material. We Álfar are custodians— to maintain this balance, your kind as well must do your duty." "Alright." Gwen thought of the Triffidus infestation she had purged. "But surely there's more to it." "The Accord is an agreement to maintain the Tree's health, and thereby the health of this Plane we call home," Eldrin explained. "Balance, Magus Song, is more than Purging invasive species and defeating common enemies. Ecological maintenance requires delicacy, for it is an act of foresightful and constant, meticulous pruning. For all our sakes, the equilibrium is maintained. To do otherwise would contribute directly to the Plane's demise." "Why does that sound so ominous?" Gwen asked. "Because your kind has failed once already," Eldrin stated without any particular emotion. "Thirty-four Sun Cycles ago, the Great Mor Ereg withered, its Guardian turned on the Great Tree's custodians, and the basin from which some of your greatest ancient nations emerged erupted into a sea of flame. The "Caspian" boiled, Magus Song, and the Prime Material both our people hold dear was torn asunder by the Astral rent that took Mor Ereg's place. The sea changed, the land changed, the clouds shifted. The consequence, you should know well." "The Beast Tide. The Black Dragon." "Ancient Vynssarion, yes." Eldrin nodded. "The death of the tree robbed from the old one all sensibility. A being of his power, nourished for aeons by the Great Tree's roots, isn't a madness Elves without a tree could tame alone. As a result, the Elementals usurped a portion of our world— and the Astral fabric tethering together the Prime Material grew thinner yet." "So, the Accord is a mutual defence treaty?" Gwen asked for clarification. "That's nothing out of the ordinary. Why the secrecy?" Eldrin waited for her to finish. "Maintaining equilibrium," he said carefully. "Is a difficult affair. Each Great Tree's pillar stretches only so far, and each tribe, be it the Hvítálfar, the Ljósálfar, the Svartálfar or our mortal cousins, the Träälvor, take a different approach. Some guard their duty with jealousy and hostility. Others chose isolation and seclusion. WE chose cooperation, becoming Wardens, servants to the great balance of all things, living or dead, elemental or native. If you so choose, you too may join the ranks of our kind, nourished by immortality, tethered by compromise." "Our kind? Immortality?" "Solana has already mentioned this," the Arch-Warden said. "The Great Tree nourishes the Wyrm, the Wyrm its Vessels." "VESSELS?" Gwen's eyes grew wide, a torrent of thoughts flooding through her swirling mind. She wasn't sure how the Yinglong fitted into this western narrative, but her cognisance was no longer blank. "I think… I get it. Wow— is that what a Vessel is? Is that the purpose of the Dragons? Are you saying there are more Vessels like Evee and I all over the world?" "Yes… and no. You are not unique in that capacity, at least. Just as Humanity isn't alone in this sacred enterprise..." Eldrin left it at that and instead impassively studied her face for signs of further comprehension. There was much to digest in Eldrin's words, and Gwen chose to do just that. During the Triffidus infestation, the Shard had moved its military forces from Northern Ireland to put down the Far Planes' planar overspill. According to her lecturer, this was because of ecological conservation and a need to prevent further decay of the Prime Material's paper-thin boundaries. Now Eldrin spoke of a more significant threat, a kind of Triffidus endgame, that of a Planar race spilling into the Prime Material and becoming a dominant presence strong enough to bend space and warp the elemental composition of Terra. Unless the Elf was bald-faced lying about the Black Sea, then she could trust his assertion that someone fucked up in the 70s and didn't manage to hold the fort against whatever was undermining the World Tree thereabouts. The consequence, therefore, was the collapse of a planar junction to the south-east, earmarking a part of the world that had served as the cradle of Human civilisation in antiquity as a Black Zone. As for the meaning hidden in between Eldrin's words, Gwen knew for a fact that there was something direr the Arch-Warden desired her to fathom through conscious cognisance. Only then could this "something" so ominous be acceptable to her. One by one, she carefully masticated Eldrin's diction choices in her mind, hoping her Master's Translation Stone was up to snuff. Balance. Ecology. Tree. From the way Eldrin positioned himself, the Warden saw the Hvítálfars' position as guardians of sorts. Even his title of "Arch-Warden" sounded like it hadn't so much to do with defending his tree, but more so to do with a managerial role, something like a CEO. The Triffdus of Angelsley. The Elementals of the Fire Sea. The Purge actions. Each a volatile element not of this world. Pruning. Astral fabric. Prime Material. Gwen wracked her brain, sifting the details through a sieve of logic. What was Eldrin directing her to see? Why was the Accord a thing that folks kept secret? Why was her Master a part of it, but not Gunther or Alesia or the Mages more famous than herself at the University? As for those who are in the Accord, why would they obfuscate their participation? Why did even Dickie speak of it haltingly? She cycled her train of thought once more, this time from the beginning. Pruning. Plane. Purge. Equilibrium. Ecology. Tree. Something clicked. Pieces fell into place. She looked down at her hands. They were white, pale beyond belief. Her fingers were shaking. Beside her, a slight display of affirming mirth displaced Eldrin's thin, severe lips, forming a pink gash like a fresh razor wound. The Accord— In accordance with— To reach an accord by consensus— A terrible understanding dawned, emerging from the Mountain of Madness like a gibbering aberrant baying for attention. The role her Master played for the Hvítálfar burst upon Gwen as though hot slime from a foetid Void pustule. In her old world, in Yellowstone, the wolves and bears ate the elk who ate the elm, the elm fed the beavers, the beavers built the dams, the dam prevented lowland floods, and the precipitation fed the highland elm. Like a spider's web, every ecological chain was welded to the other, with the removal of a single link spelling catastrophe. For decades, the Wardens of her world pruned the trees, bred the wolves, shot the elk, and balanced the ecological chain. In this world, the Hvítálfar instituted a more nouveau method. They invited the elms, the wolves, the beavers, the bears, the ravens, the salmon and whatever else lived in the Prime Material. And among the species, they picked out a few stand-out individuals. And then they told them the way of the world. "Welcome to the round table. Let's keep this simple. Do you want to prune yourself? Or should we do it for you?" Today, she pruned the Triffidus. A decade from now, she may prune the Elementals out the Fire Sea. Then one day, inevitably and for the greater good, she would prune her own. That was the _Accord_.

For what felt like a Microsoft minute, Gwen's blanked-out mind showed "page not found". When her thoughts came to, her protest choked up with offence and outrage compounded by outright existential woe. Opposite, the Arch-Warden watched her expression for a while, then raised a hand to halt her increasingly outlandish emotions from erupting between her ears and blowing her brains out. "Magus, your Void is leaking." Eldrin's golden eyes gleamed. "Do not fret. You are not a member of the Accord yet. Even if you are eager to participate, it takes decades to prove one's mettle. There will be tests of loyalty and dedication, and the temptation to use the information we provide to the advantage of Humanity will be many. When you are ready to join, you will have no such qualms." "J-Join?" Gwen spat, glaring at Eldrin with undisguised aversion that she allowed a Gwenism to lapse. "Why would anyone with any sense of goodness put themselves in that position? Gods! This is just another Coalition of the Willing, isn't it? Thanks for the knowledge, Arch-Warden, but no thanks." "Do you consider your disregard as good as our experience?" Eldrin appeared genuinely amused that he had a resistive sorceress on his hands. "Then again, your kind do proudly pronounce that ignorance is bliss. You are not wrong. For a short-lived species, many generations may yet pass in prosperity and peace. Many of your rulers would consider that arrangement completely acceptable, so long as their generation blooms and wilts without suffering. Nonetheless— the Accord would not want one of its future members to take the wrong, nor would Henry if he were alive." Gwen took a deep breath. She re-arranged her thoughts. If the Arch-Warden thought he could bully her into obedience, then the bastard had a whole Caliban coming for his buns! Nonetheless, she wasn't drunk enough on Lighting Affinity to try and headbutt the Elves, at least not with a face as delicate as hers. What should she do then if she could neither accept nor outright deny? "Has Tryfan ever pruned itself?" Gwen asked, her tone growing churlish, probing Eldrin for cracks. "No," Eldrin categorically denied her accusation. "Well, well, doesn't that come as a surprise. Would you do it if it came to it?" "A moot question." Eldrin shook his head. "Another member of the Accord will perform the deed if a race's members will not. You need not dirty your hands. That is also a part of the Accord." "How bloody convenient." Gwen's mind raced. "I guess that makes reaping your blood all the more acceptable. So long as you're not strangling any babies— it doesn't matter how many dozens perish in a fire, right?" "Your vitriol art misled," Eldrin replied with an annoying amount of patience. "Allow me to elucidate— what you proposed as self-pruning, Magus Song, is something that need not occur if your people exercise self-governance. In this, we have set an example as the Hvítálfar. For all our might, we have constrained our numbers for aeons and restricted ourselves to our modest living space. Even Guardian Tyfanevius, whose kind possess a natural inclination you know well, is restricted within the Great Tree, much to his frustration." Gwen half-listened to the Arch-Warden, her mind still bushwacking the dark to escape the Elf's grim entanglement. "To take your people as an example," Eldrin continued. "Humanity's vivaciousness is beyond belief. Even when the world was young and your kind was without sorcery, you thrived, going so far as to manifest ripples in reality through sheer force of belief. You are aware of how voraciously your species has progressed, Magus Song, are you not?" "Maybe, enlighten me." "'Spellcraft', the source-arcanistry Humanity now wields to sustain its seat of power," Eldrin said. "Has its origins in us. Your kind has taken the gentle boon we bestowed to ease your resistance against the Planar-usurpers into something that strains the Prime Material. In aeons past, the Accord's early progenitors consented for your people to inherit vast tracts of Terra that would fall into ruin and disjunction to Core-bearing colonists. Yet now, your kind has grown numerous enough to test the Astral fabric's elasticity. Your cities..." Eldrin shook his head. "We've grown too powerful?" Gwen raised both brows. Eldrin's lips grew mocking. "Too prideful, too ambitious, too intemperate." "Okay— so NOT too powerful, but annoying enough to be of concern," Gwen minced the Elf's choice of diction. "Exactly how much of our Spellcraft is based on yours?" "I believe that's enough talk of the Accord." Eldrin stopped her with a dismissive gesture. "Any more, and our allies would accuse me of bestowing undue partiality. Perhaps they already shall, but that would be a burden I have brought upon myself. You are very astute, Gwen, for one so young. So, how now?" "One last question." Gwen raised her voice. If she desired to delay, then the first thing she had to do was set fire to Eldrin's evergreen coolness. Inhaling deeply, she settled on delivering a kidney blow. "Tell me true, Arch-Warden. Was Sobel one of yours?" Her voice rose an octave as she circulated the overspilling Void mana throughout her conduits, priming her accusation with an aura similar to that of the Elizabeth she had encountered in Sydney. "If you want me to join, then tell me the truth. Was Lizzy a willing agent of the Accord or a rogue one?" The Arch-warden's golden orbs shrunk as motes of Druidic mana coursed through the Elf's conduits, reacting to her Void aura. His brow gave the slightest wrinkle, which she took to mean annoyance. Before she could pull back the pressure, Eldrin responded. A near-physical wave of Dragon-fear radiated from the Elf, almost balling her over with its intensity. Fighting the unbidden butterflies taking flight from her abdomen, Gwen kept up her demanding gaze even as her skin grew clammy and the hair on her thighs stood on end, rising from her knees to her neck then back again like a Mexican wave. "That's a nice reaction." Gwen felt a thrilling surge of masochistic satisfaction as yet more demands danced on the tip of her tongue. Eldrin's Dragon Fear was purer than even Golos' as it strummed her every nerve, mangling her innards and rousing Almudj's irritated Essence. Forcing her jaws to unclench, she continued her barrage. "Ha! How about this, then? Will the Hvítálfar abide by the Rule of Law and prune the Svartálfar or the Ljósálfar?" "If it comes to that…" Eldrin scowled. "So, you HAVE exterminated Álfar before?" Gwen pursued with a quick follow-up. "Has the Accord had a go at a Dragon yet? Are the Asiatic Drakes a part of the Accord? How about the Merman of the Seven Kingdoms? — Holy shit! Was the Mermen invasion of Sydney the work of the Accord?" Against Gwen's barrage, Eldrin's expression grew darker and darker until Gwen finally saw the blood clotting against his pale, flawless skin. The fire in the Arch-Warden's eyes likewise grew in intensity. When she resorted to taking his silence as a "Gotcha!" the Dragon Fear radiating from the Arch-Warden became solid tendrils kneading her trembling figure, grasping at her neck and running spindly-little spider-fingers down her spine. "Magus Song—" "There's the rub! If the Elemental remains active, does that mean Humanity's safe so long as the Fire Sea remains a present threat? How about the North Korean Undead and their Juche? How do the Undead figure into—" She raised her voice and asked more questions, allowing the word vomit in her mind to pour out and drench the scoundrel from head to foot like Void bile from Caliban's gut. "— and the Dwarves! How about Deepholm's troubles, are you guys in cahoots with Calamari—" "Enough—!" Finally, to her immense relief, just as she flinched in anticipation of a smack on the mouth, Eldrin growled, turned, then walked headfirst into a newly-formed trellis Portal. Before Gwen could finish her tirade, the Arch-Warden dematerialised. For several seconds, she drank in the blessed silence, the elevated emotions in her chest finally returning to a mortal plane. After calming her nerves, she breathed long and deep, picking her spent sanity off the floor. She wasn't Prince Hamlet, but she knew well the value in delaying her "benefactor" with false fire. Sometimes, the only way out of a blind date was to meander breathlessly about cats, then sneak out for a bathroom break from which there was no return— Unfortunately, her resounding success in annoying the elder Elf had now left her stranded in a room atop a World Tree, where wandering without a guide may annoy millennia-old Elementalists by the hundreds. "Solana?" she addressed the wall. "Are you watching?" No reply came. "Come on, I know you're watching." She furrowed her brows. "It must get pretty boring up in the atrium with the Heartwood, what with no midday Vid-cast programming and all." Eeeearygh— The vine-barrier leading to the balcony yawned open. Gwen snorted. It didn't take a Meister to know that the leader of the Elves was watching her performance. Eldrin might have a temper, but she was under no delusion that Solana would be tricked. In fact, now that she thought about it, maybe Eldrin just couldn't be bothered playing with a lesser individual like herself. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. With her spirits dampened, she made for the door— "Magus Song!" — And almost ran face-first into Sanari's silk-bound bosoms. "Lady Sanari—" Gwen stopped herself just in time to prevent unintended intimacy. Sanari stood awkwardly by the door, evidently blocking the exit with her body. Gwen chose not to force her way past the flustered Elf but instead waited to see what the Hierophant had to say. The female Hvítálfar's golden eyes were rich with clashing emotion, revealing far more than the cold, metallic rings in Eldrin's dying-star orbs. "The Bloom in White has a gift for you." Solana produced a vibrant-hued satchel woven from two leaves, each half the breadth of the female's impressive handspans. Upon closer inspection, Gwen realised both blades' veins had fused so that the entire leaf-purse appeared a single living organism. "It's for your venture in the Northern Steppes; Lady Solana says that this would be of help." Tilting the satchel, Sanari allowed a handful of dots to fall from the pouch's slit-opening. "Seeds?" Gwen possessed no knowledge of botany beyond basic Google image. All of her indoor plants had died to neglect or her cats. A green-thumbed colleague once remarked her winter garden of starved or overwatered plants was a one-woman botanic Holocaust. "Starling Tomatoes, Jade Cucumbers, Polar Beans and Sunburst Squash," Solana counted the misshapen forms with the gentleness of one bobbing the heads of her children. "All produce commonly planted here at the tree. With Lady Solana's blessing, they're able to thrive anywhere on the Prime Material, provided there's sun, soil and water." "And these are for me?" Gwen asked, wondering why Solana would gift her plants. Considering the nature of the Black Zone, wouldn't a suit of what Eldrin wore be more helpful? "What am I to do with… squash?" Sanari's consternation indicated one innocent of esoteric knowledge. "Don't worry. I'll not look a gift-slav… horse in the mouth." Gwen reflexively passed a hand over the container. "Ow—!" The mana feedback gave her fingers quite the kick. Nursing her bruised hand, she looked at Sanari. "This is a spatial container for living things," Sanari quickly explained. "You cannot store an item such as this in your crude spatial devices." "Ah." Gwen realised her error. In the human world, seeds were not alive, nor Bags of Holding. From the looks of it, the seeds contained in the Elven "living" Bag of Holding was not only brimming with vitality and Essence, but even their container was ripe with the lifeblood of the World Tree. "It's a bag specialising in storing things with life?" "It nourishes the seeds." Sanari nodded. "All Druids have one." "And… it's for me?" Gwen grinned with teeth, all repression from Eldrin's bullying forgotten in the face of glorious loot. In a world where hand-bags were no longer necessary, having a cute Elven satchel was all kinds of tasteful. "Yes…" Sanari regarded Gwen's avarice-misted eyes with hesitation. "Is this available for trade at the way station in Trawsfynydd?" "This is a gift." Sanari looked scandalised. "It's for Druids, Magus Song! How can such a sacred thing, woven from the leaves of the World Tree, be bought with human currency?" "Of course, you're right." Gwen nodded in disappointment. It was a shame that she couldn't get one each for her female companions, at the very least for Evee, who could surely make use of such an item better than she did. Sanari exhaled. "And this is for you as well. It needs to be kept in the Druid Bag to remain hale." The Heirophant produced a green parchment. At first, Gwen had thought the thing a document, but the inscriptions on the irregularly shaped piece of vellum-like material did not mask the fact that it was once fresh foliage. Its Elvish patterns— ones she recognised as Hvítálfar Glyphs of sorts, had been applied so intricately and in such complex, microscopic detail that there existed no possibility it could be done by hand. "What's this?" Gwen received both items. Sanari looked like she was giving up a child. "A Llais leaf, the kind that inspired the rough sorcery of your Divination Mages," the Druid explained while wincing. "If you would nourish the leaf with your Essence, it is possible to transmute thoughts and Messages to the Bloom." "Really? But I'll be out of the range of any Divination Towers," Gwen said, her fingers shaking a little. "How would this work?" "So long as The Bloom's Essence remains nourished and the vine-script remains intact, the Llais leaf will speak to its progenitor. Our Druids who staff the Grove of Voices may then transmute your Message through the trunks of the Great Tree, though our Lady in White would require no such intermediaries." A Thundering Shatter rang out in the interior of Gwen's skull. She studied the leaf, her lips suddenly more parched than when she mouthed-off Eldrin. A rising wave of entrepreneurial enterprise stirred within her, warming her from belly to chest, bringing the blood to her cheeks. "You didn't mention the range." Her voice trembled. "What's the range?" "Within the Great Tree?" Sanari's brows furrowed. "Within the Prime Material…" "The Great Tree IS the Prime Material." She had to circulate several jolts of Void to crush the madcap endorphins now inundating her brain. Eyes gleaming, she caressed the leaf, all the while studying Sanari's disturbed-mien to see if the Druid was boasting. When the Druid said nothing else, she returned to holding the Llias leaf like a Knight Templar holding the One Grail. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Did the Elves have any idea? Did Solana have any idea what the Llais leaf meant for a race struggling to get a Message from Central to Katoomba, much less London to Istanbul? The sheer cost in diplomacy, HDMs, Tower investments and maintenance of a Divi-Tower network could bring a city-state to its knees! Not to mention someone could blow a Tower up! If the Isle of Man were to lose its Divination Tower, then the lower half of Ireland, not to mention Northern Ireland, would fall into darkness. There would be no coordination, no reinforcements, not even news. No one would know if the Fomorians swept the isle and wiped away all human habitation in a week-long Wild Hunt! Most importantly, low-tier Contingency Rings would be useless! Was this knowledge a part of the Accord? Or could a pretty girl simper her way into acquiring the design? Or mayhap Sufina could manage a simulacrum of the same sorcery? Her mind was suddenly pregnant with possibilities, her imagination bathed in the wonders of Elven Magi-tech and the opportunities it brought for Legion. She should apologise to Dickie; Gwen felt stuck by a stray thought, her heart suddenly filling with unbidden love for the dickish Duke of Norfolk who had begged her to speak to the Elves. To think she had put off visiting Trawsfynydd for so long! For almost a year, she had communed with her Dwarven allies for possibilities of borrowing Echo Crystal technology, only to conclude that even if the Ancestors allowed such a trespass, there would be no Mother Lode to provide the raw materials without accessing Deepholm. And yet, here, in plain sight, the Elves already had matured Magi-tech rearing to go. She decided to double-check, lest her excitement mislead her reading of the situation. "So, the range is unlimited?" she announced each word with deliberate care. "I can use this anywhere on Earth? How rare is this leaf?" "The Llais Leaf only communes with the Great Tree of its origin." Sanari's expression remained perplexed. "For our kin, it is common practice to detour through the Grove of Voices if we are to venture far from home. As Lord Eldrin has said, our kind possesses little enough desire to leave our sacred grot, so when necessity calls, we always take its sounds, smells and Essence with us. Even if we were to venture to another Plane, the Llais keeps us tethered to Tryfan." Jesus, a real-world manifestation of the Axis Mundi Theory, Gwen noted from her Planar lectures. Something that for Humanity was in the realm of quantum physics, but for their Elven counterparts, something of the fabric of life on the Prime Material. "And this script…" “A manifestation of Hvítálfar Druidism,” Sanari confirmed. "The Bloom in White said that if you are keen to learn…" "I would have to join the Accord?" "Correct." Her boiling blood cooled. Her trial period was over. But what she uncovered was enough for now. For the Llais to work, she needed three things— Essence, a World Tree tapped into the Axis Mundi, and Hvítálfar Druid-Arcanists. Of the three, she could arguably access the former two if Sufina remained keen to play ball. As for the final component— there was no lack of Scholars in London obsessed with Elven sorcery. If Sulfina lacked the knowledge, perhaps a big-brained Meister somewhere could create a facsimile for ten thousand HDMs. If not, how about a hundred thousand? How about a percentile stake in the business? Undoubtedly, the driving force of greed and ambition would take Humanity to new heights once more. Suddenly, the dream of owning a commercial, continent-spanning communication network didn't seem so distant after all. "… The Bloom said that as the Elementals are our direst threat," Sanari, unable to fathom the strange excitement on her face, decided to continue delivering the Lady in White's sentiments. "You may ask her for advice. The Steppes is also a part of the Accord, and the preservation of the Centaurs natives is central to the region's stability." "Centaurs have Cores." Gwen pointed out. "They have habited the region far longer than your kind has possessed written language." Sanari pointed in turn. "Lady Solana says you mustn't take Lord Eldrin's approach of the Accord too seriously. In her eyes, the nurturing of life is far more important than the taking of it." Gwen pursed her lips to stop herself from unveiling a sardonic smile. Solana, the good cop. Eldrin, the bad cop. One white, one bl— Gwen quickly derailed that train of thought. The point was, had she been a "real" young woman with only a few years of adulthood nursing her brain, she might have exhaled with relief and believed Sanari's innocent and somewhat vacant eyes. "Her magnanimity has put me to shame," Gwen said. "I understand. Is that all?" "Yes, that is all." "Then one more thing," Gwen reiterated. "The seeds are a personal favour Solana is gifting to the Centaurs, and the Elias Leaf is free of charge. The use of either will not accidentally land me in the Accord, correct?" "Correct." Sanari appeared insulted by her insinuation. "Alrighty then." Gwen dared not demand that she needed Solana's word. To do so would harm her social capital. By that same measure, asking Sanari to give hers would serve no purpose other than making the situation more awkward. "Shall I see you out?" Sanari appeared relieved by her willingness to leave. Gwen looked around the balcony, then at the splendiferous view of the deadly Planes. She looked toward the tree's apex and decided to express her gratitude. "Thank you, Lady Solana. I very much appreciate what I've learned during my visit, and I'll make VERY GOOD use of your boons, I promise. And of course, I'll take care of the Centaurs." There was no answer to her farewell, or if there was, it was only the susurration of the World Tree, yawning gently toward a radiant Plane of eternal light. The day before NYE, at a carefree luncheon with Lady Grey at Peterhouse, Gwen received a Message from Meister Bekker to be on her way. The disruption was very business-like, signalling that her student days of drinking and flying wherever she pleased, whenever she wanted, were likely at an end. According to Jean-Paul, the situation in the Golden Pavilion was rapidly developing, and that the Nayzağay Qanī was on the move to meet the Elementals in the region. The Meister and her Flights were to reinforce the Magisters working at Kaplankyr effective immediately, meaning Gwen had the option of travelling with them or travelling alone to find them. The latter was unacceptable, as not only was the danger excessive, the Meister was counting on her Divi-Orb to guide them hastily toward the Golden Pavilion. Immediately, Gwen Messaged Walken, who had completed the inventory with immediacy. As for her new battle suit, Yossari regretfully conceded that Gwen's variant would likely arrive weeks later, at which point she should be planning for Elvia's arrival. The Cleric and her knight could, therefore, take delivery of all their items. "Milady, what's Ollie doing these days?" A nervous administrator's sweaty face flashed through Gwen's mind as she bid the Marchioness happy holidays. "He's enjoying his promotion, though he's gone home for the holidays." Lady Grey's smile was all-knowing. "Shall I call upon him? I am sure he'll be useful even in the Steppes, assuming you can find a use for him. That said, you're an assistant administrator, a student under Meister Bekker. To have Ollie as your assistant would put him in an awkward position, don't you think?" "… Yeah-Nah," Gwen affirmed the Lady's wisdom. "Ollie needs a break." "That he does." The Lady's eyes were kind and pure, not at all bloodshot with sadism as Gwen's appeared. "He's an earnest boy, but he worries too much." "Well, then." Gwen invoked her Flight Spell without the need for somatic nor verbal components. "I'll return with the good news." "I am sure you will, dear." Lady Grey toasted her with a cup of gently steaming Earl Grey. "Venture forth, sweet sorceress. Deliver unto the Orientals the best of our majesty and mercy, but if need be, spare not the rod of the Mageocracy!"

Gwen met with Jean-Paul and his Meister at Heathrow's ISTC station in a segregated tier set aside for military operators. "… I'll go change," was Gwen's first reply after seeing the austere group's equipment. Of the middle-aged men and women gathered upon the oval long-range platform, all wore combat suits of one kind or another, their auras dense with Abjuration. A few who had the usual physique of Mineral or Earthen Abjurers even had Dwarf-forged plates, ensuring they towered over their contemporaries. Others sported enchanted leather or cloth-plating, crafted from synthetic, quasi-magical materials resembling Gwen's Shen-Teī. "... Sorry, I should have said something." Jean-Paul's stooped figure blushed among the group. He had informed her of everything, including a long checklist of survival staples, but not that she had to preemptively dress for the occasion. As a result, the young sorceress looked startlingly out of place in her flared blouse, ankle-jeans and black heels, enticing wide, appreciative grins from her audiences' faces. Gwen herself had anticipated that they would muster at Volgograd, but developing events meant Bekker had the intent to travel continuously. "Take your time. We're waiting for the ISTC to calibrate." Meister Bekker did not appear to mind, though the Magisters and Maguses behind her all chuckled at the inexperienced "first-timer". Within the group, only the gloomy and solemn Jean-Paul shared her role of Magister-in-training. With Gwen joining the group, a nice splash of youth and zest was added to the otherwise severe war party. When Gwen re-appeared, she wore a custom-spec bodysuit attune to both Lightning and Void in navy and black. The British-made ensemble she had told Walken to requisition was made-to-order and modified by Dwarven Runesmiths. From the unanticipated aesthetic improvements, Gwen could only deduce Walken knew her too well and presumed too much. For example, atop the sculpted knee and shin guards, the armour irrationally deployed a cloth skirt, much like her made-for-TV Shen-teī, an impractical design with no real purpose akin to Supergirl's predilection for cheerleading miniskirts. In actual practice, at high flight speeds, the mini-petticoat bellowed out and increased drag, especially if she were to fly backwards. Likewise, the suit's torso material adhered tightly to her svelte, eye-catching silhouette rather than sporting a hard-frame cuirass, directing many a raised brow and pats to the back of a breathless Jean-Paul. "To be young..." the sentiment audibly spread among the veterans. "To think..." one of the men sighed. "You used to look like that—" "You're begging for death, Taylor," a female voice answered from the crowd. The cabal of Magisters and Maguses laughed. "You look lovely," Jean-Paul stammered. Gwen gave the young man a one-over. "You're quite dashing yourself." In reality, Jean-Paul's battle suit, together with the aura he gave off, gave the impression of a high-rent gimp suit. It was because the enchanted Griffin-skin was tanned black and then double-treated with sacred oils, giving the minimalist surface a unique lustre. According to the Void Mage, Jean-Paul's armour was one-of-a-kind and hand-Enchanted by Arcanists serving under Meister Bekker, making Gwen sentimental for her lost Master. Her saltiness was quickly transmuted into sugar when she saw a familiar sight. "Magus Kott!" It was Major Nils Kott, her Abjuration tutor. Reasonably, she had imagined the man returned to Germany after his exchange period was over, and their lessons had ceased the week prior. "How come you're here?" The Magus' Gunther-esq bearing filled her heart with gladness. Of all her tutors, the laconic Nil was her favourite next to "Mistress" Le Guevel. "I have decided to take on a well-paying quest before I return to Berlin." The Abjurer's smile made her feel strangely flustered. "It was a good deal of CCs, offered by a certain Lady from Ely." At Nil's confession, Gwen no longer felt the sting of jealousy. If Jean-Paul had his Meister, then she had her Marchioness! In this regard, they were equals! "Magus Nil remains a part of my team," Bekker reminded Gwen to wipe away her foolish grin. "You'll get your turn, but only if we can spare the Abjuration slot. If every Magister-in-training received a war hero Abjurer as a bodyguard, the Tower's testing system would collapse within the year…" "He-he-he—" Gwen snickered, fluttering her lashes innocently at her disapproving elders. Kott rolled his eyes. Bekker shook her head, then introduced her to the rest of the team. There were four Boer Mages among the lead Flight, Bekker's old crew from Tukkies, the same as Alesia's foursome of tightly-knit followers. These were Magister Altus Schoeman and Louw Jonke, joined by Magus André Jouberts and Adriaan Pietersen. Together, the four made up Bekker's London Imperial Task Team. Gwen shook each of the men's hands and noted their similar features, such as their shocking heads of fair hair and their lightly-hued eyes. Considering Jean-Paul's origin tale and the men's mid-thirty ages, she couldn't help but wonder if the four shared a bit of history with the Void Mage. The Shard Flights consisted of two teams, both lead by Magisters, each fielding four Maguses. The Magisters were both men, one a Transportation Specialist, Colonel Eli Hill, the other a ridiculously handsome Diviner with an Ambassadorial rank named Frank Taylor who also served as the team leader. The other eight Maguses, inclusive of Nil, Gwen greeted one by one, memorising their names and ranks. Altogether, the three Flights fielded One Meister, Four Magisters, ten Maguses, one Jean-Paul and Gwen, a strategic "War Mage". Of their sorcerous classes, most of the Mages were multi-talented. Nonetheless, for their principal occupations, they were two Evokers, three Abjurers, an Enchanter, three Transmuters, two Conjurers, one Illusionist, one Cleric, and two Diviners. As for their secondary schools, almost every member of the party could fight as individuals through Evocation or Transmutation, and over half of the party could act as temporary Abjurers. According to Jean-Paul, the gathered Mages possessed enough clout to plough a Frontier if need be. By the time Gwen finished shaking the last woman's hand, they were approached by two customs officers. "Magister Bekker, the ISTC array is primed and ready." Bekker patted Gwen on the shoulder to stop her hobnobbing with the crew. "Final equipment checks!" Bekker called out. "Confirm your manifests!" "Confirmed!" "Confirmed!" "Confirmed..." "I am good." Gwen scanned over her multiple Storage Ring and the Elven Bag of Holding. Her standing order was to bring whatever she deemed necessary at her own expense. Jean-Paul's portion included food, water and shelter for them both; hers involved enough supplies to feed a Battalion of NoMs for months. "Hope you all had a light breakfast," Bekker informed the Mages. "All of you, grab a buddy. JP, stay with Gwen. Move out!" The Kyiv interchange took less than ten minutes, giving Gwen nary a look at Boryspil. However, from her furtive glimpse, she could deduce that the ISTC station was near-new, as indicated by its extensive use of aluminium and glass. It was also a way-station, involving only a single building with three service tiers. Comparatively, Heathrow sported four international and one domestic exchange relays, each buzzing like beehives. Post Kyiv, the parties materialised at Volgograd, a town briefly renamed Stalingrad after a particular outburst of Communist fervour in Gwen's world, an administrative centre with half-a-million residents. In this world, the Volgograd Frontier grew infamous after a bloody defence against German aggressors during the Pan-European War. In the wake of a battle in which NoM-staffed armies tested the new limits of Spellcraft. In the aftermath, with over a million NoMs and thousands of Mages' corpses littering the city, the Frontier abruptly grew into a hot zone of Necromancy, suffering yet another brief lull of war and turmoil before reconstruction could begin. In the end, it took until the 60s, after the earth was salted and blessed and the bodies were incinerated, that restoration began. Then came the Beast Tide, and Volgograd's rebirth halted for another two decades. During this time, the Russian Frontier overran with every medium of native Elementals from Water Devils in the Volga, Harpies in the skies to Lycanthropic Hordes in the countryside. Her Volgograd, therefore, had an age of no more than two decades. "Are you alright?" Jean-Paul tugged her fingers. "Perfectly fine." Gwen inhaled the silvery motes of Conjuration. The ISTC station here wasn't in the best condition, and its Mandala array had to burn off excess mana, vastly extending the cooldown timer. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Just outside the ISTC array with its plinking Glyphs, the group was greeted by the local Tower Master, Khokhlachev Eduard Mikhailovich, or Edik for short. Together with Meister Bekker, the two exchanged documents, news, then a handful of Storage Rings. After that, the group politely withdrew from the gawking crowd gathered in the array. Outside, the sky starkly streaked with grey, its temperature as unforgiving as Frost Wolves. "HOLY HELL!" Gwen quickly circulated Essence until her body warmed up. "It's minus twenty here!" The rest of the parties also invoked various cantrips. "About six under." Magus Bekker casually invoked a Resistance spell. "Not the best conditions for high-speed flight. You now know why we left earlier than needed." "No joke." Gwen watched her half-gloved fingers return to a healthy pink. "Strewth, I am Australian, for God's sake. In my first fifteen years, I've seen snow once." "The temperature can drop to minus forty or more while we fly," Major Kott notified her and the rest of their crew. "Magister Jonke and I will provide Cold Resistance buffs. We will refresh the necessary protections every 12 hours. Once we reach the Fire Sea, the weather should warm up significantly." "Gather around—" Jonke lined up the team for Abjuration. "Gwen, once we're on the open water, use the orb," Meister Bekker informed her. "Gotcha." "Good luck, Magus and Magisters." Tower Master Edick bowed his head. As a Frontier Master, a London Meister was arguably leagues above his station. The other Magisters gave affirming return-nods. Gwen bowed her head. When she looked up, her eyes met the Tower Masters. "Sir?" "You're Kilroy's Apprentice." The Tower Master stated. "I am," Gwen replied, squaring her shoulders. "I am sorry for your loss." He held out a hand. "Master Henry was very kind to me in the past. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask." "I won't be a stranger." Gwen smiled. Even now, it amazed her how often her Master's name cropped up out of the blue from the mouths of strangers in high places. "Good. I look forward to your safe return. Don't take either the Elementals or the Centaurs lightly." "I'll take care." Gwen bowed again, this time from the waist. "You can catch up with Gwen on her return." Meister Bekker patted the man on the shoulder with a friendliness she did not usually offer. The reason for Bekker's rare show of deference, Jean-Paul explained in a whisper, was because their first stop in the instance of their Contingency Rings triggering would be Volgograd Tower. The Rings Bekker had transferred across served both as gifts and as an emergency stash if the Frontier lacked in upper-tier materials, equipment and Potions. With Edick's confessed support for Gwen, Bekker did the polite thing by professing mutual support for Edick. Gwen nodded in turn. Even gestures as simple as this was an important lesson for future Magisters like herself and Jean-Paul. In the real world, little details made a Magister's work more fluid, and such things weren't taught in a walled garden like Cambridge. The River Volga flowed from Volgograd toward the Caspian, so it wasn't difficult for the party to follow its blue-white length. "In summer, the river is stunningly beautiful," the party's Diviner and a veteran diplomat to the region spoke as the Flights flew, transmuting his thoughts while bathed in a radiant halo of light. The spell active around Magister Frank Taylor's head was a fifth-tier Divination staple called Circle Scry, a pulse-based, wide-range Divination spell used to detect unusual mana signatures and overt hostility with a radius tethered to the caster's Affinity tier. While the Ambassador remained somewhat aloof toward the others, his attitude toward Gwen, an Omni-Mage, War Mage and a fellow "Diviner" was softer than most. Of course, Gwen suspected her achievements had a great deal to do with the Magister's friendliness as well. As a Diplomat Corp member, the man understandably placed her upon a pedestal due to her aristocratic connections and her successes in the Murk. At the fore of the party flew Meister Bekker and her crew, while above them, shielded from potential attacks from below, drifted Gwen and Jean-Paul. On their present trajectory, across the vast expanse of water, the party's objective was Aktau, once the trade city of White Cliffs. However, the distance to be covered involved three hundred kilometres down the Volga, followed by another four hundred kilometres of open water in soul-freezing weather. At noon, the party officially exited the boundaries of human occupation and penetrated the Oblast Frontier. As a meandering serpent, the icy Volga wound through the frost-bitten landscape, a blue bruise across a vast expanse of unblemished snow. "It wasn't this cold before the Tide," Magister Taylor's radio host voice broke the shield-induced silence. He would comment on the splendiferous landscape whenever Bekker led the group lower in altitude to prevent their barriers from building up entirely with ice and snow. Even with their Mage Shields and Resistances active, Gwen could sense the chill from the whipping, howling wind outside, sending sheets of occasional sleet clattering against their oblong shells as their Flights pierced the wintry cold. "Why is it colder now?" One of the Maguses asked. "More tears into the Para-Elemental Planes of Ice?" "Not exactly," Taylor elucidated the group. "It's microclimate from the Fire Sea. You'll see what I mean once we get closer to the Caspian. The hot air heated up by the Prime Material's weakened fabric against the Elemental Plane of Fire is driving moisture into the upper atmosphere. It travels north, rapidly cools against the sea and the northern winter then falls as snow and sleet." "Are we expecting rain on top of this?" One of the Magisters sucked in a breath of cold air. "Christ, no wonder it's a Black Zone." "That's why we're avoiding the mountains and taking the route over the sea," Taylor said. "If we do run into storm clouds, we'll have to fly around them or drift closer into the Fire Sea." "Will we run into Elementals?" Gwen asked after requesting permission to speak. "With the Astral noises our mana signature are making?" Taylor gestured to the halo scanning for foes around his head. "Undoubtedly. The only question is, will they engage?" "You and Jean-Paul can use our future foes for practice," Meister Bekker's words filtered through the Divination relay. "Have you fought pure Elementals before? Humanoid variants or otherwise." Gwen thought of Ellen, Dean Luo's Familiar. Richard's Lea was a "pure" Elemental as well. Both demonstrated a way of fighting that was frightening to behold. Lea could turn herself into an invisible mist, after which she could instantly coalesce Water Tombs to trap Mages and prevent them from casting. Ellen, assuming she possessed similar abilities, could be even more dangerous, though, for outliers like Gwen, air lacked water's incompressible physics. If in her practice duels with Richard, she could shrug off Lea's Entombs, she did not believe Ellen's disruptions would fare better, at least not without Stinking Cloud. "No, not wild ones," Gwen confessed. "I—" "— CONTACT!" Magister Taylor's voice cut through the conversation like a Flame Blade through butter. "— but keep talking. It's nothing too serious. I just thought you'd like to see some of the locals." Taylor's warning was itself interjected by the emergence of a dozen spears flying from the top of tree tips the three Flights of Mages passed. "Trolls?" Gwen's Essence-enhanced vision needed no Scry to spot the shapes hidden in the evergreens. "Forest Trolls?" "They must be very hungry and desperate." Taylor adjusted the party's flight path so that they fell just out of range of the spears. Nonetheless, a few clattered against the underside of Meister Bekker's barrier-protected party. "The changing weather has driven them upriver. They'll be sieging Volgograd soon, given another year or two." "That won't happen though," the voice of another Magus answered Magister Taylor. "We'll send in a request. Berlin will Purge them before anything happens." "Naturally," Taylor replied. "That is the way of things." "Our workshop could do with some Troll-skin and Cores, actually," the Enchanters remarked. "Not much coming out of Red Peak these days, thanks to the Dwarves." "You mean, thanks to Gwen?" While the rest of the Mages chuckled at their sorceress, Gwen's heart grew heavy. Purge. Prune. Monkey see— monkey do. She was starting to see where the Mageocracy gets its peculiar vernacular. At dusk, the Flights alighted in the shadow of a city that once housed close to a quarter of a million souls. Three decades ago, when the Black Dragon "roused" the Elementals and its rage had torn a tear large enough for the denizens of the Planes to eek through, Astrakhan was the first major Human settlement in its path. As a result, the city's skeletal ruins splattered the linen landscape like a dried blood clot; its spindly streets flattened like the splayed ribs of a dead Titan. The party landed atop the kremlin, the only structure to survive the Elementals' northward sweep. "Lord Magisters!" a fur-clad group of Mages saluted them from knee-deep ice and snow. Their leader, as far as Gwen could see, was a Russian military officer. Quickly, the man presented his insignia Glyph; an announcement soon returned by Magister Taylor. "Captain Turgenev, 23rd Recon, Moscow Tower. Welcome to Astrakhan, milords and matrons, please follow me." Gwen knew from Meister Bekker's earlier conversation that the 15th-century fort wasn't their final destination but a stopover. Below, once the Mages made their way through a series of stone warrens, their present objective elucidated itself. Eli Hill, their Translocation Officer, produced a Storage Ring for the Captain. "Here you are. Please double-check the list." While the Moscow Captain emptied the supply of cans, food, HDMs and materials into neat stacks, the other military Mages approached with hot cocoa, coffee, tea and biscuits. Unsurprisingly, Gwen became the foci of the young officers, who were all keen to know a future "Magister", or at least bathe in the presence of a War Mage as accomplished as she was comely. While the older folk exchanged details of the Frontier and the Elemental Sea's latest news, Gwen did her best to integrate Jean-Paul into the conversation. Unfortunately, Jean-Paul's ability to socialise was as woeful as his outward appearance, a fact that compounded the difficulty of his future leadership endeavours. When Gwen furthermore noted that Meister Bekker's attention kept wandering toward them, she couldn't help but query if getting Jean-Paul closer to her involved a purer motive. Though it was arrogant to think so, Gwen did not doubt that there weren't many Void Mages who could hold up a party like she could or supply emergency vitality to a fellow Void practitioner if the matter was life-or-death. Bekker herself could look after Jean-Paul, but her Apprentice would spend more and more time away from his nest in the days to come. If anything, seeing Jean-Paul's woeful ability to string together trustworthy allies, the unflappable Mevrou must be fuming something serious deep inside. After consuming half-a-dozen scones, two cups of hot cocoa and a week's worth of biscuit rations, Gwen left the amazed junior officers' presences and joined the main party's departure from the fort. Gwen breathed in the frigid air. Her Message Device read midnight. Yet, the light filtering from outside the stone walls told her that there was still lingering daylight. From the howling outside, it didn't take an Air Mage to know the winds had grown sadistic. Emerging into the cold, Gwen's pupils grew abruptly large. In the distance, stretching from horizon to horizon, emanating from the centre, then growing gradually blue and then dark, was an impossible sunrise in vivid hues of orange and magenta. The Fire Sea! Her mind finally connected the name to the place, acknowledging the impossible visage. Refracted upon a million-million sheaves of flint light, a great gate of heat and light thrust itself against the weight of a blue-dark sea, setting its long banks alight with supernatural fire, transforming the unfathomable waters a jadeite-green. From a midnight Astrakhan, grey weirs of water rolled against the banks, snarling at the cold twilight as the hot air billowing from the distant shore drove north the freezing wind with long lines of lion's teeth in scintillating marigold. Everywhere, the Prime Material's natural clime snapped at the impossible aurora of eternal combustion, snarling and baying, fawning and mouthing to reclaim its domain, helpless with frustration. _The Fire Sea!_ The domain of the Djinn! Beings utterly alien to human life, with physiologies and motivations unfathomable by creatures of mortal flesh! "When we cross the mid-point," Bekker's voice drifted across the murk. "Re-buff for heat resistance. All Flights, prepare for engagement."

Upon the horizon, the Fire Sea glimmered, refracting across the blue dark, transforming the Caspian's southern shores from cerulean to turquoise. Gwen now knew why the Meister was utterly confident they could cross the Caspian by night. Where she had imagined zooming through a pitch-black, fingerless murk, aided only by the Omni-Orb, the surreal reality was that they would soon be flying through an eternal sunset. According to Bekker, an Elemental encounter was inevitable. It wasn't a question of if, but when, and for that, Gwen asked if it was possible to first bring out her Familiars or perhaps Golos. "If you open a Planar Portal to the Quasi-Lightning here, you're going to draw every Elemental being, wild or otherwise, from Baku to Amol!" Taylor spluttered at her request. "Just stay behind us. If it's safe to test your mettle, we'll let you know." Gwen concurred. From Astrakhan to Aktau was two hundred kilometres as the crow flew. With the sunburst from the Fire Sea and the increasingly volatile weather, even an experience navigator couldn't say they would travel in a straight line. "Use the Omni-Orb," Meister Bekker gave the command, and Gwen obeyed without delay, producing her wondrous object for all to see. A few of the Mages whistled. "Incredible!" Magister Taylor was all kinds of impressed. "You know, they say the Dragons of Asia use a completely original form of Divination based on ley-lines called Fengshui. They're particularly good at dousing paths to natural resources, like water and minerals. Mayhap this is one of those objects?" "This one kind of just goes… where it thinks where I ought to go," Gwen explained. "I have no idea how it works, but I get there." "No doubt." Taylor ran a quick diagnostic Divination on her Orb. "I don't think that's a good idea, Sir," Gwen offered a polite warning. "Taylor, unless you want to pay a personal visit to the Dragon that gave her that thing..." Bekker snorted at the Diviner from the Shard. "You should also know that her Wyvern, the tyrannical Golos, is the brother to the owner of the Orb, so good luck." "But of course," the Magister was quick to apologise. "I did not mean to offend. Forgive my academic interest." Gwen was sure that the man was lying through his teeth, though falsehoods from a noble countenance were easier to swallow. Fighting the urge to believe the smiling dandy, Gwen reminded herself that Taylor was a diplomat and that deception was his bread and butter. "Don't get distracted—" Bekker rallied the crew as they took into the air. "Abjurers, you have priority access to Circle Scry. If we run into something, Purge it, else we will withdraw northward. Hughes and Kott will be our rear guard." "Yes, Ma'am." The three Abjurers gave their affirmations, as did Angela Hughes, their Illusionist. It took the party ten minutes to clear the rest of the frigid, frozen forest, after which the open sea burst upon them as a limitless, lightless horizon to the east and a marigold aurora to the south and south-west. The eeriest thing, Gwen noted, wasn't so much the light and dark— but that she couldn't see a single star as a result of the light pollution and heat haze from the south. Now in the Black Zone proper, the party kept a semblance of Divination silence, with only Taylor giving commentary. By the Diviner's estimate, the journey should take around an hour and a half before the abandoned Sea Fort at Shevchenko came into view. Should the landmark present itself, it would indicate that they were going in the right direction. Should they fail to see Kazakhstan's headlands, then it would be safe to assume that an Air Djinn or Water Marid had managed to waylay their path, that or Gwen's Omni-Orb wasn't all it cracked up to be. "Look below." After an hour, Magister Taylor decided to point out some interesting sights for the two novices-Magisters in training. Gwen's gaze dipped below, catching sight of an enormous shape moving through the dimly lit waters. From the looks of it, the colossal thing was at least the size of a frigate. "A whale?" Gwen's mouth fell half-open. "Here? In an inland sea?" "Impressive, isn't it? It's a Titan Class Bone-spined Sturgeon," the Magister's tone shared her awe. "Long said to be extinct. It's amazing what's coming back now that the Planar fabric's torn. More than likely, the Marids are responsible for such a thing. Within their coral palaces, they keep vast aqua-farms of Elemental monstrosities for sport and sustenance." "Incredible," Gwen marvelled. Momentarily, a portion of the Sturgeon ascended, breaking the surface with ridge after ridge of protruding soft-shelled carapace. "There are some in the Militant Faction who say the return of Titans such as these to the Prime Material is a good thing," Taylor remarked after what seemed like a whole minute when the final segment of the fish disappeared. "I, for one, have my doubts. Titan-Class Cores are welcome and all, but the proviso is that someone has to hunt them down and de-Core these things before they grow hungry enough to visit one of our cities. Take the Caspian, for example. Even if we manage to transmute a deep-sea port into existence, who would dare fish in waters such as these? It would take a supertanker to dissuade such a monster from coming near the fleet. Likewise, left un-hunted, an overt density of these Magical Creatures would only destabilise the fabric of the Prime Material." Despite having captured a supertanker in Singapore, Gwen felt she had nothing of substance to add to the Magister's musing and so said nothing. "Bloody Militant meddlers—" Their Illusionist, the woman who had scalded Taylor in London, spoke up. "Who told you this?" "Oh, the usual suspects. You know, our friends from Devonshire." "Of House Exeter? You're in rare company these days, Frank." "It's an occupational hazard, Angie, though you certainly didn't hear anything from me. Should anyone ask, I shall call you a witch," Taylor spoke in mirth. "What's your interest? Does the Fifth Cabal want the time and place, name and associations? I am happy to entertain your interrogation in private." "You wish, Frank." "I mean, I didn't see anything untoward. It's not a crime to complain about state policy." Taylor's tone grew mischievous. "At least to my knowledge, voicing one's opinion in public isn't yet sedition. There was a respectable amount of liqueur involved, I'll have you know, and a great deal of tobacco." "I am sure there was." The voice of Angela echoed through the Divination channel. "You know, I am curious. Regarding our present purpose, you didn't take a bribe from the Militants, did you, Frank? You should know better…" "Of course I did!" To Gwen's surprise, their Diviner burst into laughter. "Naturally, I passed it forward to my superiors. Not taking it would be suspicious and unnatural. We're not the Royal Griffin Guards, you know?" A few chuckles escaped the rest of the party. Gwen laughed out loud as well. "Which Faction are you? Magus Song?" The party's probable Fifth Cabal observer suddenly enquired of her political standings. "Er…" Gwen wasn't sure she wanted to answer that question. "She's a bit young to be involved in Faction politics, no?" Taylor said. "Come on, Angie, that's a question you shouldn't ask lightly." "What's there to fear? You forget who her progenitor is—" One of the Evokers butted in. "What, the Lord Ravenport thing?" Another voice spoke up. "I thought that's a crock of bull?" "Well, Magus Song?" "Angela, leave her alone." Magister Taylor, who appeared to stand firmly in Gwen's camp, interrupted the chorus of competing banter. "That's her business and none of yours." Taylor's undiplomatic decorum appeared to annoy the Illusionist. From their banter, Gwen could tell the two had history, which also informed her a little of Taylor's deference for herself. Gwen wondered if she should speak up but chose the better option of focusing on her Omni-orb. After ten more minutes, she noted the appearance of a vague silhouette on the horizon. Once she was entirely sure of what she'd seen, Gwen made her discovery known. "Land-HO!" "Truly?" Taylor's voice returned a moment later. "I can't see anything in this light. Lord, what I'd give for a Divi-Tower on that headland." "Neither can I," Major Kott affirmed their Diviner's observation. "Although Gwen's physiology is more peculiar than ours. What are you seeing?" Gwen channelled both Essence and mana to her eyes. "... Tall cliffs, a peninsular of sorts, followed by a flat expanse that stretches into the horizon. There are buildings beside the cliffs, and what look like ruins of a town? Or a base." "Sounds like Bautino," the Magister asserted her verdict. "Do you see an abandoned port? Look for round things, like grain silos and warehouses. There should be what's left of an industrial pier as well." "I see it." Gwen breathed out a sigh of relief. "Yes, there are two tanker-piers still standing." "Good eyes." Taylor sounded impressed. "Any enemies?" Gwen squinted. "I see silhouettes moving about, a lot of them. My, they're awful diminutive, and yes, there's a lot of them." "Diminutive? I see the reports were right," the Diviner said. "Meister? Your recommendations?" "Prepare for combat." Magister Bekker slowed the Flights to a crawl. "Abjurers, Resist Disease! Defence against Projectiles." Of the three Abjurers, Nils Kott was the combat specialist and so provided Mage Armour for all. Pietersen, Bekker's ordained Abjurer, renewed Elemental Resistance while the Cleric, Sarah Nurse, Blessed then fortified the party with Resist Disease. "INCOMING!" Magister' Taylor's voice cut through the chatter. "Eleven O Clock! Three Air Elementals, one greater standing by, two mediums coming toward us." Gwen's pupils refocused in the low-light. From afar where the fort once stood, she could see roughly humanoid shapes approaching from atop the ruins toward them. "Gwen, Jean-Paul, standby for engagement." Bekker gave the command. “Schoeman, Jonke, take lead. Taylor, cover our flanks." "Yes, Meister!" The men gave their affirmations, as did Gwen and Jean-Paul. The Mage Flight dispersed at once, sending the Shard's Mages to the left and right while Bekker and her team moved to the fore, leaving Gwen and Jean-Paul holding the middle. The three parties hovered forward for another fifteen seconds before Gwen caught her first glimpse of a Djinn. The two that now approached were one female and one male, both as anthropomorphic as the tales foretold. The female was slender of form, with a sky-blue complexion framing an exotic face of no particular ethnicity. For attire, the creature may as well be wearing wisps of air, while dark blue strands of dew-laden hair fluttering from a strapped ponytail tethered with a brass bangle. In her right hand, the Djinn held a shimmering whip formed from condensed mana. Comparatively, the male was lank but possessed well-defined musculature. On both arms, the creature wore enormous brass gauntlets crackling with electricity, while on his hip, a slim scimitar etched with squiggly runes loosely hung around a thick, copper-threaded belt. Both, Gwen noted with awe, had their lower body taper to a tip until it resided in a golden receptacle. These, according to her Magister-instructors, were the Elementals' way of staying in the Prime Material— by anchoring their Essence in a container that shielded their Cores, a device no less difficult to destroy than a Lich's phylactery. This very same methodology also made Elementals prime targets for Core harvesting— assuming the sorcerous hunters weren't first enslaved or made into sport by their prey. "Halt!" The male Djinn glided into place, his voice the sound of a howling gale. "Humans! Why do you pollute our presence with your befouling mana?" "Djinn of the Air—" Bekker likewise declared in Elemental, a language impossible to invoke without the aid of upper-tier Ioun Stones. "Why do you bar our way? You who art merely travellers through our home and hearth?" The Golden Rule, Gwen had learned from her instructors, was never to show your proverbial back when dealing with the Djinn, Dao, Marid or Efreet— one because these were beings who thrived through controlling "lesser beings", the other because there was nothing "dishonourable" about stabbing creatures the likeness of chattel in the back, even if they talked a good game. To a Demi-human Elemental, respect for mortal citizens of the Prime Material was akin to acknowledging a talking dog walking on two legs. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. "Your subordinates appear able and useful." The female of the Djinn possessed a voice like a chilling breeze. "Our Master can offer you a chance to serve and ascend the mortal coil. There's no shame in offering oneself wholly to a greater being." "I must decline the Caliphate's offer," Bekker replied without hesitation. "Though here's a counter-offer— the Mageocracy could always use mid-tier Djinns as Spirit Contractors. Isn't that better than serving your tyrants?" The female Djinn chuckled, while the male Djinn laughed in Bekker's face. Gwen measured the pair with Detect Magic, determining the two to be about the seventh or eighth tier of pure power, though their Humanoid intelligence may well add two or more degrees to their threat level. Unmoved by the mockery, the Meister's silent Message commanded them to hold their ground. She then signalled to Gwen and Jean-Paul via Taylor. "Gwen, Void Orb, two each to these insolent research specimens. Jean-Paul, I want a Maximised Void Vortex on that church spire to flush out the Greater Elemental." Jean-Paul began to incant before his Master had even finished. Gwen quickly followed her team leader's command, ramming through the Elementally shifted Lightning Orb incantations. Both Void Mages' pupils turned instantly midnight as the consumptive energy coursed through their conduits. "Void Vortex" "Void Orb!" With Void vertigo caressing their allies, the pair let loose a torrent of Void spells at the Djinns. The Elementals' mockery ceased at once as they attempted to dodge the seeking spheres hungry for immortal flesh. From their stationary position, the creatures slid backwards with an agility no human could manage, then flew forward toward the Mages, attempting to drive the seeking orbs into her allies. "Perish, mortal!" The female attempted to envelop Bekker. A shimmering semi-sphere of silver wrapped around the Meister, diverting the suddenly gaseous form of the Djinn. "Dimension Anchor!" Kott wove a Glyph in each hand, drawing a temporary Mandala in the air. Instantly, the Djinns re-materialised, their faces full of astonishment. "Abjuring Ward!" Pietersen supplemented Kott's field control Abjuration with a defensive one, forming a perpendicular, concentric ripple of repulsive energy that prevented the Djinns from moving further into their formation. In the split second that the Djinns and Mages exchanged spells, Gwen ensured that her attack struck true, forming four micro vortexes of all-devouring Void where the Djinns should be. "Kott!" Taylor called out. "From below! It's the Greater Elemental!" "Got it!" Major Kott laid out a dozen invocations at once. "Wall of Force!" _THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!_ Dull, heavy thuds rang out as spears of air punched the enormous, invisible pane conjured by the Abjurer, making Kott grimace at the unplanned expenditure. At the same time, Jean-Paul's vortex opened up as a miniature black hole, swallowing the withered spire's uppermost segment and drawing up all manner of detritus from the ruins below. Astonishingly, Gwen could also see hundreds of tiny, cowled silhouettes flying into the air, clinging onto the debris, or otherwise fleeing from the epicentre. "INSOLENT MORTALS!" a thundering bark from below fulminated as rolling waves of thunder. Seemingly unaffected by the vortex's suction, the final Djinn, an enormous, four-meter male specimen bedecked from neck to wrist with golden bangles, tore itself from the diminishing form of Jean-Paul's spell. "How dare you interrupt our sacred labour!" Bekker commanded her counterpart from the Shard. "Spencer, Winston, you're up." Magister Taylor remained impassive, his ever-present halo of Divination scanning for additional enemies. "Suppress the Lesser Elementals. Kott, Mills, draw them away." "Gwen, Jean-Paul," Bekker said to her students at the same time. "As your first test, the Greater Djinn is yours. You have a minute to Purge the thing. Else we do it for you." "Yes, Ma'am!" The Void Mages obeyed. "Firestorm!" "Magma Cloud!" The Evoker and Transmuter Maguses from the Shard let loose their unique spell variants, lighting up the night sky with pyrotechnics, driving the shifting Djinns from the party's air space through enviable displays of masterful spellshaping, aided by buffetting walls of energy that kept the Elementals from joining their superior. Jean-Paul dropped from the middle of the three-Flight array and met the incoming Djinn head-on with his signature spell. "Usurp!" The Djinn was far too fast for the Void user, but Jean-Paul never intended for the spell to connect. Instead, the imploding Usurp and its resultant burst smothered the Djinn's approach with fine particles of corrosive, mana-devouring Void. Meanwhile, Gwen played it by the books by birthing both Ariel and Caliban in his Big Bird form, paying for the privilege with stowed vitality. With a wordless command, she sent her creatures forth, all the while fomenting a Chain Lightning of the Void variant. "You would dare!" The enormous Djinn disappeared, then reappeared almost on top of them, its locomotion practically impossible to follow without Essence-enhanced eyes. With an outreached hand, it swiped right on Gwen. "EE—EE!" Ariel delivered a foresightful warning. Caliban dove, but was too late to act as a shield for its Master. "Shield!" Gwen felt the pressurised air before the Elemental's gale struck. Her barrier instantly materialised, but unlike the Djinn, there was no way for her to anchor herself while in flight. Like a spiked netball struck by the equivalent of an empowered Bilby's Hand, she violently jerked right from the invisible assault, her body displacing so rapidly that she could feel her spine and neck crack from the whiplash. Her Void Lightning fizzled, sending a wave of sickness through her rioting conduits. Jean-Paul let loose two more Usurp closer to the Djinn, aiming for the creature's tail Core. Effortlessly, the Djinn performed a reverse summersault through the air, at the same time tugging free an enormous, two meter-long copper blade patterned with runic etchings reminiscent of Damascus steel. Before Jean-Paul's spell struck, the Djinn once more winked out of existence. The Void Mage allowed the attacks to implode anyway, noting that a portion of the tenebrous ink spray seemed to have caught something engaging in sub-sonic translocation. Gwen used her Essence to banish the Void-sickness. "Void Orb!" She sent forth four Elemental-seeking balls of black ink. "Jean-Paul! Shield!" She then shouted from below, half choked with the effort of forcing down mana-feedback. Jean-Paul chose to Blink instead, disappearing and reappearing at a random location away from the Djinn's trajectory. Much to her relief, the creature's broad-bladed scimitar missed, though it did send a screaming crescent of high-velocity, volatile mana out in a vast, destructive arc. Caliban swooped in, as did her Void Orbs. But without Kott's Dimension Anchor, the Djinn merely dispersed itself, avoiding the brunt of both attacks, re-emerging with the equivalent of mere scratches marring its bronze armour. "EE!" Ariel hoofed the air, lowered its head, then delivered a discharge of cobalt lightning. CRACK! This time, the solidified Djinn parried the blast with his copper sword. "SHAA—!" Caliban's Big Bird turned, its white fingers reaching to crush the blue body, its tentacles flailing for Elemental flesh. The Djinn grinned, then swung the crackling copper blade at Gwen's Void Familiar. "… Shit!" Gwen invoked her Shield once more. "Cali!" The double-charged Chain Lightning from the Djinn arced across the horizon, first crashing into Caliban, then leaping from her Familiar onto its closest target, herself. Gwen's world turned white as her Shield distorted from the abjuring mana absorbing the electricity, after which the discharge leapt from her barrier onto Ariel. "EE-EE!" Ariel likewise consumed the Elemental Lightning, then howled in challenge and protest. "EE!" "Beast!" The Djinn howled. "Leave your mortal, obey me!" From their Empathic Link, Gwen understood that Ariel wanted to redeem itself. Concurrently, Caliban quickly reformed its singed and erupted flesh and was ready to strike once more. The Djinn quickly circled, reacquiring its attack path. She and Jean-Paul locked eyes. Jean-Paul's every-situation Void speciality was great, but first, he had to connect. Her spells, as far she could tell, the Djinn could avoid with ease. Naturally, this was a test, and Kotts would not be helping with his Dimensional Anchor. Meanwhile, their minute was almost up. Very quickly, Gwen made up her mind. "Fine, you want to play silly buggers?" She taunted the Djinn by unleashing an unearthly volume of Elemental Lightning, unequivocally capturing the creature's attention. "Cali! Jean-Paul! Get ready!" "Shaa!" "Got it!" her partners returned her silent message. Ready to catch her fuck up should the worst come to pass. "Lowly Elemental!" She blasted a Clarion Call at the Djinn. "Dare you to take on the might of my Lightning?" "HA!" The Air Djinn, one she figured must be composed of a hundred per cent unadulterated pride, rose to the challenge with gusto. "Bold claim, mortal female. I like you. If you survive, this one shall leash you both and feed only the male to the rats!" Ignoring the Djinn's taunt to put her in a Princess Leia outfit, Gwen held off until the last second before she infused her next strike with Almudj's Essence. With an audible grunt of effort, Gwen channelled her vivified mana through Ariel while separately squeezing out un-altered lightning as a feint. "Barbanginy!" Twin arcs of rip-roaring, air-igniting, reality-rending emerald emerged from Ariel's sixteen-pointed horns, instantly linking the Familiar and the Djinn. The surprised Elemental expertly parried her bolt of blue, then twisted its torso in the manner of a contortionist so that it could meet Ariel's emerald thunderbolt. _CRA-CRACK—BOOM!_ Half the peninsula lit up. The energies' meeting manifested as a hysterical expansion of plasma, consuming not only the copper blade but the Djinn itself. "Usurp!" Jean-Paul reinforced the impact with his Signature Spell, rapidly depleting the diffusing mana until his Orb grew into the size of a car. With a visible strain on his ashen face, the Void Mage allowed the stolen energy to "Implode!" Not to be beaten, Caliban charged into the Void splatter, unaffected by the volatile element. When it emerged from the opposite side, it indicated the absence of a Djinn. Thankfully, her Familiar appeared to have recovered the creature's receptacle, now smouldering and sizzling the bird's eerie, white fingers. Gwen breathed out, glad that her hypothesis of overloading the Djinn with Almudj's higher-order lightning worked out as anticipated instead of creating a super-Djinn cracking with emerald electricity to end them all. Huffing with relief, she looked up toward Jean-Paul's Meister, fishing for approval. The Meister and her crew looked down on them with big smiles, their fight with the two lower-order Djinns long over through means Gwen was too preoccupied to see. "Well done," Meister Bekker congratulated them both as they floated up. "Now, let's see what our Djinns were up to, then quickly get out of here. It'll take no more than ten minutes before the next patrol arrives." Rapidly, the party descended upon Baudino. During their dogfight with the Djinns, the party's earlier conversation had already forewarned Gwen of the presence of whatever the Elementals were fielding on the old base. Even so, a scene of horror unfurled below her like a dystopian Neill Blomkamp movie trailer. "Christ... are those... Rat— PEOPLE?" Rats, or Rat-kin, to use a politically correct vernacular, were crowded neck-deep in an enormous, smoothed out pit where the old silo used to be. It was incredible to Gwen that even after Jean-Paul had cleansed the site's crumbling structures with a Void Vortex, there were still so many of the damnable mammalians huddled together in such a state. _What wretched creatures_ , a thought came to her mind. But that wasn't right either. Never in Gwen's life had she imagined that "wretched" could be so kind a word. Even in China, in District 109, Gwen had not considered that the Chinese NoMs lived in such dire straits to be beyond wretchedness. Yet here, in this town of no purpose on the coast of the Caspian, she once more gazed into an unfamiliar abyss. The scene below was like the shipwreck of the Medusa, only now, it wasn't sailors scampering through the ghoulish painting, but thousands-upon-thousands of Rat-kin clambering over one another to escape. Whenever a dozen or so got close to the top of the wind-worn igneous "hole", the weight of their bodies would collapse, crushing those below, preventing escape. The ones strong enough to flee had already clambered out, she realised from the earlier scene. What's left was the weak and the feeble, or merely the unlucky. All around her, her fellow Mages shared her horror. Their oppressive pressure seemed to agitate the Rat-kin even more, sending the darkling swarm into such a frenzy that to Gwen, it seemed like a riot of black bodies boiling over the side of an enormous crockpot. Presently, the breeze from the ocean changed directions. _Ye Gods!_ Gwen almost swooned. _The STENCH!_ Her hypersensitive olfactory organs jump-kicked her brain. Even with the Fire Sea's sporadic wind washing over the pit, the smell did not disperse. There were all kinds of odours— rat excreta, sticky body fluids, smouldering rotten meat, spoiled feed and water— which was a stink in itself— mixed in a heavy, dank miasma. Where she could see the ground, the floor was churned to a consistency of warm putty by the milling of feet across sloshing puddles of faeces and urine. That was why the pit was so damn slippery. That was why no rat could escape. Covering her mouth and nose, Gwen unhappily discerned that the Rat-folk were skeletons wearing skin, each one with gaunt faces and deeply set yellow eyes that glimmered from the light of the Mage's descent. "What the hell is this?" She asked no one in particular. "I don't understand." "The Steppes are famous for Centaurs, but it's the Rat-kin who make up the bottom rung of the Grassland ecology," Taylor explained patiently. "These local vermin fled en mass during the Tide, destroying the upper Steppes with their tunnel warrens." The Mages from her team didn't appear to have an answer either, except Meister Bekker. "Do recall that I said things had changed since we planned our outing— this is what's changed." "What's changed?" Gwen remained befuddled. "Considering the context," the Meister said. "Are any of you familiar with the method of cultivating powerful quasi-magical ingredients used by the Indigenous witch women of Yunnan?" To the party's wonder, Gwen's quivering voice answered the Meister. "Yes— the practice of putting poisonous quasi-magical insects into a single Gu pot, then allowing them to cannibalise one another until only the strongest remain. Due to the magical nature of these creatures, battling and consuming of one's foes lead to powerful evolutions, assuming at least one combatant emerges victorious." "Yes, 'Gu Cultivation' is a method that has existed since ancient times." Bekker glanced at the four Mages from Pretoria, who were each in their way, fascinated by the bubbling body-pit below. "You should understand better than most, Gwen, that same methodology is widely used by the Dragons. They would populate a mountain with their Essence-polluted kindred. After millennia, one being would consume enough others to emerge as a tyrant just below the power of a True Dragon. This being would then serve the Master of the mount until it either died, the Master ascends, or it was itself defeated and by a new guardian." "What are they possibly hoping to achieve with the Rat-folk?" Gwen furrowed her brows. "What about the Centaurs?" "This IS about the Centaurs." Bekker sighed. "I'll explain as we fly. Jean-Paul, Gwen, you have five minutes to restock your expended vitality." Gwen gasped, her resistance to such a suggestion evident on her grimacing face. Jean-Paul spoke beside her. "If we let them go, they'll be a plague. If Magus Spencer or one of the others cleanse them, it'll be a grotesque waste of vitality." Gwen observed the still-churning bodies below. "So either way, we're the good guys?" Her voice quivered with ambivalence. "What a convenient outlook." Jean-Paul shrugged. "Umzokwe!" An enormous white leech crash-landed into the pit, crushing a dozen rats attempting to scamper out of the way. Gwen gnashed her pearly whites but couldn't find a way to refute Jean-Paul's twisted logic. Forcing the syllables to her lips, she invoked her Conjuration Sigil and brought forth her most efficient vitality-harvesters, the Hydras of Elizabeth's fame. As the sounds of screeching diminished below, she contemplated if there was another route for dealing with these Rat-kin. The problem was one of insufficient knowledge, and it was one she realised Bekker had forced upon her. She had no idea why the Elementals were running a Gu pot with the Rat-kin, nor did she know the Rat-kin's natural place in the Steppe's hierarchy. Without either elucidation, how could she act? To do so purely out of moral sentimentality would engender a far greater danger, such as an actual plague, considering the state of these filth-ridden Demi-humans. Gwen blinked as her final thought struck. Earlier, Bekker had the whole party buffed with Resistance to Disease. "Ma'am…" Gwen looked up at Meister Bekker. "Are… the Elementals trying to create some kind of super disease to plague the centaurs? Is that why... THIS exists?" Bekker golf-clapped, evidently impressed by her deductive reasoning. "Excellent, Magus Song. That kind of intelligence will be beneficial when you're a Tower Master." Gwen sucked in a mouthful of foetid air when Bekker affirmed her worst fears. "The Djinns know how to use... biological warfare? Holy Cowtaurs…" Her perceptions turned upside down and inside out. These Elementals and their ability to deliver a ploy were beyond incredible. Uncontrollably, she shivered, realising that their foes in the Fire Sea weren't merely monsters, but a civilisation no less malicious than Humanity and just as exotically advanced as the Elves or Dwarves. Just as she marvelled at her self-induced epiphany, a hand tapped her shoulder. "What's up?" She engaged the concerned face of Jean-Paul. "Gwen…" the Void Mage pointed a finger below. "The Rat-kin…" "Yes?" She looked down. Her pupils contracted. Her Hydras were gobbling up the Rat-kin by the mouthful, but concurrently, the opposite was also happening. "Yep…" Jean-Paul effortless inhaled a lungful of gut-churning miasma. "Gwen, I think they're eating your Hydra…"

Be swift. Be unseen. Be unheard. Be nothing. Strun, Shadow Runner of Clan Jildam, hid in the buried rubble, repeating the Pack Mantra taught by his elders. He was near-invisible and scentless, his small, malnourished body well dug into an excavated, breathable chamber he had spent weeks preparing. From a waxing moon to a waning one, he had subsisted on nothing but nuts and drips of water that fed through the ceiling, collected from the frosty dew that melted each morning when the Fire Sea grew warm. Branching from Strun's burrow were paths, some natural, some excavated, that barely allowed his flexible body to pass. It was lucky then that Strun was skin wearing bones, for his elder would spit blood if their best scout became stuck between two plates of shale because he ate one too many fungi-balls in a single sitting. Weeks ago, Strun had arrived at the ruins known as Bautino to pursue his rat-napped kin. A moon cycle before that, the hated Djinns had come to the lowlands, rounding up the starving men and women of his tribe like cattle. Unable to escape their troops, their venerable elder had made a difficult decision— to abandon the weak and feeble kin who could not survive hiding in the Murk. _The MURK!_ Strun's whiskers twitched with agitation. There was no food there and little water, and yet, there was an abundance of pale-skinned, eyeless monsters, flesh-eating fungi, carnivorous Weta, and rat-hating bewhiskered stouts. _Damned Djinns!_ More than once, when his thoughts turned to his surviving kin, Strun's teeth met so hard that they struck flint-sparks as his metallic enamel met in the dark. Usurpers and tyrants, these otherworldly demi-Gods had proven to be. Since the arrival of these "Elementals", as the Horse Lords called them, the grasslands had burned to cinders, whirlwinds ravaged the Rat-kin's maise farms, and vast tracts of tableland became roving deserts. Worse yet, the wars with the Horse Lords had meant the Golden Pavilion's taxes grew from crushing to impossible. Their Elders had pleaded with their Khans for compassion, but the Nayzağay Qanı Shamans had accepted no excuses, only bales of fodder. Thus rebuked, the Rat-kin could only tighten their belts. As Tasmüyiz, starvation and suffering was no stranger to his kin. Far from it, hunger had been a fact of life for the plains folk since before the time of Strun's ancestors. What made the Elemental "Masters" different was that their Khans at least acknowledged his seed-bearers and grain-growers. In contrast, the Elementals showed no indication they saw the common folk as deserving of life, hearth and home. From what Strun had observed, his Clanmates were merely material to these immigrant usurpers. For a whole moon cycle, from all around the lower Steppes, from where the meadows met the Salt Sea, the Elementals herded their kind like chattel the season before the Shamans predicted a cold snap. From Ashbat and Nukus, Shival and Beynue, from every direction his kind had their homes, they were lead by leash and whip to this Bautino, thousands of them at first, then tens of thousands. Taking advantage of the chaos, Strun had fled from the group and hid, making sound his promise of surviving so that he may tell the soon to be forgotten stories of the damned and deserted. At first, Strun had imagined that the Elementals were sick deviants trying to breed his kind for some nefarious army to battle the Horse Lords. Within the week, when his kin was neither watered nor fed and began to perish by the hundreds, Strun realised his most wicked imaginings had been grossly naive. In this encampment, the Wind Elementals, these brass-bound creatures of unnatural air, had made boreholes in the ground, then drove in the starving survivors as a boiling torrent of bodies pleading for mercy. The survivors of that great fall then huddled in the dark, uncertain of their fate, not yet sick enough to eat each other but already tittering on the edge of insanity. Far from the hole, nestled in the night, Strun endured the slow insanity of the Elementals' ploy, allowing the wails of his kin to slowly creep through the compacted dirt to reach his drooping, trembling ears. Then the larger of the Djinns arrived, bringing a Centaur Jagun who frothed yellow bile at the mouth. The captured Horse Lord was weak and sick, but still, he fought the Djinn with hoof and teeth, biting at their bangles, kicking at their ethereal bodies, expending the last of its life force. Strun recognised the illness afflicting the Horse Lord. Blood Sickness! A disease that the Horse Lords themselves always eradicated with extreme prejudice! It was an illness that Strun knew almost too well, for a decade ago when the same disease had ravaged the Great Khan's herds, it was the Rat-kin who bore the blame for spreading the disease. His elders had told him that the Great Khan gave the command to exterminate every living Rat-kin within lands ravaged by the Blood Sickness. The Jildam scout knew not if this was true— for Rat-kins served in every stratum of the Horse Lord's Golden Pavilion from the fodder-gathers to the grain-growers— but that's what his elders had told. And so began the dark age of the Rat-Clan, whose numbers fell from the multi-million multitudes to the mere million that exist today across the endless plains, hidden out of sight, eeking out life as the Horse Lord's unseen Tasmüyiz. Then, to Strun's confusion and horror, the laughing Djinns threw the Horse Lord into the pit. There must have been a moment of complete chaos as the Horse Lord landed in the borehole, his legs snapping like twigs, his monstrously large body crushing Rat-kin by the dozens. All around the Horse Lord, Strun imagined— the starving rats and their bloodshot eyes must have glowed red with hunger while the Horse Lord attempted to stand on his shattered stumps. The sounds Strun had to endure that night, the whinnying, the chittering, the wet gnashing of teeth, first on flesh— then on bone, made Strun dream of ending his life. He had covered his ears, but even so, the tremors transmuted through the compact dirt told him more than any Rat-kin should have the right to know. Yet, that wasn't the end. It wasn't even the beginning. As expected, the rats who feasted first grew sick. Then, his kin grew mad. They attacked their surviving kin and ate them. Most of his kin perished, or were eaten, or had themselves attacked others, fueling an endless cycle of rat-on-rat ultra-violence. Some of the rats fed well and grew strong enough to escape the pit. The Djinns did not pursue these but instead pushed back into the pit Rats who had refused to eat the tainted flesh. In this manner, day after day, more of Strun's kin, other rats from Clan Jartas, Clan Qum, Clan Söp, arrived and joined the pit. Moonrise after moonrise, Strun endured until his senses grew numb, and his heart turned the consistency of stone. All Strun could think of was when this horror could end, and he could return to warn his Clan. Knowing what he had seen, he would advise the elder to take the Clan deep into the Murk. Damn the danger! The Rat-kin would learn to love the Murk! It was better to die a dignified rat in the darkness than die a monster, created from diseased horseflesh by these aberrant, arrogant Djinns! In the Murk, they could fight, they could forage, his Clan would die as Rat-kin, unlike here on the surface— where they couldn't even eke out a living as Tasmüyiz! Paralysed by despair, Strun had hibernated in the crisp, damp dark, praying to whatever Gods that rode upon the stars that the Djinns would soon be satisfied with their morbid task. Strun had melded with the land while he endured, becoming nothing. He became entombed within the earth's bowels, barely breathing, barely moving, conserving every mote of the meagre mana in his hollowed-out frame, bearing witness to the end of his people. Then, in between bouts of delirium and painful cognisance, came an earth-shaking burst of thunder. Strun had been crushed by the sudden fulmination until vertigo-inducing bursts of enervation stripped away the debris that had served as his cover, making it easy for Strun to raise his enfeeble head. Then, he saw it. Or more correctly, he saw "Her". A living demi-Goddess of flickering light and shadow, vivid with emerald viridescence, radiating life while encircled by a halo of death. She was battling the Djinn. And there, in the split-second between the jadeite lightning visiting judgement upon the hated Djinn, Strun's glassy pupils captured the disintegration of a being that was to his people a living nature God. In the aftermath, the victors drifted closer to the pit, evidently dismayed by their discovery. There were two of them, a male and a female, accompanied by a shadowy bird and a white stag, both of whom made Strun's reproductive organ shrivel up inside his belly. What were they discussing? Strun wondered. Perhaps, the Rat-kin prayed, these avatars of entropy and death would have the good grace to put an end to his wretched, disease-ridden kin. To Strun's shock, the pair performed the mercy without being asked. From a dark slit in the sky, the male Mage conjured forth a white worm the likeness of the divine Afaa al-Halak that ruled the glittering Sand Sea of Sawahi; opposite, the Goddess summoned the same in obsidian. Be these emissaries of the great Deities of Death that dwelled in the desert? Strun's heart filled with impromptu worship, thinking of the old world beyond the rolling knolls, of the badlands his folk once crossed in their Exodus from the frozen north. Who else could command the Lords of the endless sands, Masters of a domain with no horizon? Gathering his courage, the Rat-kin regarded the female Mage, whose visage and aura was entirely superior to the male beside her. There was something reverent about the female, an unspeakable presence that made Strun desire to kneel at her feet and humble himself. So strong was the impulse vivifying his cold blood that strength returned to his limbs, and he momentarily forgot his hunger. But before Strun could move, the Goddess acted once more. With a gesture, she beckoned her eagle of living grotesqueness. Her pet was a hideous thing, the exact opposite of the noble Sky-kin; a faceless fiend with a serpentine neck, while below its crow-black body, stark white fingers extended like pale, pretty blossoms of some midnight cacti flower. "Cali!" the sorceress gave the command. "Give these wretched beings peace." In the next moment, Strun's enfeebled, sugar-starved mind rioted. _O Lord of the Badlands! O Afaa al-Halak!_ The little voice inside his skull screamed. May the Old Ones forgive his doubt! Strun fervently prayed. How could he have known that the sorceress could command a Lord of the Sand in its entirety? His brain grew suddenly feverish with the legends and stories of his people, even as gut-wrenching vertigo delivered liver-blows to his innards with every inch of the Great Worm's materialising body. With a wet thump, the Afaa al-Halak slithered into the pit, susurrant with purrs of "Shaa— Shaa—", its carapace clashing like tossed shekel-shells collected from the Capsian. Strun had no idea how many of his kin survived the crushing worm's descent. He only knew that with the Afaa al-Halak's appearance, the wailing of his kin, that incessant, unending chittering, that scratching and scribbling of claws against polished granite soon came to an end. _Blessed silence!_ Strun wept freely, powerless to fathom the joy of hearing only the sound of shifting sand and sloshing sea. It was like someone had struck a red-hot scimitar into his brain and left it there for a month, and now by the grace of the Great Worm, its priestess withdrew said blade, brain and all, then quenched it in the blue-dark silence of the salty surf. "Jesus—" the sorceress invoked a prayer to her companion. "Christ Almighty." The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. "Let's go." The male appeared hesitant to lay hands on his companion, even as a gesture of comfort. Strun chuckled. So he was right; the inferior male was not her mate but a supplicant. Without another word, the two Human Mages ascended. Strun watched them go, then reached into his pockets and fed himself as much as three berry balls, instantly feeling energised as the densely packed mana dissolved on his parched tongue. Invariably, the Djinns would come again. Mayhap they would gather the Rat-kin once more. Maybe after this, they had given up. But that wasn't something for a peon like Strun to identify. Gingerly, his chest full of delicate hope as fragile as sand-spun glass, Strun raised his nose to the air and tasted the breeze. The winds were changing. He had a feeling the priestess of Afaa al-Halak would soon arrive at the Golden Pavilion to discuss countermeasures with the Horse Lords. As for him, the humble witness, he must make haste to spread his tale across the hills and warrens. Too many of his diseased kin had fled into the dark, their minds inflamed with fever and their tongues hungry for horseflesh. What that meant for the war or the Horse Lords, Strun guessed, was that his fellow Tasmüyiz's lives would soon reach new depths of impossibility. "No way that was all the rats," Gwen flew half a meter behind Jean-Paul in deep thought. "If those Rat-kin prove to be plague bearers, we have to let someone know." "That's why we're headed for the Golden Pavilion now," Bekker's voice echoed across Taylor's Message relay. "Is your Divi-Orb's course properly set for Aktau? We'll need to rest and meditate, then set out for overland travel in the morning. Finding an encampment of Centaurs, even hundreds of thousands of them in a landscape as flat and vast as the Steppes is fishing for needles in the sea." "Orb's active," Gwen concurred, reassuring the Meister. "I still can't believe the Djinns did that to those poor Rat-kin. No one, no animal, no living being deserves a fate like that." "I am sure you can bring it up with the Khan," Bekker's tone grew sardonic. "They say he's a great listener, at least when he's not out conquering." "Have you meet the Khan of the Centaurs?" Gwen replied. "I don't suppose you've been to the Steppes before, Meister?" "Not me, but Taylor's our resident expert— he was assigned to the Steppes twice. Why not ask him since he seems to like you." Gwen turned to look at their Diviner, who needed no visual confirmation to ascertain her hunger for knowledge. "The Khan you refer to—" Taylor confessed his deference for the young sorceress. "Isn't just the Khan, but the 'Khan of Khans'. Tomorrow, when you address him, make sure to add the prefix 'Great' or use his formal title, Temir Khan. His hoof-name, Temir Khitan Tengri, must never be mentioned in front of his lordship, lest you profess to be a member of his patrilineal line, or if you wish to be the Horse Lord's foremost Consort—" Bekker chortled. "Knowing Gwen's history of charming Demi-human leaders, I wouldn't be surprised at all if such an event was to occur. In merely a year, she was hand-in-pocket with Norfolk AND the Tree of Tryfan, and word has it that she and a Deepdowner have become famous chums." "Having charm is a curse sometimes," Gwen replied with a hint of sarcasm, unappreciative of Bekker's suggestive presumptions. "But yes, Meister. I'll do my best to refrain from 'charming' the Khan." "All jokes aside, you should hold your horses," Taylor's retort took on a more serious tone. "The Centaur Marauders under Temir number about a hundred thousand, with at least ten thousand trained warriors— though the Beastkin Demi-humans are unique in that most of their population can arguably contribute to their combat potential. The Khan's Nayzağay Qanı, his Thunderblooded Shamans, empower his rule with fascinating sorcery. For example, when charging toward a foe, the stronger members of the tribe can draw vitality and strength from their lessers. How interesting is that?" "Just like vampiric Life-link," Gwen drily remarked. "Exactly!" the Diviner appeared delighted by her clarification. "Their magic makes for in-depth anthropological papers. For example, did you know that the pyramidal structure of their social stratum is the reason why the Golden Horde was untouchable before the advent of Spellcraft? Let me explain. Imagine a pyramid— yes? Now the broad base is made up of basic calvary; free horsemen called the Nokud, ruled by an Arban, commanding ten Nokuds. Above that, a Jagun draws strength from ten Arbans. A Mingat reigns over ten Jagun, and beyond that, the lauded Tumen takes his power from the Jagun under his command. Finally, the leader of an Ordu, lead by an Orlok who draws strength from his Tumens. At that tier of power, an Orlok can challenge other Orloks for power and control of their Ordu. When several Ordus form into a Great Herd, their leader is called Khan..." "Nokud— Arbanu— Jagun— Mingat— Tumen— Orkok—" Gwen rapidly processed the nomenclature, understanding the general gist that Centaurs warriors grew exponentially more robust the more warriors they held under their control. With what she knew of Sympathetic Life-Link, or shamanistic Blood Bonds, a herd leader could arguably be near-immortal, provided his pyramidal base of "supply" remain unexhausted. If so, there was little wonder the Elementals had to raze the Centaur population from the ground up. "… and when the Khans meet to deal with an external threat or go Marauding for resources— you get a Great Khan or the Khan of Khans." Magister Taylor finished with a flourish. "Any other questions, Gwen?" A few of the others, also first-timers, thanked Taylor for the information. "Ask anything, don't hold back," Major Kott, their hired Abjurer and her tutor, unexpectedly cut into the silence left by the others. "You and Jean-Paul are the only persons here for whom all information is freely given and without the burden of future favours. Opportunities like this will not exist after you graduate, so use this time wisely." Kott's helpful prompt immediately put her back on track. "Yes, I do have a few more questions," Gwen confessed. As Kott said, she needed more anecdotes to digest the book learning she had carried out in London. "If you don't mind, Magister Taylor— Can you explain how the Tasmüyiz, and the er… Şöpter factor into the hierarchy of the Golden Pavilion?" "Not at all; these are valid questions." Taylor's tone remained patient as he continued. "Though there are no simple answers, I am afraid." "Sorry to be such a Neophyte," Gwen apologised. "I found scrolls on the Centaur of yore, but virtually nothing on contemporary Steppe states." "Nonsense." The Magister laughed. "You deserve to know if you're going to be of use in our subsequent operations. Let's begin with the Tasmüyiz, shall we? There's a curious word root for the Beastkin diction— originally meaning 'leashed' or 'bound'. The title is itself a corrupted maxim descended from ancient times, referring to the servant population living under the Horse Lords of the Steppes. During the apex of their history, all manner of races, Elves included, were subjugated by the Golden Horde and dubbed the 'Tasmüyiz'. Most were conquest slaves, but some willingly positioned themselves to avoid destruction, such as the Han Chinese, who bore the brunt of the Horde's conquest for a whole century. These days, Tasmüyiz refer principally to the Demi-human serfs that gather under the Golden Pavilion— such as the Rat-kin, the Kobolds, and occasional tribes of Greenskins. They're all refugees of the Tide, races that fled from their original habit-zones, hoping for a slice of the Steppe's grasslands." The Diviner paused while checking Gwen's Orb for bearings against his mental map. Once satisfied, their guide continued. "Comparatively, the Şöpter are, I suppose, as the Träälvor to the Hvítálfar or Svartálfar. Demi-human Beastkin to the Centaur nobility. These are bipedal Beastkin, whether the Goatmen of Aktobe, or the Ram-kin of Zabol, or the Fauns of Kokand. What unites them is their servility, I suppose. The Şöpters share an existence that the Horse Lords have subjugated since the Old Dynasties rose from the Nile. They see their subjugation as natural, a part of their culture and history, something bred into their bones." "There's an interesting saying in Khitani," the voice of Angela Hughes interrupted Magister Taylor's. "If a Khan cannot trust his Şöpters, then he has no allies at all. Sad, no? Imagine being born into slavery and never experiencing freedom or free will." "Angela isn't wrong, but she's misconstruing things as well. It isn't as though the Şöpter are without power," Taylor explained. "As you shall soon see, the vast majority of Temir Khan's Thunderblooded Shamans are bipedal Şöpter. I suppose the stranger thing is that each Şöpter possesses little to no regard for their Clan or herd. Each individual, tasked with raising the young of the Horse Lords, follow their Masters for life and offer their entire existence in devotion. It isn't unheard of for a Horse Lord to prefer the company of their Şöpter servant over that of their wives or children. Therefore, within the Golden Pavilion, the more potent a Horse Lord's achievements, the more significant his Şöpter entourage. The Şöpter servant of a well regarded Orlok could command Mingat without protest from the proud Horse Lord. At the same time, the Şöpter of a Jagun would think nothing of maiming or butchering the Şöpter of a Nokud for the slightest perceived insult." "It's a horse-eat-sheep-eat-goat-eat-horse world?" Gwen felt her head had grown to twice its usual size. Social observations such as these were absent in the lore and statistics of her college's prized scrolls. "It's a world where pure power reigns," Bekker simplified the proceedings for her with a longing sigh. "An unsullied world without half the complications of politics, backstabbing and betrayal. Prove your mettle to the Khan as a War Mage, and you'll fit right in." "But on that front, do refrain from incensing the Khan or his rank and file, or their Şöpter followers," Taylor added. "I am to fight... but not fight hard enough to piss them off?" Gwen furrowed her brows. "No, not that," Taylor's speech grew hesitant. "Let's say you will see Humans in the Pavilion serving as a Tasmüyiz or Şöpter. Whether they serve willingly or otherwise, it's not YOUR place to intercede." "My place?" Gwen cocked her head. "What does that mean?" "It means Magister Taylor's mission, in addition to securing the alliance of the Golden Pavilion in our common suit against the Elementals, includes the possibility of extracting wayward Human labour unwittingly wrapped up in the war," Bekker said. "Assuredly, there'll be Necromancers mixed in as well, appearing as they do in the manner of vultures and vermin. If Jean-Paul knows you half as well as I think he does, some of us are going to have to keep a scroll of Hold Monster handy and not for the Horse Lords." "Our War Mage is a pacifist?" Magister Pietersen, Bekker's Abjurer, made his incredulity known. "You're telling me, Meister, that the Devourer of Shenyang is a Humanitarian?" "That's wonderful. Someone should have passed the Juche Necromancers that memo," Angela Hughes, their Fifth Cabal observer, provided a sliver of dark humour. "From what I've heard, what remains of Shenyang couldn't even grow moss. Not even microbes remained where our War Mage's anger passed." "That's…" Gwen found that she didn't have a retort— at least not without giving away Shoggy's mystique. "Look, rest assured you're going to see some shit," Taylor emphasised the expletive to placate what Meister Bekker promoted as her impractical ethics. "BUT— don't lose your shit. Agreed?" "Okay," she said. "I'll do right by the mission." "No— you'll do what's _best_ ," Bekker reinforced the point with a hint of steel. "IF you're incapable of staying cool-headed, do the bare minimum. Shut up, stay quiet, do nothing. The consequence of failure this time isn't an issue of diplomacy— it's the collapse of the Kazakhstani Frontier and every flesh-and-blood being within it. On this mission, Magister Taylor and I alone determine what will be the best practice. Understand?" "Yes, ma'am!" Gwen assured her instructors with as much confidence as she could muster, glancing at her glum student-partner as they neared their destination; she saw an able role model. "I'll be as quiet as Jean-Paul!" Aktau. Once upon a time, the City of White Cliffs possessed the name "Aq Jarlar Aktau", a name given by the wandering Faun bard, Kobzar Taras. Even during the heyday of the Mageocracy, Aktau was a city predominantly catering to the Horse Lords. In antiquity, it was founded by Scythian Demi-human Centaurs. In the aftermath of the Golden Horde, the town became a way station for the Steppe's folk traders and a place of poetic beauty. Then, as with every region touched by the Elementals, it fell into ruin. Now, with the Fire Sea so close, its white cliffs grew scarred with the charred remains of its sister cities to the south, their carcasses washed up by warm currents to dash against Aktau's abandoned shores. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've arrived," Magister Taylor announced with relief after following some localised Divination beacon only he could see. Gwen followed her superiors, landing atop a host of Soviet-era Brutalist structures that seemed to have defied the elements, resting now as skeletons of a once-thriving port, made desolate by the eternal dusk. As before, Mages stationed within the way-station received the august party of Maguses and Magisters, settling them into furnished rooms deep underground for a few hours of meditation before their journey continued. Their present residence was once billed as the jewel of Aktau, a bunker-cum-hotel built for the Mageocracy's bureaucrats to socialise. The Grand Majestic Riviera Palace, it was called, once an ivory wonder of monolithic sandstone clad over a concrete skeleton— six storeys tall and six deep, with thick, warded panes staring straight into the cobalt depth. Two storeys down past the basement, most of the Hotel's amenities, such as the ocean rooms, the kitchens, bathrooms, filtration engines and boilers, remained intact. And it was in one of these rare rooms that Gwen found herself arrested by an unexpectedly awkward prospect— listening in to her superiors' magical equivalent of Netflix and chill. "Frank! Here? NOW? What would the others say? " The voices were barely audible, but Gwen's hearing while meditating commanded Almudj's bodily boons. "They'll say nothing—" The assurance of Frank Taylor quickly followed Angela Hughes' protest. "Why do you think I put Gwen and Jean-Paul next door to us? Those youngsters must be tired to death, and with their rooms as buffers, the others won't hear us." "You've been planning this—" "I've set this ploy in motion the moment I saw your name on the list…" "You hand-picked the list, Frank…" "Such a smart songbird you are..." "You're not interested in the girl-next-door? She seemed plenty interested in you." "Be careful, my dear— I wouldn't describe a tier VI War Mage as a girl, much less a woman, whereas you, my beautiful Angela..." "How do you even kiss your wife with that mou—Mmmnnn—" Miss Hughes' protest abruptly grew muffled. Gwen exhaled, clearing her mind and purged herself of all external thoughts. Heedless of the adulterous distractions playing out next door, she pictured in her head the Golden Pavilion, at the centre of which, Temir Khitan Tengri, Khan of Khans, a monstrously large Centaur with the strapping body of Conan the Barbarian and the lower half of a platinum-maned Percheron, dreamed atop a golden chaise. There in the Khan's pleasure dome, beside the white waters of a sacred river gushing into an emerald chasm, sat the Khan's favourite Şöpter, a pretty Faun with Mithril-dipped horns, cradling an Elven dulcimer, her clawed fingers strumming the strings while wailing at a flaming sea. "Ah— AH—" the Şöpter sang, her throat-song deep and long. "—Ah— ahh— AHHHHHH—! "

After daybreak, the party set out. Gwen could only marvel at the stamina of a fifty-year-old Diviner who must be either taking "vitality" pills or happen to be a Vessel like herself. She was ambivalent that the handy dandy with a radio host's voice had outed himself. Knowing her inclination for suave father figures, she really wouldn't have minded sharing a few drinks and a story or two with the cad. Her disdain was immature, she knew, but now that Doctor Monroe was dimensions away, there was no wrangling her aversions. On the one hand, as a modern woman, she understood that just as pigeons mucked in the fountain and rabbits bucked in the mountain, consenting adults bumped unmentionables. Likewise, had her Negative Energy not diminished particular appetites or the Void victualed her voracious cravings, she was sure that either sweet Evee or some square-jawed lad between her two universities would have become a local legend. On the other hand, her brain refused to unmount from her high horse, not when Magus Hughes had galloped Magister Taylor across half the Steppes. Yet, she couldn't rationalise why she felt personally insulted. In neither of her lifetimes, it wasn't as though her father or mother had an ounce of respect for the institution of marriage. In the end, she commanded her busybody-brain to swallow her sadness, rationalising that she needed Taylor for what was to come and that their affair was none of her business. And so— like all good girls with Hai as their fatherly role model, she zoned out, then focused on the middle distance. Now that it was mid-morning and the party was a hundred kilometres inland, the endless horizon turned from an amber seascape into a flat prairie with an unending sameness that inspired madness. Unlike Gwen's British compatriots, who marvelled at the vast expanse and remarked dourly on the rolling badlands, Gwen grew sentimental for the waterless vistas of Australia. "Which way is her Orb going now?" Bekker requested an update from below. "Excuse me." Magister Taylor drifted closer, handsome and amicable as ever. Gwen responded by smiling serenely while the man uttered his report. "— South-South East. It looks like the Pavilion might be encamped somewhere between Kaplankyr and Urgench. The Great Herd requires a fresh source of water, so we're aiming at either the Sarygamysh basin six hundred kilometres away or the Amu River that runs from the Dushanbe Highlands." "So, between eight hours and…?" "Eleven," the Magister apologised. "Even with Gwen pointing us the right way, the distance isn't going to shrink. At best, we'll find the Pavilion set up near the northern edge of the lake." Gwen had no idea what these places Magister Taylor mentioned were and so resigned herself to be held by the gentle hand of Ruxin's Omni-Orb for the foreseeable future. Now reminded of her platinum-haired corporate partner, she couldn't help but wonder if a distance of half-a-continent was an issue if she required aid from Russo's big Draconic guns. Arguably, if Golos could be conjured via her Mandala to South America, surely, Ruxin could send his CFO a helping hand in the name of mutual profit. "That's fine." Bekker motioned for silence. "Children, ready yourselves for deployment. We're now officially in a Black Zone. Your skills are not going practice themselves." Gwen's lips twitched. She felt Bekker's euphemistic allusion to child soldiers was not a product of endearment but habit. Moving away from Taylor, she distracted herself by thinking of the Elven seed satchel burning a hole in her pocket, not to mention she was still in possession of a trans-dimensional Message device in the form of the Llais leaf. If shit hit the Elemental fan, she wondered, could she ask Eldrin to drop in and show her how Vessels from pre-history dealt with threats to the Prime Material? As for the supply in her Storage Rings, she was ready to deliver some significant infrastructural change to the region or contribute significantly to stabilising the status quo. According to Bekker and Taylor's conversion, the Mageocracy's official stance is for the Centaurs and the Elementals to butt heads for as long as possible. Even in its diminished, post-Tide era, the Golden Pavilion remained a formidable power bloc in the region, securing the Steppe's planar thresholds in the manner of a marauding, militant lodestone. Ergo, a macro aspect of the Mageocracy's objectives was to ease the path of the Khitani Khanate— so that the Centaurs and the Elementals may expend their excess energies in a mutually exhausting war. Taylor's Divination halo rapidly pulsed. "Heads up, eyes down," the Magister informed the party after an hour. "There's a large assemblage of Centaurs congregated in between those plateaus, probably sheltering from Wyrms." The "plateaus" mentioned by Taylor were stunted sandstone formations worn down by wind and water. From the altitude preferred by the party, they appeared minuscule from a distance but then rapidly grew in size and scale, ranging from hills of twenty to thirty meters to monolithic ranges some half a kilometre high. In between the water-worn gorges, bursts of greenery added much-needed splashes of colour to the sun-washed Steppes. Half a kilometre out, the Mage Flights drifted into a meandering holding pattern. Landing would allow the Mages to regain mana, but as Taylor forewarned, God knew what lurked underneath the shifting sands of these badlands. Even as unchallenged rulers of the plains, the Centaurs had to contend with moisture-sucking Strangle Vines buried underground, while on a bad day, their hoof-falls would attract the apex predator of these parts, the world-famous "Mongolian Death Worm", or "Afaa al-Halak", as the Elementals called them. To Gwen's knowledge, these once-worshipped "Land Gods" of antiquity were local variants of the Earthen Wyrm she had the pleasure of encountering in the Murk. Like their cousins in the Elemental Plane of Earth, these semi-terrestrial creatures grew anywhere from tens of meters to a kilometre long. In the eastern reaches of the Sawahi Desert, one regularly found "larval" variants in conic pits attempting to trap unsuspecting travellers in the manner of sand-based Bobbit Worms, dragging prey into their transmuted burrows. Conversely, adults "swam" through the Sand Sea, spinning their bodies like a titanic, self-propelled drill, breaching the surface only when their tremor-senses picked up herds of prey, at which time they would scoop up acres of sand, like giant whales sieving for krill. "They've become a menace, those Sand Wyrms…" Taylor's lecture continued. "With the Fire Sea polluting the surrounding region with increased planar instability, they've become far more active. Where an Afaa Al-Halak ventures, destruction of the underground aquifer turns even oases into rolling dunes." "Weren't the Wyrms always a part of the landscape here?" Jean-Paul was a man who liked his worms. "What's the problem?" "They're terrific terraformers, and there are now too many of them," Bekker clarified for her favourite. "If we get an opportunity, we should Purge one to gain the respect and favour of the Khan. That's what the locals do as a part of their honour trials. A Mingat has to survive an Afaa Al-Halak's visitation, while Orkoks' must have at least one Wyrm-kill notched on their pelt." Gwen tried to imagine such a thing. How could a Horse Lord stab a Sand Wyrm four storeys tall? What would such an attack do? Tickle it? Once in range, Taylor and their Translocation Magister, Eli Hill, ventured atop the ridge to meet with the indigenous inhabitants, who had also sent out a representative. Gwen quickly circulated mana and Essence into her eyes; this was her first Centaur encounter, and she would not miss any details. Sure enough, bounding through the desolate plateau, the Horse Lord emerged, effortlessly leaping from precarious crag to impossible cliff. Once her eyes adjusted, Gwen noticed that the Centaur wasn't a "horse" at all, but an enormous ibex. Her passion cooled, but that didn't make the Ibex-kin any less impressive. Atop the sandstone plinths, the Goat-taur stood well over three meters, discounting the most macho pair of horns Gwen had ever seen. Earthen was the leather-wrapt warrior's muscular frame, composed of an offensive lineman's barrel-like torso atop the lower body of a long-limbed ibex. The Goat-taur's fur, a two-toned burst of black and brown, was the same tone as his lower body's colouring, making for a pleasing aesthetic. A dozen pilums sat on prominent display in the goat's saddlebags, their dark-iron heads fanning out behind the goat-man like a pair of wings. Simultaneously, her eyes became drawn to the leather shield etched with indecipherable rune scripts on the man's left arm, which made an impressive pairing with the stunted glaive the ibex wielded as a balancing aid. With a frame like that and those outrageous horns, Gwen conceded the "Ibex Lord" was very cool indeed. "Human Lords," the Goat-taur conversed through the dialect of the Beast-kin. "What marks your passage through our lands?" Gwen was glad their Diviner shared both sight and sound with their lesser members. "We are en route to grace the court of the peerless Thunderblood Khan." Taylor dipped his chin to demonstrate respect from a superior position. "May I ask if the Golden Pavilion lies this way?" "Your path lies true." The Beast-kin relaxed. "The Pavilion passed here the last moon cycle." "Be they resting at the vast expanse of Sarygamysh?" "Nay." The warrior pointed in a direction Gwen could not discern. "Venture northward toward the ever-flowing Amu. There, you will find the Khan of Khans, inuring his troops in preparation for the reclamation of our south lands." "Be they at Nukus?" Taylor summoned a topographic illusion with a wave of his hand. "Between Nukus and Turtkul, where the snowmelt is fiercest," the Goat Lord affirmed Taylor's projections, impressed by the visualised landscape. "Thank you." Taylor nodded a Hill. "As a sign of our support and friendship, please take this. Have you experienced any incursions of late?" Hill materialised a bound crate of what Gwen recognised as self-expanding, self-heating food rations with a theatrical wave. These were the dessert variants, absurdly rich in calories and amazingly fortifying when the weather's cold. Choco-banana was her favourite. "Only the unimportant loss of a few far-ranging Tasmüyiz hosts." The goat warrior licked his lips at their gift of sugar and spice. "The Sons of Аkk thank you for these gifts, may the Afaa Al-Halak spare your steps, outlanders." "May we meet again in the south-ward crusade," Taylor offered the Centaur a hand, simultaneously positioning himself to levitate at the right height to receive the Ibex-kin. The two shook, then parted without further sentimentality. Returning to the party, Bekker nodded in satisfaction at her colleagues from the Shard. "If that Ibex's words hold, then we should be clear of Elementals from here," Bekker affirmed Taylor's return. "The weather's warmed, the wind's down— let us make haste." Nukus. The Heavenly Steppes. Beside the sacred waters of the roaring Amu, Temir Khitan Tengri, Khan of Khans, mustered his Thunderblooded riders to repel the latest visitation from the worshipful "worms" of the Sand Sea of Sawahi. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Khudu, Cherbi of the Khan's elite Khesig Honour Guard, sat naked to his waist, his muscles oiled and gleaming, so defined as to be the envy of the Khanate. Upon a silver-adorned chaise, his well-honed lower body sat, flanked by his horn-headed Şöpter servants. "Honoured Cherbi." The Şöpters' bleating voice irked Khudu. "Is the fitting of your barding to your liking?" "Leave it," Khudu grunted, his long mane bristling with undisguised impatience. "Where is Lady Saran? We must soon be away. Does the Shaman not know that a Cherbi must always ride in front of his Khan at all times?" His Şöpters lowered their heads, too fearful of either party to comment. Khudu's complaint was met by the sound of soft laughter from outside his yurt. A white hand pushed apart the leather veil, revealing an ageless and exquisite face alive with taunting mirth. Khudu's brows furrowed further when the intruder soundlessly entered without his permission, parting the entrance so that her priestesses also entered, each bearing the ingredients of the Sanguine Rite. "You must forgive this lowly Saran, worshipful Khudu, champion of champions," the Faun who spoke had a voice like lifting silk, inspiring un-warrior-like instincts in the Cherbi that no respectful Centaur would wish to entertain. As she moved, the curve of her hips teetering forward, her jewel-laden horns refracted the light from the Daylight Globes. Around the Şöpter Shaman's neck, a string of Afaa Al-Halak teeth, each the size of a thumb, were dipped in Mithril then made ornate with Sanguine Scripture of the Thunderblooded Clan. In the uncertain light, the woman shone with a sheen of perspiration made refractive by the jasmine oil massaged into her skin and fur. The scent from the woman quickened Khudu's heart. He felt an unbidden longing for the woman's touch, a desire that even the lowest Nukud understood to be a shameful weakness. Cracking his neck, the Cherbi forced his mind to focus. This woman, the Lady Saran, had ceased being a Şöpter slave long ago. To his knowledge, she was old enough to be his grandmother. Within the Golden Pavilion, few could afford to truly irk the Dinï of the Shamans, for she had single-handedly raised the Khan from a colt. Even Khudu himself, brood-kin to Temir Tengri, had once drunk milk from the Şöpter's heavy bosoms. That was why the Great Khan treated his troop of Khesig Marauders as his brothers— for all of them had passed by Saran's hands in their youth. All of them were made siblings by their shared wet nurse. As for why the ancient Şöpter would appear so youthful— Khudu could only discern that the woman's mastery over the Sanguine Rites must be unimaginable. "Is milord unwell?" Şöpter asked. Khudu's obsidian eyes averted the Shaman Woman's sunlit-irises that pierced past his thoughts and stared into his soul. "Make it quick. This yurt is stifling. A warrior should always have one hoof on the grass, bow-in-hand and spear in the other, filling his mane with the wind." The woman laughed. "You're forever the rash one, Khudu. You should learn from your brother, the Great Khan." "I am Temir's Spear." Khudu deflated, unable to speak harshly to the Shaman. "And his Shield. Shame me not with tardiness, Dinï Saran." "Altani, Alaqa." The Şöpter appeared satisfied with his capitulation. With a wave of her jewelled hand, she commanded her handmaidens, who took up positions beside the Cherbi. "You may begin." "Yes, Matron." The girls obliged. From their sacred receptacles, the girls produced obsidian-bladed scalpels brimming with necrotic mana. "Lord Cherbi…" "Spare the milk of paradise." Khudu paid no heed to the women. "Anoint me. Take as much as you need." One woman packed away the milk skin while the other made quick incisions across Khudu's chest, waited for his massive pectorals to relax, then collected the ruby-like drops of blood. In their mystic vessels of rare earth minerals, herbs and sacred alchemy, they then expertly formed the admixture into Sanguine Ink. "Leave me the smaller of the vessels," Saran commanded her Thunderblooded neophytes, then approached Khudu with the sacred container. Dipping a finger into the rusty ink, she began to reform the familiar Sanguine Scripts upon the Cherbi's massive body, tracing the same patterns that had adorned his skin hundreds of times before. Khudu's jaw clenched as the blood script kissed his dermis like glacial ice, then burned like True Fire plucked from the Fire Sea. "You'll ruin your teeth like that." The Şöpter woman paused so that Khudu could breathe. "Must you bear on so heavy a burden? The other Orkoks do not give half as you do to the Khan. And my Milk of Paradise leaves little to no side effects." "Temir is my brother and my kin," Khudu said as the script-writing continued. "As the heavens are wide and the plains without limits, so a Khan's Cherbi shall perish before his Khan may falter. Besides, I need to set an example for the Khesig." "Sigh— you're all such giant fawns." The Şöpter worked with a swiftness that was second to none. "But that's a good thing. Temir's father lacked that kind of camaraderie." "You will not speak ill of Grandsire Tengri," Khudu said. Saran was a unique existence, but she was still a Şöpter. "Don't waste your ire on me," the woman concluded by using her claws to frame the final script, that of entwined life— known to Khudu as the Mark of Ulzii, on Khudu's forehead. She then gingerly touched his lips, leaving a finishing dash of Sanguine Ink on his chin to mark the final touch. "There." In an act that would have sent the Cherbi into a rage like no other, the Şöpter slapped Khudu on the buttocks, something only a mother-mare could affect on their colt or filly. Khudu rose, strongly desiring to be beside his brothers and be away from this female. “Take care of Temir, Khudu.” The Şöpter gathered her tools and ingredients. "I shall." The Cherbi's mind turned from this woman for whom he felt an inexplicable and confusing longing and toward the outside world. "I am his brother, unto death and beyond." Saran turned and left. After several more minutes of meditation to absorb the agony, Khudu parted the leather threshold and entered into the world of light and sound. Already, an Ordu of the Thunderblooded Clan had mustered outside the camp and was awaiting their Orkok. Where the inside of his tent was a silent world of meditation, the clamour of iron-shod hooves, grinding mail, jingling pilums and rattling quivers of heartwood arrows adorned with Eagle-Harpy feathers became a solid wall of sound. In neighs and whinnies, Mingats Captains with their gold-braided manes kept order as Tumens in True Silver barked orders for the men to remain in their hundred-horse formations. Among these robust bodies of martial perfection chomping at the bit were the scuttling shadows of the Tasmüyiz, doing their best to avoid being trampled as they dressed their Horse Lords, polished armour, sharpened the glaives and waxed the feather-shafts. Upstream, where the Great Khan's Pleasure Dome touched the heavens, herds of young mares bid their budding Nokuds farewell with wreaths of wildflowers gathered at daybreak. These, Khudu's daughters among them, were tended to by Şöpter servants of the saraī, a veritable silk-clad army waiting on the fillies as they twisted their braids in excitement. The hunt for an Afaa Al-Halak of the Sea of Sawahi was no small feat of strength. At least some would not return— but for those who would prove triumphant, the most beautiful, long-limbed girls with the most generous dowries would be theirs for the picking. Just as well, the most noble-blooded filly would have her pick of the next Mingat, Tumen or if they dared dream— a future Orkok. "Hail!" A screech from the sky heralded the arrival of Cirina, Khudu's chief scout. Folding her wings, the Eagle-Harpy skidded to a halt. "The Sand God is close. There are wyrm signs in the eastern reaches of the Sawahi. My eagles have reported seeing the drovers driving their fear-maddened herds back toward Nukus." "Has it breached the Sand Sea's surface?" "Nothing that could be verified, though the wildlife has scattered as far as they're able." "Good." Khudu made up his mind. "It must be formidable, then. Warn the Ordu! Inform the Great Khan! Tasmüyizs— bring me my armaments!" A dozen bipedal Tasmüyiz, Rat-kin, Deer-kin, dog-faced Kobolds and few Rabbits among them appeared from around his yurt as though materialising from thin air. In a second, The Khesig Captain's quiver bags grew gravid with the stoutest arrows crafted by Cirina's Harpy-daughters. In pieces, the stronger Tasmüyiz held his heavy mail in place while clambering, swift-fingered Rat-kin threaded the straps with buckles, locking Khudu into his Marauder's plates. These would tap into the Sanguine sorcery tattooed into his skin, making the armour light as feathers and yet near-impenetrable. "Khesig—!" He howled, his throat-song rising above the clamouring war camp. "Your Cherbi calls!" "HWAA—OOOH—!" Came the collective cry of his hundred-strong Marauders. Of his Khesig, most of the free riders were Jagun, while even the weakest were elite Arabanu whose blood sorcery drew from ten or more Nukud. "THE HUNT IS ON!" Khudu reared, shaking off the Tasmüyiz that fell from him like snow off a stout oak. "WE ART THE GREAT KHAN'S SPEAR!" "WE ART THE GREAT KHAN'S SHIELD!" His men answered. Beside him, Mungke shot into the air with a screech and a single flap of his steel-plumed wings. "HWAA—OOH!" Khudu hooted, turning to face the Pleasure Dome, where even now Temir Khan was being clad by Saran in his Golden Mail. "RIDE! WE WHO ART THE GREAT KHAN'S BLOOD!" "My God, it's breathtaking…" Not even Jean-Paul was immune to the majesty of distance and scale when applied to a landscape so vast as to show the curvature of Terra in every direction. Conversely, Gwen was pleasantly surprised that the desolate tundra could possess such mutability in landscape and flora. After only two hours of maximum velocity Flight from the Goat Lord's stone grot, the plinth-strewn badlands gave way to pools of snowmelt, then transformed as if by sorcery into endless acres of virginal wildflowers. "That's good eating for the Centaurs and their army," Taylor remarked when his team audibly announced their appreciation. "After the grazers pass, there'll only be roots left." "But it'll all grow out again," Gwen said. "Renewable fodder, right?" "In better years perhaps—" Taylor pointed to the endless rows of small bodies bent over a field of flowers nearer the horizon. "The roots can be very nutritious, and when dried, they keep well. In a bad year, between conserving their resources and preserving the lives of the Great Herd, the Khanate will always choose the latter." "But what will they do for food next year? Or the next?" Jean-Paul appeared confused. "Centaurs don't engage in agriculture, right? And the rivers here are too unpredictable." "They raid. That's the Horse Lords' ancestral employment, after all," Bekker explained with patience to her Apprentice. "And also, the Rat-kin will always find ways to sow the fields— else what use would they be to the Centaurs? The Khanate doesn't exactly keep useless extra-mouths around. Resources, materials, and infrastructure are one thing, but there is nothing more pivotal than food security when maintaining a kingdom. In our diplomatic negotiations, we'll be touting our ability to supply grain from central Europe. If you want to be of help, pay close attention to how the Khanate is dealing with food and water scarcity." "Food security is the first step to stabilising the region," Taylor said. "We should be glad the Centaurs lack it. Without it, there would be no leverage to our negotiations." Gwen agreed wholeheartedly with the serial adulterer. No matter the human endeavour, no matter the better intent of the First World, the struggle to maintain food security remained a sore point for all negotiations with the developing world. As much as the west touted tourism and sustainability, no foreign demands mattered when the locals struggled to eat— conserving White Rhinos when malnutrition ran rampant in the local village? A first-world saviour could dream. In her alter-Earth, farmers in Belize did not have to worry about Shark-men raiding their fishing sheds, nor did the Caspian fishermen have to contend with fire-flinging Titans capable of melting a factory-freight ship to molten slag. In this world, before the arrivals of the Elementals, the Centaurs had thrived on the Steppes since before the dawn of human history. Humans empires rose and fell, as did Khanates, but both had endured. Now, Human habitation in what some had romantically dubbed the "Cradle of Empires" was all but extinguished by the Elemental Sultanate, and it seemed that the surviving neighbours of the Humans were next. Presently, the lynchpin of the Human-Centaur alliance was the changing climate in the immediate region north of the Fire Sea. Whether this was a stratagem laid out by the Elementals or if it was mere coincidence, the Mageocracy did not know. Either way, the spread of the Sand Sea of Sawahi in the Eastern Steppes summoned the Afaa Al-Halak, whose presence increased the rate of desertification— which invited more Elemental imbalance and thus, perpetuated the life cycle of the Sand Wyrms. Therefore, the promise of food sustainability was the Sword of Damocles that the Mageocracy held over the Horse Lords of the Steppes. In the sombre silence that followed, the party continued their flight until the green vista met an abrupt end at the stark white edge of a blue-green lake. "Beautiful—" Gwen breathed in the salty air. She had seen Lake Eyre, but this was a whole other kind of other-worldly beauty. "That's a dead lake." Taylor shot down her worshipful tone in the next minute. "Portions of it can be transmuted with sorcery to produce freshwater, but on its own, its four thousand kilometre squares of liquid death." "How come?" Gwen squinted against the glare from the water. "… Ah— Salt?" "Yes," the Magister affirmed her observation. "After the Tide, the region's weakened fabric collapsed. The lake had the unfortunate fate of playing host to several portals into the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Salt. The streams that feed the lake still contain untainted water, but the closer one ventures toward its centre…" "So nothing lives in it? What a waste." "I am sure there are adapted life-forms from the Quasi-Elemental Plane thriving out of sight, where the salt is densest— but don't anticipate anything from our world to live there." As the party approached, Gwen saw that there were roving herds of livestock. These were the mundane kind— scattered cattle, horses, and copious, meandering flocks of Edilbay sheep, all non-magical fauna bred for food. These drank from the various estuaries flowing from the highlands or grazed on surviving patches of grass. Yet, impressive as the herds seemed, they were white specks against the monochromatic grey salt plains and the ochre badlands that hinted at the beginnings of the grasslands' transformation into fine silica. She wondered if the folks here knew about topsoil erosion, or bio-diversity, or the need to maintain plant life even to begin to preserve the fertility of their tablelands. But then again, every endeavour in her old world, a place without portals into the Quasi-Elemental Planes of Salt or giant Sand Wyrms, had failed at reclaiming even the most meagre of habitats. Her hand unconsciously wandered to her waist. Once more, the Druidic Bag of Holding pulsed against her hand, its seeds throbbing with borrowed vitality from Tryfan. Had Solana foreseen all of this? She wondered. Or was this as well, merely ploys that stemmed from the Accord?

Gwen tasted the tar-like Essences permeating the horizon as a metallic tang playing on her tongue. The sorcery empowering the Essence was familiar to her. It was arcanistry she owned thanks to Brown and Wen, through whom she had Frankensteined Greenskin Shamanism, contemporary Spellcraft, nouveau Void theory and Soul Flayer Necromancy to accomplish Essence sympathy through Essence Tap. By all logic, somebody should have died and the researchers arrested— but thanks to the elasticity of her mana conduits and the pliant nature of her Void-abused body, her Frankensteined Signature Spell lurched to life. No doubt, Wen and Brown would shortly publish a paper on the matter, after which they would receive standing ovations from their British and European cabal-peers for pushing the boundaries of Spellcraft. As for herself, whatever the implications, she maintained her stance that her dalliance with Necromancy was a necessary pitfall. After all, the vitality she had managed to share with Gracie had enabled a way for less fortunate Void Mages to attain Affinity-parity and thus life. As for the cost, Gwen could only say that upright and Soul-tapped was better than dead and dusted. As for the Essence soup bubbling over the horizon— she wetted her lips. How would it feel to tap Caliban into that? Assuming she didn't pop like an overzealous gender-reveal balloon, would she wield power like an apocryphal angel visiting vengeance upon her enemies? "That must be Nukus— I should also warn you there's an active War Host ahead," Taylor's voice came through the Divination halo, his tone wane from the constant travel. "From the density of their mana signatures, I'd say an Ordu. Likely the Khan is on the hunt. There's a monstrous Earthen mana signature among them." Since leaving at daybreak, the party had flown for almost ten hours, with the only rests being Gwen and Jean-Paul practising on local fauna and stray Elemental monsters to stock up on vitality, and when they ran into an oasis too tempting to gloss over. Finally, in the afternoon, with the Amu in view, the Caspian behind them and the glittering sands of the Sawahi beyond, they reached the Divi-Orb's final destination. "… I do believe they're hunting an Afaa Al-Halak, dangerous as they are; only prey of that size can feed a war host. But I digress—" Taylor paused half-sentence, for there was no more need for clarification. Down below and near the horizon, some distance past the river Amu and what looked to be an enormous city of yurts and pavilions, a roving cloud of dust and sand blew past concentric circles of rolling cavalry. From their vantage, Gwen could see that the "riders" were fighting something in the dust cloud. The scene was astounding, not just because of the scale of the combat— which must involve what looked like almost ten thousand Centaurs, but that the Horse Lords' formation resembled an animated Mandala. "Gwen, Jean-Paul, holding pattern—" Bekker halted the party. "Taylor, take Hill and present yourselves. Tell them we have arrived and that we shall await the Great Khan's pleasure for an audience." "Understood." Taylor signalled to the Transmuter, who followed his flight path toward the largest structure in the yurt-city below, what Gwen assumed to be the Golden Pavilion. With their Ambassador gone, the rest of the party settled in to enjoy the show, proffering mana-rich rations and self-warming mugs of tea via cantrips of levitation. "Here." Jean-Paul handed Gwen a slathered piece of re-inflated curried-egg sandwich. Gwen noticed her friend's irises were awash with obsidian mana, a testament to his excitement. "There it is, the Mongolian Deathworm— they grow up to a kilometre long and use vibrations on their carapace to displace the sand. The largest of them are land Leviathans! They can tunnel between the Prime Material and the Murk. Some even say the Dwarves appropriate their passage tunnels to make the Dyar Mokk!" Gwen chewed on her sandwich; her buddy's passion for worm-like things was expected but unsettling nonetheless. "Here it comes!" Jean-Paul shouted; in the next moment, a bone-throbbing drone drowned out the Void Mage's voice. _"ARUUUURNNNGH—!"_ Emerging from the dust cloud like a breaching whale, the infamous "Mongolian Death Worm" made its debut. "STREWTH—" Gwen near-choked on the reconstituted egg. Her brain could scarcely comprehend the monster's scale. "That's a bloody BIG worm!" In her mind, Gwen had envisioned a mega-fauna variant of the Earthen Wyrm she had consumed in the Dwarven Murk. She had even entertained the idea of subsuming one so that she could ride her Afaa Al-Cali through the sand, Fremen style. But this thing was a whole other tier. With her Essence-enhanced eyes, Gwen could see the Centaur warriors milling beneath it. These, she understood from her encounter with the Goat Lord to be three meters tall. Among the rush of brown-clad warriors, she could also see the Horse Lord's officers, their mails flashing gold and silver, their huffing bodies clad in blood-dyed ink. Whether because of magic or breeding, these Centaur Centurions sat almost four meters tall, with great big hooves the size of car tires churning up great big clods as they passed. Yet, set against the emerging Afaa Al-Halak, these Centaurs appeared mere aphids trying to climb the stalk of a robust, sun-seeking serpent vine. Heedless of the Horse Lords' harassment, the Sand Wyrm hunted, its skyscraper body twisting through the air with the force of a seismic eruption. As its great head roved, a three-part maw opened like the petals of a carnivorous flower, revealing undulating rows of teeth sieving sand between the gaps. Horrifically, she could see Centaurs and bipedal Beast-kin leaping from the lifting jaws. A football field-sized bite attack? Gwen trembled at the thought of trying to fight such a thing. Was this how Alesia felt when fighting Almudj in the Royal National? What would a Void Orb even do to a being of that scale? How did the Centaurs hope to fight it? Even if one survived the Sand Wyrm's nip or avoided it, there was still the net mass of the worm's body slam to take into account. As if in answer to her uncertainty, the Centaurs began their counterattack. "There!" Jean-Paul pointed to a spearhead formation emerging from the mass of horses below, his eyes alive with excitement. "That's the Khan of Khans!" Gwen did not need her companion's guidance, for she had sensed the gathering of Essence and vitality visibly forming a ripple across the battlefield, centring on a Centaur wrapt in the Thunderblooded Clan's Sanguine scripture. Temir Khan, Khan of Khans, stood some four meters tall and clad from head to toe in golden mail, a heavy pilum in one hand hefted overhead. Like the vortex centre of an unfathomable maelstrom, the Essence taxed from his followers amassed upon his arching body, transforming his hair and fur into vivid hematite. Rearing on his hind legs, the Khan tensed every muscle, transferring every mote of power into the singing metal of his lance while scarlet mist fled from the gaps between his armour and barding. Above, as an impossible sand sculpture, the Afaa Al-Halak arched into the air, propelled by its titanic body, poised to roll over the Centaur herd. The Khan waited for the Sand Wyrm to reach the zenith, then launched his pilum. Gwen crushed the curried sandwich with one hand as the pilum made a resounding BOOM, tearing through the sound barrier, leaving ignited air in its wine-red wake. By this time, the Sand Wyrm had begun its descent. Turning downward, it aimed its colossal body at a troop of Centaurs who presently held its aggravation. The pilum struck. Something akin to thunder fulminated. As a Lightning Mage, Gwen knew all about thunderbursts— but even so, she felt shaken by the sound of the pilum's impact against the Afaa Al-Halak's armoured side. To her dazzled brain, the result was like the unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. What manner of Newtonian exchange must be involved to shift the inertia of a falling skyscraper? Her organs rioted from the awe-inspired adrenaline. Just how much Essence was needed to turn awry the titan's trajectory? " _GUUUUAARRRRRR_ —" The Sand Wyrm's cry was like ten-thousand Oliphants trumpeting in disharmony. "Christ above," one of the Maguses swore beside her. "No wonder the Horse Lords can fight the Elementals to a standstill." "I don't think any of us is going to abjure that." Major Kott made the exact observation that flashed through their heads. "How do we deal with it then?" Gwen asked her tutor. "By not dealing with it." Kott exhaled. "That attack harnessed strength from the entire Ordu. I don't know how often it can be employed— but when your opponent commits his entire force, don't stand in the way." "… So we cut our losses and then hope to attack back with enough power to return the favour?" Gwen gritted her teeth. "Allowing such an attack to occur is already enough of a misstep," Kott informed her, his blue eyes growing hard. "To then hope for the best would be the height of naivety. Not planning to soak up losses and return as good as they've given is then unforgivable stupidity." "Well said, Major." Schoeman, the Magister serving under Bekker, gave the Major a thumbs up. "I don't see why it's impossible—" Magus Hughes, Taylor's nightrider, disagreed. "Misdirecting the attack is your best bet. Just make the Centaur shoot anywhere you're not, and they've wasted their efforts." "Unless you can manifest Illusions at the speed of sound, I would hope our Contingency Rings holds up." Pietersen, another crew member under Bekker's domain, did not appear to think highly of their Fifth Cabal observer. "Besides, it is naive to think the Khan lacks countermeasure against Illusion. Elemental Marids are born weaving mirages, and their range and scale far exceed the limits of Spellcraft." The atmosphere grew tense, though Meister Bekker remained apathetic to the competition brewing between their two factions. Following her instructor's example, Gwen kept her attention focused on the titanic struggle below. From the writhing body of the wyrm, Gwen could see that the attack had been strong enough to send organ-shattering shockwaves up and down the creature's body. Where the wound had erupted like a volcano, an enormous hole had formed, a concave cavity within which she could see shattered entrails spurting gallons of purple blood— a fact exacerbated by the worm's crash landing. Even now, the stunned titan was projectile vomiting from its tri-petal maw, indicating that a significant section of its digestive tract was in revolt— or in tatters. Around the Afaa Al-Halak, the Horse Lords continued their assault, peppering the Sand Wyrm's head with arrows. Just as she wondered what good such small pin-pricks would do, the four cavalry circles split into separate Mandala-shaped formations. From each loop, a mighty Horse Lord emerged, carrying six-meter pilums that resembled vaulting poles. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Gwen's eagle-eyes spotted the barbed tip and the hooked weight at the haft. "Holy shit! Is that a harpoon?" The closest Horse Lord, his armour clad in Bronze, Gold and studded in coins of Mithril, usurped the Essence from his warrior circle. Gwen held her breath, anticipating the ultraviolence to come. Not to disappoint, the Horse Lord launched the missile with the force of an ICBM, breaking the sonic barrier at a hundred meters as the projectile became a booming, red-hot lance of destructive energy. _—CLANG!_ Even from a few kilometres away, Gwen could hear the sound of the harpoon-spear penetrating what must be a meter-thick wall of chitin. Without stopping, the Horse Lord drew another pilum. Their audience collectively produced gasps of scalp-itching dismay. The damn Centaurs could rapid-fire these things?! "That settles that." Kott's face blanched. "That said, there must be a limitation to their Shamanism—" "Poor longevity," Jonke observed. "Vitality isn't infinite, after all, even if it naturally regenerates." "What if we alpha-strike the leader?" Jonke proposed. "That or collapse the lower base of their vitality-pyramid," Bekker remarked, glancing at Gwen. Streaming companies of Horse Lords rode past the dazed Sand Wyrm. "What are they doing now?" Jean-Paul stared confusedly at the scene, his expression showing undisguised sympathy for the mighty worm bullied by an army of brutal, relentless ants. "They're catching it, I think." Gwen could see that the other riders passing the wounded and dazed Wyrm was expertly throwing arm-thick ropes onto the hooked ends of the pilums, securing their barbs in the manner of bee-stings. She imagined the Horse Lords harnessing the Afaa Al-Halak, Fremen style, then riding the sand titans for thousands of kilometres through the Sand Sea. "I wonder how they'll feed a pet that size." Within the minute, despite the imminent danger of the wyrm rolling over the roving calvary, the creature's back became a criss-crossing mess of overlapping ropes that looked like spider-silk from above. These, Gwen supposed, both stopped the animal from twisting to dive back into the sand and to secure it so that the Horse Lords could continue to tame it without being pulverised by its whale-maw. "I don't think…." Jean-Paul's voice grew full of doubt. In the next moment, both of their mouths fell open. The Centaurs' formation parted. The mightiest of them began to race away from the Sand Wyrm while pulling on the tethered harpoons. The Mages from both the Shard and Pretoria grimaced and cringed, gritting their teeth as a flower of unimaginable carnage blossomed into bloody life. Like tearing the shell off a hapless crayfish, the ropes grew taunt; then, with a mighty surge of Essence that manifested as a pink haze, the Horse Lords split off an entire section of the Sand Wyrm's hide. Gwen's balled palms had by now compressed her curried egg sandwich back into its satchel form. " _SHREEEEEE_ —" An unexpected and piercing shriek from above signalled Gwen and the Mages to a flock of Eagle-Harpies awaiting their turn. On cue, like a swarm of obsidian locust, the flock descended, aiming for the most vulnerable aspects of the Sand Wyrm's exposed flesh, tearing at the visible tendons and vessels. At the same time, the lesser Centaurs converged, rapidly reforming into streams of pilum tossing strike teams. Gwen looked away, feeling physically ill. There was violence, and then there was the live degloving of a creature that only moments ago was full of majesty. Beneath the armoured sections of the flopping worm, she could see its glistening flesh growing paler with every pulse of purple ichor. Unfazed by their brutal labour, more of the horses engaged in the same gory act of glory, quickly turning the ochre sand of the badlands into a scarlet swamp. At each triumphant gallop, hooves churning the blood-stained sand transmuted the earth into bloody pudding. The wyrm's vitals were failing. This much Gwen could tell without needing Caliban's aid. Thanks to her ever-hungry Astral Body, her natural Divination could perceive the absurd volume of life seeping from the Afaa Al-Halak's rapidly deflating body. It was a waste— but the wyrm was the Centaur's bounty, and even if the escaping Essence and life were to soak the sand, it was the Khan's to waste. "HWAA—OOOH—!" Came a cry from the marauders from below, announcing their victory. The feasting Eagle-Harpies from above echoed the bellow below, their screeches like hysterical violin-strings. Gwen felt strangely shaken. Rarely since coming into her rightful talents had she felt so helpless in the face of overwhelming power. The hunt she had just witnessed demonstrated the prowess of a warrior culture millennia in the making. Mighty as the Mongolian Death Worm was, a creature of brute elemental strength was no match for a civilisation that had once reigned over the largest land empire on the Prime Material. A horn blew, its soulful drone touching every corner of the battlefield. From the direction of Nukus and the main camp, great caravans of bipedal Tasmüyiz surged from the yurt-city. Urgent trains of carts pushed by Beast-kins tall, stout, large and miniscule made for the burping carcass of a worm almost a kilometre long. Gwen touched her face— she was sweat-soaked from the collar of her combat suit to its interior. She inhaled deeply, then sighed deep and long. Who would have thought, the Devourer of Shenyang solemnly acknowledged, that Centaurs were harder to straddle than Necromancers? By the time Taylor and Hill returned to guide their party toward the Golden Pavilion, the colossal work of portioning the Afaa Al-Halak was well underway. Of the piles of ingredients harvested from the mighty carcass, chitin plates were stacked sky-high to one side, accompanied by a hill of translucent flesh, then an enormous pit of rendered, jade-white lard. A second crater meter deep and tennis-court sized was excavated by the Tasmüyiz to dispose of the Wyrm's shattered organs. Segment by segment the bipedal Beast-kin laboured, knee-deep in blood-silt, each worker transformed into abstract figurines of gore. Already, she had spotted a few Humans among the work slaves. "Gwen…" Jean-Paul nudged her as they slowly descended, watched by thousands of curious Centaurs and Beast-kin. "Check out that Core…" Gwen's gaze drifted to a Creature Core the size of a cargo van, shaped like a fossilised heart. Titanic creatures like Mongolian Death Worms did not reach an extraordinary tier unless they acquired enough Draconic blood to supersede their base ancestry. Nonetheless, their Cores provided essential materials for Shielding Stations and other infrastructural installations. As the Centaurs had no use themselves for such a thing, the Creature Core would likely be exchanged for wheat and other supplies on the cheap. According to Taylor, the Khanate possessed scant patience for economic management, leaving most of the work to the Şöpter servants, whose awkward social status made ergonomic trade arrangements near-impossible. Ironically, though Tasmüyizs skilled at trade and barter existed, no member of the Khanate cared enough to gift the slave races the necessary autonomy to improve their economy. The Horse Lord that received them, "The Cherbi Khudu", was one of the praetorian specimens that lead the raid on the Afaa Al-Halak. Visually, the Horse Lord was an astounding spectacle of masculinity, his upper body twice the circumference and height of Andre the Giant, sporting the bullish neck of a pro wrestler wider than Gwen's waist. Impressively, the Centaur's lower body was that of a roan Clydesdale taller than Gwen even if she wore her most painful heels. Like his peers, the Khitani Centaurs' face was chisel-jawed with an eagle-beaked nose and iris colours matching his elemental Affinity. After a final round of reminders from Taylor, the party landed. As Bekker had ordained, Gwen's role was to play the pretty and silent doll until the moment Taylor brandished her as their War Mage. After the show and tell, she would then be excused to explore the compound with Jean-Paul. It was just as well that Gwen intended to heed her superiors, for else she would have already complained about the smell. Now that they were in the "thick" of it, fur-musk, sweat, and the sharp tang of tanned leather was omnipresent. There was also the sweet stink of melons and other vegetables, some fresh, some half-eaten and some rotting in carts waiting to be hauled away. Worse still, near every yurt clustered toward the "city" and its centre, roving herds of smouldering chattel made her eyes water. Understandably, a race that was always on the move had little use for infrastructures such as plumbing or trash management. Sans extra-large Storage Rings, there was no way to haul the refuse-disposing Magi-tech engines that serviced man's NoM Districts. Though here and there she could see Tasmüyiz sweeping the streets, there were far more sheep and pack animals than labouring Rat-folks. At the same time, it wasn't as though the locals were bothered by the heady scent haze. Closer to the Khan's tent, the streets grew broad enough for six Horse Lords to pass abreast. The structures that prefaced their approach— Gwen noticed, grew more prominent the closer she got to the city's epicentre. Likewise, their Centaur entourage grew in number until she felt positively sandwiched between flanking walls of oiled barding. At the entrance to the pavilion, two Şöpters manservants with the heads of bulls opened the pavilion's enormous drapes, revealing the perfumed world within. Unlike other members of her team, whose eyes were drawn straight away to the visage of the Khan of Khans in the centre of the pocket plane of the tent, Gwen's eyes fell on the pillars holding up the entrance. Totem poles! She recognised the twin columns at once. In her study of her Masters' sorcery, her curriculum reading included an outdated section on Totemic Shamanism of the Greenskins and Beast-kin. The footnotes had stated that the learning and teaching of Shamanistic mysticism was a verbal affair, with spells passed on as chants and songs. Simultaneously, as a companion art, the esoteric spiritualism that empowered ancestral sorcery was transmitted via ancestral Totem columns. From the looks of the Totems presented here— two at the gate and six more in the further reaches of the yurt holding the superstructure together— the history of Clan Khitan must be vast and long indeed. Gwen gulped. Taylor had said that Horse Lords tended to live fast and die young— the Khan himself was barely past his forties and his father scarcely seventy when the Tide took his life— but these Totems must be thousands of years old. If indeed the Khitani Centaurs predate human history, then these relics must precede Egypt's First Dynasty. Gwen fought down an urge to touch the sacred wood. When her eyes finally lifted from the Sanguine Scripts that formed the basis of the Shamanism used by the Centaurs, her party was bowing before the big horse himself. "Welcome, Mage Lords from the north," came the voice from above. "You have come at a time of plenty, allies of the Khitan." Gwen lifted her eyes to steal a peek at the being who had earlier king punched an Afaa Al-Halak into kingdom come. "The Mageocracy thanks you for the welcome, Khan of Khans, Lord of the Steppes, Scion of the Tengri's Thunder-threaded Golden Blood…" While her betters exercised boorish diplomacy, Gwen scanned the interior of the giant yurt. The most notable feature was the acres of carpet, some overlapping, some placed in patterned rows covering the ground. Compared to the red flooring, the yurt's walls comprised patterned, criss-crossing beams adorned with intermittent drapes of spun wool. What was most impressive to her was the skylight, an enormous opening that allowed the sunlight to be gently filtered by shrouds of silk that resembled floating clouds. At the centre of the skylight array, a zodiac depicting a sun and moon constellation bathed Temir Khan in holy luminescence. The Great Khan himself, much to her surprise, was smaller in stature than his guards, chief of whom was his Cherbi. Seated upon the dais, the Horse King was a spectacle of gold-etched plate mail threaded with spun Mithril and engraved with True Silver. The most striking characteristic of Temir Khan Tengri was the inner light pooling in his depthless irises, a feature that immediately made Gwen think of Solana. A Vessel? She wondered— then refuted her initial impression. There was Essence in the Khan, a great deal of it— but it wasn't Draconic. What the Khan possessed was the Essence of his Khitani Horse-kin and their slave legions. "Meister Bekker, your presence among us is an unexpected boon," the Khan's diplomacy continued, his timbre deep, measured and confident. "With your aid, I am assured that our Elemental enemies to the south will soon retreat into their brass-bound fortress…" While her superiors conversed, Gwen's gaze slid from the Khan once more. Beside the deified Horse Lord's dais were three empty divans, likely indicating the positions occupied by his generals. Assuming these were seats usually laid out for his Orkoks, Gwen estimated the Khan's military expedition at forty-thousand horses, excluding the auxiliary forces of bipedal foot troops and their Tasmüyiz fodder. Curiously, Gwen noted, she had failed to spot a single mare or filly. Servants aside, the Khan's pavilion was a raging stud fest. What did this mean? She wondered. Do Centaur women not have a place in the Golden Pavilion? There was certainly no shortage of long-legged, flax-maned mares on their way in, many of who wore rich and vibrant fabrics and had brigades of Tasmüyiz servant scurrying underfoot. Gwen's suspicion remained until her eyes landed on a dark corner behind the Khan, where she detected a well-endowed feminine figure. Instantly, she sensed a slight tingle in her Divination Sigil. It wasn't a call for danger— but rather the feeling of someone probing her with their mind. In response, Gwen sent out mental feelers of her own. Their thoughts soon touched. Besides the Great Khan, a pair of amber eyes stared into Gwen's own. It was a Şöpter Faun dressed in richly hued diaphanous silk, marking her as no mere servant. Around the woman's neck, just covering her ample bosoms, sat a semi-circle necklace of threaded teeth— the emblem of a senior Shaman. Unlike other Şöpter slaves adorning the place like decor, her goat horns were polished and manicured, curving handsomely so that the Mithril-dipped tip and its hanging jewels framed her exquisite face. There was a familiar air about the woman. The Şöpter was undeniably a bipedal Beast-kin. Yet, from the Faun's confident shoulders, bright eyes, and sensual mouth, Gwen observed the same aura possessed by Lady Grey, Lucy Astor, and Elvia's gentle Rectrix. Though she stood in the shadow of the Khan, power and influence came as naturally to her as the air she breathed. Committing to her hypothesis, Gwen smiled at the Faun, offering a premeditated olive branch. The Şöpter smiled back, her expression amicable and inviting. Inexplicably, she felt as though the two of them stood alone and vis-a-vis in the throne room. Only when Gwen refocused could she once more hear the forced laughter from Bekker, Taylor and her sorcerous crew, inflating the fantastic yurt with flatulent puffs of diplomatic flattery.

"… Here is Gwen, Great Khan." Meister Bekker stood aside for Gwen, who shuffled forward with her eyes down, then made a curtsey. "Meekness ill-suits a razer of cities," the booming voice from above answered. "Gaze upon your Khan, Devourer of Shenyang, Most Valued Champion of the International Games!" Gwen briefly glanced at Bekker and Taylor. Simultaneously, her eyes passed over the Şöpter with the Mithril-tipped horns, ensuring that there wasn't some hidden undercurrent waylaying freshly arrived tourists at the Steppes. After a second of hesitation and receiving no overt orders from her instructors, she elected to be herself. Raising her eyes to face the Khan, Gwen willed Almudj's Essence to circulate, giving her the imperious air for which she was famed in Fudan and then in Cambridge. Instantly, her demeanour assumed an arrogant regality, one buoyed by Essence older than the Centaur's Totems. "Tis no meekness, O Great Khan." Gwen gazed up at the Horse Lord. "But discretion born out of diplomacy. This Devourer is full-ready to send our enemies into the abyssal Void, no less than Meister Bekker had earlier promised. If indeed we need call upon Yog, the all-in-one and one-in-all, my Void Fiend stands ready to consume our foes." Temir Khan's golden eyes measured her prideful figure. With their Essences squaring off like two stallions jousting for mares, she now better understood the Khan's prowess. In terms of Essence "volume", Temir Tengri was far her superior. Compared to her lonesome self, he was the sum of nine pavilions, totalling a hundred thousand Centaurs from the Sawahi Desert to the Northern Steppes. Of the quality of their Essences, Gwen felt that the sacred purity of her serpent juice was far superior. Still, she was impressed by the Khan of Khans, though more so for his political and physical stature than his state of being. The Khan appeared pleased by her poise. "No need to be so guarded. We Horse Lords are a simple and crude lot compared to you Humans. Tell this Khan, is it true you art the Apprentice of Henry Kilroy?" "That I am," Gwen affirmed the title without batting an eyelid, squaring her shoulder for effect. "Did you know of my Master, Great Khan?" The Khan appeared to consider her answer, after which his reply set not only Gwen's brows to twitch but that of her colleagues as well. "My father did. As for myself— know you of his wife, Elizabeth Sobel?" Gwen once more glanced at her mentors: not to appear fazed, both wore masks of stoic neutrality. "We've spoken precisely once," Gwen parried the unexpected question expertly. "She defenestrated me out of Sydney Tower to be consumed by her minion. I lived. Her pet died. My Master lost his life." Her two mentors visibly relaxed. "Your tale, though short, is pleasing to us." The Khan affirmed with solemnity. "My condolences, Magus Song. Your Master's death is a loss for us all— As for his spouse, the woman has been a thorn in our side." "Sobel was here?" Gwen gulped, her brows furrowing in surprise. It took her another glance at Bekker and Taylor's rapidly blinking eyes to recall that indeed, Gunther had mentioned a year ago that Sobel's "Cabal" or perhaps the woman herself had survived Sydney and was troubling the world once more. "The South of Kazahstan," her Brother-in-craft had noted with disdain, though at the time, the "Steppes" was nothing but a vague landscape in Gwen's uneducated mind. "Milord Khan, has Sobel made her presence known?" Gwen asked carefully. If so, she might need to call Gun-Gun to bring the big guns. "Not the Arch-Witch herself." Temir Khan's massive head shook. The Horse Lord lifted a heavy horn of velvety Airag, drank, then continued to speak. "Her Cabal— 'Spectre' is one of the reasons why the Horde has fallen into a precarious position. My scouts report that her Necromancers are working with the Efreet of the Fire Sea— the same Humans sabotaging our Clan grounds this early Spring, mercenaries serving under Zodiam, the Prince of Sulphur." "If these Mages remain in your back garden." The timbre of Gwen's voice grew low. She wasn't confident of her present etiquette, though her immediate impulses required no discernment. "I shall hunt them down with extreme prejudice." "Hahaha—" The Khan laughed, his mighty shoulders shaking as snorts burst from his great nostrils like thunderclaps. Around Temir Tengri, his fellow Horse Lords echoed the mirth. Behind them, Gwen caught a secretive smile tracing the lips of the Şöpter Faun. "The Horde accepts your pledge." The Khan of Khan raised his horn of Airag. A Şöpter presented Gwen with a mug bubbling with a considerable mass of fermented milk. "Sip it slowly, and don't you dare throw the Khan's toast back up." Taylor's Silent Message bloomed beside her. "Also, don't promise anything. The Centaurs take great care in pledges. Any horse who reneges on a promise may as well be a dishonourable Tasmüyiz." The Şöpter servant beside her, a doe-eyed Faun with the spiked horns of a goat, gingerly allowed the drink to rest in Gwen's hand. The stein was heavier than she thought, though considering that the volume was fit for a Clysdale, the weight came as no surprise. "Besseha! To the Shard's War Mage, to our friends from London—" With an expression that hinted at an expectation of her fouling the drink, the Khan lifted his enormous mug, then drank heartily until the entire contents of the horn drained into his vast torso. "Cheers," Gwen returned without worry. "To your health, Great Khan." She took a deep breath, circulated both Essence and Void to fortify herself, then lifted the horn to her mouth. The Airag was a yogurty admixture with the kick of a mule. Luckily for her concerned companions, she wasn't about to be defeated by something that couldn't even knock out an Ironborn Golem pilot. Thirty seconds later, when she lowered the horn, the pavilion grew a little quiet. Gwen tossed the horn to the wide-eyed doe beside her and gave a little burp. Taylor nervously approached, ready to catch her should she fall. Meister Bekker as well, as staring at her as though she had just discovered a hitherto undiscovered property of Void sorcery. From memory, Gwen recalled that Jean-Paul was a beer boy. "I am fine." Gwen grinned, buzzed and happy. "You have brought the pavilion a jewel, Meister Bekker." The Horse Lord turned to their superior. "What an interesting Human she is." "She's special, Temir Khan." Bekker shot Gwen a look of wariness. "But now that our introductions are out of the way, I would like to report on something we had uncovered en route from Astrakhan." "Indeed?" The Khan's interest strayed from Gwen, who took the opportunity to return to their assigned seating. "Are you alright?" Jean-Paul's eyes fell upon her pancake-flat abdomen. "Are you… not full? That was a lot of milk." "I could eat." Gwen gazed over at the far side of the pavilion, where their future lunch heaped upon enormous plates. Their breakfast had been light, and the rations were hardly filling. Her companion shivered. Not far from them, Bekker began to regale the tale of Gwen's defeat of the Djinns at Bautino. "… We discovered diseased Rat-kin, Great Khan. Most of whom were too sick to escape, though I have no doubt those healthy enough are already among the Plain Folks." "Is that true, Magus Song?" The Khan called out in her direction. "Our Meister speaks true," Gwen assured the Khan. "The plague pit was beyond pale." The Khan's good mood, which Gwen had earlier inspired, faded at once. "This must be the work of Sobel's Plaguemancers! The foul fiends cannot defeat our Golden Horde head-on, and so they resort to these dishonourable, underhanded ploys!" "Great Khan, what ill might this bode?" Bekker's tone remained collected. "Our joint-operational push of the Elementals won't be affected, I hope. There's a long and hard campaign in front of us yet." The Khan's men murmured. The Meister upheld her demanding gaze. "Saran?" The Khan spoke, but not to his free riders. "Yes, Great Khan?" The voice that answered came from the petite body of a Faun in white. "How may this meek one be of service?" "Consult your Shamans, examine our troops for the Sickness. If there is an outbreak, snap its back." "I shall do as you command, Great Temir." The Faun dipped her chin. "Worry not, Meister Bekker of London, the Horde's promised push shall not be stopped, just as the spread of the Sawahi waits for no—" CLANG— KWANNNG! The solemn ears of the listening Centaurs twitched from the unexpected aural assault. Gwen followed the noise, expecting some dire commotion. Instead, she found only the figure of a Rat-kin female, a Tasmüyiz slave, hunched over a dropped metal plate of vegetables readied for lunch. Already, the woman was a blunder of loose fur splayed on the floor, her body a quivering puddle of fear. The Khan grunted in the manner of chortling horses. "Guards…" Two Horse Lords, each armed to the hoof with implements of death, split from the Honour Guards lining the pavilion's flanks. "My Khan—" the Faun called Saran interjected. "We are in the presence of esteemed guests." "Cleanse the filth." The Khan's wrath wasn't as explosive as Gwen had anticipated, certainly not for a stallion who had sucker-punched a titan worm in the liver. Without further drama, another team of servants quickly removed the offending Rat. "— Make ready for lunch! Come, Meister Bekker, let us discuss your plans for our retaking of the Southern Steppes over a bountiful feast of wyrm flesh!" Lunch involved Mongolian stir-fry, feat Afaa Al-Halak. Where Gwen had wondered if the Centaurs were vegetarian or omnivorous, that query was now set aside by the mountains of Sand Wyrm meat sizzling on metal plates heated by Fire Stones repurposed from shattered Efreet cores. The smell, Gwen's belly pronounced, was divine. The Human Mages' party was seated to the right of the Great Khan, while the middle of the pavilion was repurposed to hold these giant disks of smouldering iron. Outside, carts laden with vegetables and still-quivering crystalline flesh arrived in rows into the backrooms, where teams of Tasmüyiz servants sliced and diced both onto enormous plates for the Şöpter chefs. These, Gwen marvelled as she watched, were a team of six Minotaurs armed with spatulas the size of shovels, tossing and turning handfuls of spice into the sizzling bed of meat and vegetables. While she ate, other Horse Lords approached to offer toasts. Undaunted, the Devourer of Shenyang demonstrated her namesake, delighting their hosts with her gluttony. Most of the colts were fresh-faced kids of the Tumen Captains and Mingat Generals, and all were fascinated by her booze-swilling arcanistry. Between the Airag and the scent of Almudj's Essence she was giving off, the Demi-humans appeared awed. Comparatively, Jean-Paul fell to the wayside, both intimidated by the strapping horse-lads and feeling ill-at-ease in the company of eight-foot stallions. After an hour, when she grew full, Gwen's sensitive hearing grew conscious of the fact that a great commotion was taking place outside the pavilion. The clamour indicated a sports game of sorts, something akin to polo. "What's that I hear?" she asked a helpful Khan-er-dai. "Oh? That—?" A stallion lounged by her side rose to his hoofs. "That, Miss Gwen, is the Great Game of our people, Buzkashi! Would you like to see?" If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. "What's Buzkashi?" Gwen rose with the herd. "It's the greatest sport in the Steppes!" Another son of someone important answered her. "It's unfortunate that Besutei's interest is more so in impressing the fillies." "Kepek!" The princeling grew red at the revelation from his friend. "Embarrass me again, and I'll see you on the jousting field!" "Is that a threat or a jest?" Kepek snorted back, huffing so hard that Gwen's hair went flying. "See what I mean, sorceress? That's Besutei, always chasing tails, never practising Buzkashi." The fraternity-like atmosphere of the colts felt strangely familiar and endearing to Gwen, who laughed off Besutei's awkwardness and put the young stallion at ease. "Alright, alright, let's see this game of yours, shall we? Can we leave the pavilion?" "To watch Buzkashi?" Besutei chortled. "Of course! If it weren't for your Meister, even Father would not miss a game. It's how we elect our warriors— and prove ourselves without bloodshed!" The sport of Khitani Buzkashi wasn't very different to another fictive game played in the Wizarding world. There were seven riders on either side of an enormous field twice the size of an international duelling field, vying to drop the "Snitch" into a goal consisting of a leather basket, one on either side. During the game, the teams would form into individual roles, with "Beaters" on the flanks preventing the "Chasers" from scoring. The fastest Horsemen on the field, the "Seeker", would seek out an opportunity to break through the opponent's formation— while his foe was the "Keeper", a brute of a stallion whose job was to body-barge any attempts at scoring. Unfortunately for Gwen, two minutes into the blood-boiling clamour of the thundering game, multiple horns of Airag were about ready to abandon her sweet body. The reason for her nausea wasn't overindulgence of diary, but rather the "Great Game" of Buzkashi. Or more precisely, it was the "Golden Snitch" the Centaurs employed. With each new roar, Gwen held down her meal with both hands over her lips, her unlearned eyes wide with disbelief. Down on the field, the Seeker Centaur galloped at full pace down the left lane, chased by a Beater with a cracking whip. Caught between the Centaur's arm and torso was a squirming "Ball" crying out for dear life. It was the Rat-kin female— the very one who had dropped the plate of food and disrupted the Khan's conversation with her. At first, she had not noticed because the Tasmüyiz wore what looked to be a layer of lambskin painted yellow with flecks of gold. Even so, Gwen couldn't imagine that the token-type armour offered much protection. "ONOO—OO—ONOO!" The colts beside her were a frenzy of galloping noise and raging pheromones screaming "Goal—Goal!". Opposite, the whinnying of the fillies watching from the stands seemed to send the players into a tizzy. An enormous stallion approached from the goal line, first at a trot, then into a canter. As the colossal brute broke into a full gallop, the "Beater" from his team zeroed in on the opposing team's "Seeker", forcing the stallion to run a line between the boundary and himself. The crowd rose, as did their voices. "Nonono—" Gwen couldn't breathe. If the point of the game was to snatch the "Snitch" From the opposing team, what forces were next involved in regaining possession of the Rat-kin female? "ONOO—OO—ONOO!!!" The chants around her grew deafening. In the next split second, the three Centaurs met. The "Keeper" barged toward the Seeker, while the "Beater" and his merciless implement lashed the courser. "AZIZI! AZIZI! AZIZI!" Besides her, Besutei and Kepek had forgotten all about her presence and were shouting their lungs out. "ONOOOO—" Impossibly, the "Seeker" called Azizi leapt into the air, forming an arch almost four meters at the apex as his body grew compact as a missile. Swinging the "Snitch" on the one hand, the wondrous rider even altered his trajectory, using his "Ball" to ward away a particular nasty whip-strike as his body contorted, narrowly missing the barging body of the "Keeper". The crowd exploded, filling every space with the sound of cheers, hoots and howls. In between the cries, the whinnying of fillies made a distinct and unmistakable trill, pulling at the heartstrings of the colts and stallions. With a thunderous THUNK, Azizi landed on his forelegs, buckling a little from the momentum; swinging the Rat-kin like a sack, the rider once again crushed the whimpering Tasmüyiz between his arm and torso, making a bee-line for the net basket. "ONOO—OO—ONOO!!!" All Gwen could hear was the screams of the men around her as the "Seeker" scored with bone-crunching violence, tossing the ragdoll body of the Rat-kin into the interior of the basket with the adrenaline-fuelled force of Yaoming slam-dunking a game-changer. "GLORY TO THE THUNDERBLOOD CLAN—" the "Seeker" bellowed. Noticing her standing among the Khan's favourite colts, Azizi even turned to salute her, driving the young stallions into renewed bouts of hooting. Half the court erupted, while the other half groaned in dejection. It wasn't a scene unfamiliar to Gwen; only she couldn't take her eyes off the mangled basket, where the Golden Snitch was no longer struggling. While her companions left to celebrate the victory of Azizi the Seeker, Gwen found herself moving toward the goal, her breath growing heavier with every step. It took some effort to divert and push past the rush of horse-bodies blocking her way. She looked into the basket. There were six used "Snitches" inside. The first to six wins the match. As Taylor had feared, Gwen lost her lunch. With the match over, the Centaurs returned to whatever business was under hoof. As for Gwen, she had repositioned herself near a running trough of water to clean her everything. "Here…" A horn of floral-smelling water appeared beside Gwen. "I had figured the Devourer of Shenyang would possess a stronger stomach." Gwen drank some, then washed out her mouth, then released the horn belonging to Saran, the woman now identified as the Khan's Chief Shaman, the Clan's "Dini", and a Şöpter elder. "Mistress Saran," she apologised for her state. "If I may be so rude, what is this game? And why?" "A cultural relic." Saran's presence was motherly as she gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder. "These days, the Tasmüyiz are attached as a matter of survival, but in the days past, they were the object of raids. The Clan with the strongest warriors are able to bring back the largest number of Tasmüyiz to tend the fields and serve as menial labour. Is the violence strange to you?" "Should it not be?" Gwen raised her head to regard the Şöpter Shaman. "Forgive my forwardness, Mistress Saran, but this is horrid." "More horrid than your Districts? How you treat your powerless and the poor? The NoMs?" The Şöpter tilted her head. "We have heard many tales from your cities, Magus Song. The number of your kind that perishes from violent deaths every single day is numberless, and according to Magister Taylor, their deaths are often without purpose." "The woman dropped a plate, for God's sake." Gwen huffed. Her eyes darted to the goal basket once more. "Whip her, beat her, exile her from the camp— but an execution via sport?" "A skilled Rat-kin could have survived, though that's beside the point." Saran did not appear moved by her anger. "Just as we Şöpter have our place, so do the Tasmüyiz. The Rat-Clans chose this, you know— there is always an alternative. Their tribes could remain on the plains south-east of the Sawahi Desert to contend with the Afaa Al-Halak instead. Here, the bulk of their people will survive or at least persist. No one is taking that choice away from them. We're not keeping them here by through force of arms." Gwen's lunch delivered another one-two to her gut. To survive in the pan or the fire— what a fucked-up freedom. The Shaman regarded her with an unreadable expression. "If Magus Song would satisfy my curiosity, tell me, if you feel so strongly about these Tasmüyiz, why did you inform the Khan of their spreading the Blood Sickness?" Gwen's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" Now it was the Şöpter Shaman who appeared puzzled. "This isn't the first time we had Blood Sickness afflict the Horde. Do you know of it?" Gwen shook her head. It would not surprise her if Draconian quarantines were the Centaur's next step. Assuming there are no field hospitals in Centaur city, the ancient epidemiological strategy was common sense. Saran grimaced, then sighed. Before Gwen could chase the Dini up on what she meant, a procession of junior Shamans converged upon the two. Most of the casters were bipedal Horned-folk like Saran, while a few were Centaurs. All the Shamans, Gwen noted, were female. A gender-split magic system? Gwen's mind wandered back to the pavilion, where every warrior was a strapping stallion. Did this mean that in Khitani society, the mares were the child-bearing caretakers of home while the men hunted and fought? Likewise, was the management of the totems a uniquely feminine affair? It was an interesting arrangement that sharply juxtaposed the gender ambiguity of the Hvítálfar and the Dwarves' genderless Protestant work ethic. In front of Saran, her huddle of Shamans collectively wore embroidered white cotton, signifying their status and position within the Horse Lord's hierarchy. Most possessed the youth of younger women, though Gwen could see from their eyes and mannerisms that there were many a matron. "We bring dire winds, Dini," a deer-horned woman announced. "The Human Mages were correct. The Plaguemancers' creations are among us. There's two dozens sick from the Ironhoof Clan, as well as scattered cases in the outer pavilions. I've distilled their festered blood through the iron gourde and confirmed the affliction to be Blood Sickness, albeit a kind we haven't seen before." "How did they contract the disease?" "From the Tasmüyiz—" The Faun's voice grew low. "Rat-kin grain collectors. Lord Yesunege says he was out hunting when a crazed Tasmüyiz bit him out of the blue. He executed the insolent slave where it stood, then returned to camp thinking nothing of it. Now his entire Arbanu is ill." "How long ago was this?" The "Dini" Saran's expression grew dark. "About five days. I've soothed Yesunege's fever, but his blood will burn for some time yet." "An incubation period of five days…" Saran said aloud. "Well-timed. That's right in the middle of Temir Khan's southern campaign and beyond." "You can't use Cure Disease?" Gwen raised a hand, showing her rings. "I brought potions if you need it." "I've tried both the Rite of Sanguine Cleansing and the Human's potion injectors," the same Shaman replied. "The disease can be weakened but not entirely removed. A Plaguemancer's phage is not easily thwarted..." "If Magus Song's recollection holds, the Elementals must have plotted this for some time..." "I've called for Master Litvak," the Shaman informed their leader. "Whatever happens, we will need his wisdom." While they waited, Saran turned to Gwen once more. "Forgive me for being dismissive, Magus Song. If you have Potions of Resist or Cure Disease, we are happy to receive your aid or trade for HDMs or Cores. That said, this is a dire matter— if indeed the Blood Sickness has come again— magically this time— there will be thousands, if not tens of thousands of ill Nokud in a matter of weeks. How many potions did you prepare for your expedition?" "Forty?" Gwen reserved eight just in case. "An impressive and generous number." Saran nodded. "But what good would a hundred potions do? A thousand? A sorcerous phage tailored for the Khitani will infect and infect again. Given ten-thousand doses, we can prevent deaths, but as for the southward expedition your Masters have urged..." "So isolate the sick—" Gwen said as a matter of fact. "Quarantine them and use the potions. Is there a way to detect the disease—?" "There is— and here he comes." Before Gwen could finish, her eyes fell upon the visage of an ash-blonde man wearing the robes of a monk, strolling toward them with the casual ease of a bloke in his backyard. From his stave— an implement forged from melded bones, she recognised the mana signature at once. A Necromancer! Her breath caught in her chest. THE GALL OF THE BASTARD! The man looked up, noting her burning eyes. As with all of his kind, the man's face was gaunt and his figure stick-like and wiry. His eyes may have at one point been blue, but now they were milky and cloudy. "Dini Saran." The Necromancer bowed. "I've heard— and my arts are at your service." "Thank you, Master Lazarus." The Shaman bowed in turn. "I fear the matter might be already out of control. The Shard is unrelenting in its demand, meaning we must take immediate countermeasures." "Of course, Dini— may I ask who this is?" From their expressions, both Saran and "Lazarus" clearly felt the murderous mana screaming inside the body of the lithe-figured sorceress in black. "This must be our august guest from the Shard," the Necromancer said, unfazed by her hostility. "Lazarus Litvak, Free Soul, at your service." Gwen stared at the outstretched hand, wondering if she should void the appendage. Or that if she took it, someone from the Shard would void her hand that touched the man's appendage. A Necromancer? Here? In broad daylight? A thousand enigmas clouded her brain. Was he a guest of the Khan like she was? Did that mean they now fought shoulder to shoulder with Necromancers? Is that why no one batted an eye at Henry's dabbles into Necromancy? Was "the only Necro is a voided Necro" a Chinese thing? The two Human Mages stood frozen in time until Gwen recalled from her earlier conversations with her instructors that "indeed" there may be Necromancers in the Khan's employ— along with human slaves— along with any number of things she was known to despise. Her business, they had implied— was to be "Jean-Paul". But would Jean-Paul void Lazarus Livtak with one look? "Magus Song," Saran's voice rang beside her. "Is anything the matter?" Gwen forced a smile to her face. "Not at all. I was merely surprised. G'day, Master Litvak." She shook the hand the Necromancer presented. The man's fingers were bony, and to her genuine surprise, warm. "I recall who you are now, Magus Song. How could any man forget a face like yours?" Lazarus' smile was full of caution. "You're the Devourer of Shenyang." "I am." Gwen straightened her body. "Though the moniker's a bit too much. What is it that you do, Master Livtak?" "Myself? I am but a humble Enchanter." The Necromancer laughed with forced humour. "I ensure the deaths here don't go to waste. I produce fodder troops to soften the Khan's foes. By extension, I ensure that the Necromancers on the Elementals' side don't take advantage of the materials the Golden Pavilion leaves behind. It is very risky, as you know, to leave source matter littering a battlefield. Imagine if some rogue Necromancer raised a family member or a friend and held their soul hostage? Terrible stuff." Gwen understood only a few words of what the Necromancer said. "There are Necromancers on the side of the Elementals?" "Sure— Spectres, or so I am told." Litvak shrugged. "You know how it is. Necromancers are natural mercenaries. Your talking heads at London know of my presence here, by the way. Better the Necromancer the Shard knows and all that. My servile state shouldn't come as a surprise, I'd hope. You Tower Mages are the reason we scurry like Rat-kin, after all." While Gwen contemplated the Necromancer's words, Livtak walked beside the Buzkashi goal net and peeked inside. "Six—" "Three on the other side," Saran reminded him. "Not nearly enough, even for low-level Shards." Litvak shook his head. "I'll wait. Senchen said you needed me to run diagnostics on the slaves?" Saran nodded. "The Khan's will be done." Before Gwen could ask the man to clarify his intentions, a burst of horn blow and fanfare from the Golden Pavilion signalled the emergence of her fellow Tower Mages standing shoulder to rump besides the Khan. Beginning from the pavilion and spreading down hills like a cascade, Orkoks barked at Tumens, who then barked orders at the lower ranks, injecting order into the equestrian chaos. In no time at all, the colts and stallions formed into neat rows fit for a military parade. Adjacent and on either side of the golden tent, teams of prancing fillies returned to their private pavilions under the watchful count of their mare mothers. Gwen's superiors noticed her beside the Necromancer and the Shaman at once. Seeing that she had yet to commit an atrocity, the group exhaled sighs of relief. Jean-Paul gave her a wave— she waved back, indicating that she did her best. "Speaking of the Tasmüyiz—" Saran redirected Gwen's gaze from the Buzkashi ball pit toward the row-upon-rows of Rat-kin and other Plain Folk now gathering far from the row of Centaurs. Unlike the horses, these columns lacked both discipline and haste. Gwen's eyes swept over the neurotic estuaries of Tasmüyiz, each streaming from the camp to form square lakes of muttering flesh, their meek and mousy bodies smouldering with the dank fetor of grilled Wyrm meat, onions, goat cheese and boiled cabbage. "At least they had a full meal," Saran remarked beside her. Gwen turned to look at the Great Khan's Dini. "Magus Song, for the 'meekness' to come," the Shaman said seriously. "Out of discretion and diplomacy… the Devourer may wish to... turn a blind eye."

Gwen observed the Centaurs' expressions grow from dark to dangerous. Despite their impending doom, the Tasmüyiz took their time, though she was of the opinion their delay were blameless. To her knowledge, the Khanate did not possess a public education system. Whatever its men and women knew, they learned by observing their elders, peers, or Clansmen or by surviving punishment. Knowing that these Tasmüyiz were free-range slaves— why should their owners expect a raggedy band of menials to marshal with the efficiency of militants trained from birth? Thirty minutes later, with the Tasmüyiz boxed in like agitated bees, the Khan spoke. "Cousins of the Plains! Your Khan is today the bearer of woe," Temir Tengri's voice projected across his city without effort. "The Plague of winter past is upon the pavilion once more. Free Riders have fallen ill, their blood burning away their life force even as the Horde musters for war." A wilting hush overcame the squares of Tasmüyiz; then, great groans erupted as the rats fell to their knees. From Gwen's vantage, it looked like wheat being scythed. From the golden tent to the southern gate, there sat twenty legions of the pavilion's slave hordes. These must be the regional Clans, Gwen figured from the slight variation in fur and colouring. Across a single square, she counted over a hundred individuals, with the same number stretching down the open corridor. Interestingly, there weren't just Rat-kin, but also dog-headed Kobolds, droopy-eared Rabbit-kin and scattered mobs of low-tier Greenskins. "Dini Saran will now speak." Temir Khan was not one to waste breaths on slaves. "Cherbi— ready the men." A billowing cry erupted from the enormous roan's thick lips, imparting tinnitus in the Human Mages until they fought off the effect by circulating mana. In one breath, the Centaur troops lining either side drew from their saddle scabbards pilums, swords, clubs and all manner of personal weaponry. "You can't be serious—" Gwen turned to the closest source of viable information. "Magus... Lazarus, regarding what Dini Saran insinuated, they're not going ahead with it, are they?" "Not yet. The Horse Lords are giving the Tasmüyiz a choice," the Necromancer responded to her anxiety with perplexed curiosity. "Gwen looked on with confusion. "To do what?" Her answer came in the form of Saran taking her place in front of the blocks of Tasmüyiz. "Clan Chiefs, come forward!" From each block, tittering old rats stumbled forward. Most dressed no better than their fellows. One or two, Gwen noted with distaste, were fat with luxury. These, she figured, must be the Chiefs with Clans directly serving the Golden Pavilion. In a semi-circle around their Dini, the Clan leaders performed kowtows. "My friends, we've had this conversation before." Saran's motherly presence gave her sermon a paternal air. "This time, I hope your ilk will abide by what's right and not disappoint Temir Khan." Before Saran had even finished, a few of the Elders flattened their bodies against the grass. "What you ask is impossible, Dini!" "Please, Dini!" "With all my soul, Dini, I would urge the kin to confess, but—" The protests, Gwen could see, made the Centaurs' miens meaner still. As for the Khan, if she squinted, Gwen could see the Essence steaming from his unhappy body. "What are they asking the Tasmüyiz to do?" she once more asked the Necromancer. Against her expectation of a rebuke, Lazarus happily answered her question. "The last time this happened, Saran asked the Elders to give up the sick and the infected. The Elders agreed, though not all of the sick volunteered. After several weeks of rooting out an even bigger disease cluster, the contagion spread to the Southern tribes far from the Golden Pavilion. Thousands of Nokud lost their lives. In his displeasure, the Khan issued an Ustgakh— an order of extermination." Gwen glanced at the Horse Lords gripping their armaments. "They're asking people in a deadly pandemic to out themselves?" she protested a little too audibly for courtly decorum. The more she thought about the Tasmüyizs' grisly future, the more her chest constricted with repression. "Or what?" "Gwen, stay put." Magister Taylor's Silent Message bloomed beside her. "Let the Centaurs deal with their internal troubles." "Let—" The kindling of guilt from her earlier encounter with the "Golden Snitch" was now a torch burning inside her belly. She felt suddenly claustrophobic among the crowded, noisy herd of stallions. Overpowering the horse-musk, the stink from the Tasmüyiz was to Gwen a miasmic admixture of fear and terror. Moreso than pleasing her peers, she wanted to call out "Bullshit!" at Saran's gaslighting of the Rat-kin. Not too far from her embittered gall, the Dini's interrogation continued. "Your... inability is no concern of mine, nor the Khan's. The Horde's fighting potential is paramount for our survival and your Clans' survival by extension. For the sake of generosity, Temir Khan will gift you one more opportunity. If you should fail, we are in no worse circumstance than what the Khan initially intended." Visibly, the twenty or so Clan Chiefs fell into greater despair. "TUMENS! MINGATS!" Feeling that the Chiefs were insufficiently motivated, Khudu, the Cherbi of the Khan, bellowed orders. "READY ARMS." "For TEMIR KHAN!" the amassed herds of horses huffed. The sound of promised violence was enough to put steel back into the Elders' liquid spines. Like bipedal maracas, the thoroughly shaken leaders of the various tribes returned to their respective quadrants to plead with their kin. Gwen closely observed the block closest to them. Like an undulating wave, throngs of Tasmüyiz raggedly rose to meet their Elder. With solemnity, words exchanged, heads hung, and ears drooped. Unable to watch any longer, Gwen sent a Message to Meister Bekker, expressing that she wanted to intervene. "I figured you might," Bekker said. "But why?" "Stability and status quo," Gwen hastily presented her case, forcing her voice to remain distant. The real reason was primal and instinctual. "Longevity for the Horse Lords, guaranteed supply of foodstuffs. There are almost a hundred and fifty thousand of the poor sods out there. To me, that's a skilled labour force too precious to waste. Surely, Meister, we can achieve mutual gain by extending a hand of mercy?" Meister Bekker's reply bore a tone of amusement. "And help them thrive? Did you forget that the Centaurs are a temporary ally? We know this. They know this. Nither of our kind wants the balance disrupted." "Say you save them." Taylor, whom the party used as a conduit, butted in with his enquiry. "Where's our benefit? You can't expect us to consent just because you feel sorry for the rats." Gwen had an answer ready before the Diviner had finished complaining. "To subvert a cabal of militant autocrats," she spoke quickly but firmly, striking while the horseshoe's hot. "One must first usurp their base. There is little hope that we'll never get the Centaurs to recognise the old Protectorate, but what about the Tasmüyiz? I don't mean to have these Rat-kin rebel against the Horse Lords, but as you know, their kind is wholly responsible for hay, harvests and other menial labour. If so, what part of the Steppes could the Tasmüyiz not reach? What news on the Steppes would escape them? Meek, they might be, but they are many! If we show them the Mageocracy's magnanimity, what worshipful might take root in their little hearts? Under my thumb, these survivors and their descendants will be our eyes and ears." "What you said has been attempted before…" Taylor sounded unconvinced. "But NOT by yours truly!" Gwen quickly followed with a huff of indignation. "Jean-Paul— Meister Bekker, tell Magister Taylor of what I've done to the Isle of Dogs! Is it not prime real estate? Am I not worshipped by its workers? Loved by the Dwarves? Held in the highest regard by Lord Ravenport, my old chum? I'll muster the Tasmüyiz, sick or otherwise, and we'll soon have eyes and ears everywhere!" "You paint a splendid picture. But I shall withhold my opinion." Taylor appeared to give her words some thought. "Meister?" "Gwen's here to learn, but she's an independent agent. Besides, the Lady of Ely is her backer, not me." Meister Bekker's tone remained likewise ambivalent. "Gwen, if you think this is an opportunity—" "I do, and I'll build a Magistership out of it!" Her heart was near bursting from her chest. Over yonder, the Tasmüyiz looked ready to present themselves to the Khan and his Şöpter Shaman corps. "After this, they'll be updating the Magister-work-experience handbook with a new case study." "I like Gwen's confidence, but we don't have the resources to entertain her bluster," Taylor reminded his co-superior. "No need. I am self-sufficient," Gwen interrupted. "I won't need a single field ration or HDM from your rings. I won't even need any of your Mages. If you would recall, I've been promised field support from the Order of the Bath." "Neither our stock nor our personnel?" Taylor's bottom line was unambiguous. "Then I have no objections. Do whatever you will, so long as you don't bog down the campaign to come." "If Magister Taylor isn't objecting, then neither shall I," Bekker replied cautiously. "To confirm, you'll be handling this alone until we can spare the men. That's my condition. Major Kotts?" "I'll reserve judgement. It is a test, after all." "Of course." Gwen exhaled, circling Essence through her conduits so her fingers would stop shaking. The good thing about having a sterling reputation was that one's superiors were at least happy to contemplating giving her a fair go, especially when the venture was low-risk and cost-free. Downfield, the Tasmüyizs' fate flatlined with the Cherbi's patience. In front of her eyes, hundreds of Clan slaves, large and small, old and young, filed from among the ranks with grim expressions into a clique of the condemned. Some, Gwen could see, were visibly ill, with a few having to be carried by their fellow sufferers. Like hags, these poor sods were— backs bent, knees buckling from the agony to come, coughing uncontrollably from despair. "Esteemed Litvak—" The silver bells on the Şöpter woman's horns chimed as she swung her head toward the Human Mages. "If we may borrow your talents?" "Of course, your Grace." The Necromancer's casual use of the Empire's titles made the Shard Mages wrinkle their brows. Lazarus returned their disdain with a wane smile, then stepped out from their ranks towards the huddle of mangy Rat-kin. "Life Siphon." The Necromancer's casting was textbook as he vocalised the invocations necessary for conjuring his distinct brand of Necromancy. To Gwen, seeing actual Necromancy up-close and undisguised was a nouveau experience, like someone rolling a fat joint in plain sight. The spell was simple— she understood the Sigils, the Invocations, and the phrasing— though she lacked the distilled Negative Energy and the will to inhale the knowledge. "You." Lazarus indicated to a sickly old rat barely holding on to life. "Remain where you are. Upon your body, I sense a Plaguemancer's touch." The Rat-kin must have made his peace, for the old rat remained seated while his kin parted like the Red Sea. "Venerable one, how long have you been sick?" Lazarus sounded to Gwen like a hospice physician. "Almost ten days, milord." "Blood Fever?" "I don't know," the Rat-kin wheezed. "My bones feel like they are on fire." The Necromancer nodded. "That's a known symptom. I'll make this painless. Are you ready to break free from the karmic cycle and become a Free Soul?" The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. "I don't know," the Rat-kin's reply inferred he preferred living. Under Gwen's watchful eyes, the rat chosen by Lazarus sagged like an emptied bag of root vegetables. After a second, the Necromancer raised his hand and regarded the green-yellow mass of mana in his palm while below, the Rat-kin withered into a desiccated corpse-husk. "This is the source-phage." The Necromancer indicted to his audience. "I have obtained a sequence of the original mana signature. Now, we may proceed with discerning the extent of the pandemic." Lazarus began a second invocation, one wrought from the School of Divination. "He can employ multiple Schools of Magic?" Gwen turned to Jean-Paul. "Modern Necromancers borrow from the IMS, but older followers of the Art studied it before the Imperial System buried that knowledge," Jean-Paul replied helpfully. "I suppose this Lazarus must be a witness of what the Vatican calls the Old Ways. Master says it's a very versatile, if difficult, stream of traditional arcanistry." "The Old Ways…" Gwen kept her eyes peeled. "He's using our Sigils and Invocations, though." "And you're using the IMS to cast Greenskin Shamanism, Necromancy and even Svartálfar Soul Sorcery." Jean-Paul reminded her. "It isn't as though we invented Sigils, that's borrowed from Álfar Aranistry, just as Glyphs were originally Dwarven Runescripts." "So he's an Old School Necromancer... just standing around casting spells." She glanced at her Magisters and Maguses from the Shard, who stood unmoved and unimpressed. "What of it?" Jean-Paul said. "Don't you use Bone Shield? That's similar." Gwen twisted her lips. Similar, sure, but her Master was Henry Kilroy. This guy— who was his backer? "Identify Disease!" Lazarus Litvak interrupted her thoughts. Immediately, the group of sick and ill Tasmüyiz lit up in hues of yellow and green. While the rats trembled and shook, the Necromancer walked among them, inspecting the findings. Lazarus singled out a few of the particular "well-lit" specimens for Life Siphon, then re-cast Identify to fine-tune his Divination. "You— you— and you—" To Gwen's surprise, Lazarus pointed to dozens of individuals "regularly sick" and told them to leave the group and return to their irrespective Clans. Compassion from a Corpse Conjurer?! Gwen suddenly saw Lazarus Litvak in a new light, shocked by the sympathy shown by the big-bad Death-for-hire. Once he collected enough "phage", Lazarus turned to the rest of the Tasmüyiz in the original phalanxes. The unfortunate results furthermore affirmed her conviction. Lazarus' spell did not stretch very far, barely fifty meters into the rag-tag cohort. Still, even covering a fraction of the gathered Rat-kin, he had gathered irrefutable evidence that even under the threat of death and the begging tones of their Elders, Rat-kin deserved eradication. There weren't just yellow and green spots in the yet unsegregated crowd but whole swarths in the hundreds, mostly in clumps of a dozen or more. A great groan signalled the deflation of all hope. Gwen sighed for the invariability of "Human" nature. Saran's gaslighting was a good strategy, she conceded. But that was also why she was inspired to save the Tasmüyiz. She did not blame the poor sods who only now acknowledged that their elders were absolutely not joking when he asked them to out themselves even if they remotely suspected themselves of illness. That they didn't was the accursed hope that one might live— that one might escape persecution by remaining silent. After all, they were Tasmüyiz. "Still and silent" was a part of their existential being. The cruelty here, Gwen concluded, belonged to the Khan and his lauded stratagem to separate the wheat from the chaff. Saran shrugged. The outcome was a forgone conclusion. Audibly, Saran asked Lazarus to venture among each of the blocks of Tasmüyiz so that there was no doubt of their guilt. Gwen observed the Faun's role-playing until her final verdict confirmed their worst suspicions— that no camp of Rat-kin, Kobold, Gob or Rabbit-kin could supersede their worst natures. "Great Khan—" Saran returned to the dais with Lazarus trailing behind her. "Your humble servant has failed. Please punish this one so your boundless anger may rest." The Horse Lord rose from his golden chaise, crushing the will of the shaking Tasmüyiz with his presence alone. Gwen took a deep breath, then relaxed her over-tense muscles. The opportunity had ripened. Once the Great Khan delivered his decree, getting the Horse Lord to rescind his command would be an exercise in futility. "O MERCY— GREAT KHAN—" All eyes fell upon her. The masquerade was on. "I wish to be of service! Allow this meek one to take your sick and wounded so that all the Steppe will know of your boundless pity and compassion!" "War Mage!" The Khan's mighty Cherbi stepped forward, one hand resting on the pommel of a short-handled glaive. "You overstep your boundary, even as a guest—" "Forgive me, Honoured Cherbi—" Gwen bowed from the waist until her hair traced the floor. "Lord Khan, I was MOVED by the majesty of your futile attempt at quenching treachery with compassion. Though these Tasmüyiz who art but earth have soiled your trust with treason, their bodies yet possess the means to labour for your gain. The Great Horde would require supplies, Great Khan, one that will suffer if you were to visit the Clans with your rightful vengeance. Allow them to pay, O Lord, not through dusty death— but with their life!" Khudu's body imposed itself between her and the Khan. "You jest, Human." Gwen raised her head. Their gazes met: his dark and brutal, hers full of defiance. Essence Aura or Desolation? She wondered. What would impress the Khan while displacing his barbarian? "Temir Khan." It was Saran who broke the growing silence. "Though I am ignorant of her motives, I do not believe Magus Song speaks in jest. And Lord Cherbi, need I remind you that this young woman is the Devourer of Shenyang?" The unexpected assistance from the Shaman was enough to inspire a response from Temir Tengri. "You wish to claim these slaves, Magus Song?" "I wish to aid our cause, Great Khan, the Shard's and the Horde's." Gwen straightened her spine. "Leave their diseased bodies to me. I shall supply your citizens while keeping the illness from spreading, and in the process, spare the campaign from the grief of losing valuable labour." The Khan's great head turned toward Gwen's fellow Mages. "Gwen speaks true," Meister Bekker delivered as promised. "To my knowledge, she does possess the means to turn your dilemma into a boon." "Magus Song likewise has my support, though I know not how she will achieve her purpose," Magister Taylor gave his less optimistic opinion. "But know that even should she fail, so long as Magister Hill prepares our Translocation Mandalas and keep them safe, I can guarantee the campaign will have no shortage of feed and supply." Gwen made herself appear taller yet again as the Khan's gaze swept over her body. "My Khan…" Khudu the Cherbi did not move from his spot. "I do not trust this one's... ability." "Then trust this!" Gwen waved a hand. THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! A crate of HDMs displaced the dust, followed by a ton of rations and an ever-impressive pallet of SPAM. "Believe me, Great Khan, when I say that alone and without the need to tax provisions brought by Meister Bekker and Magister Taylor, I'll be fine. The Cherbi may not trust me, but he cannot deny my inventory, my connections, and that I AM the Shoggoth's Summoner." "Such generosity." Saran's lips parted to reveal rows of ivory teeth. "Great Khan, if Magus Song wishes for this honour— what reason do we have to deny her? The pavilion has yet to give a decree, meaning it now has an opportunity to shed itself of an undesired saddle. Why tax your coffers when Magus Song has bent her back to shoulder the burden?" Strangely, the Shaman's support made her less confident. What did the Şöpter see? Gwen wondered uneasily. What did Saran want? Undoubtedly, the Shaman's purpose wasn't to preserve food, fodder and rats. Gwen observed the makeshift court of the Khan's advisors. To Temir's left stood his disapproving Cherbi. To his right stood the smiling Saran. Curiously, the Khan's disposition subconsciously shifted toward the Şöpter Shaman standing on two hooves instead of his four-legged cousin. "Then we shall entertain Magus Song with the spared lives of these treasonous slaves." Temir Khan appeared to have reached a decision. "Esteemed Master Litvak. I ask that you separate the sick from the hale and persist in your labour until Magus Song's generosity is satisfied." "I shall do as you command." The Necromancer bowed. "Magus Song," the Khan continued. "Certain conditions must be met if you wish our mercy entertained. Would you like to hear them?" "I am all ears, Khan of Khans." Gwen curtsied. To the left of the Khan's court, her fellow Mages visibly relaxed. Like a dissipating thunder cloud, the murderous tension in the air had faded, leaving only the stink of soiled pants, moist loincloths and mangy fur, making thick the anxious air. "First—" Temir Khan gestured to her new slaves. "The diseased cannot remain here; all who bear the phage seeds will part from Nukus for the Eastern Reaches. There is an oasis there, in a place called Shalkar. That will be your encampment." "As you command." Gwen had no idea where this place called Shalkar could be, but for now, the bluster must play on. To her dismay, Magister Taylor shook his head, after which the Ambassador engaged in a round of Silent Message with their Meister, who appeared amused. "Secondly—" the Khan continued. "To show our generosity, we shall not task you with the survival of our slaves, only in keeping them away. Magus Song, you shall be the keeper of the ill ejected into the Eastern Reach for the duration of the Southern Campaign. We grant you the status of a Tumen and the privilege that comes with maintaining the Tasmüyiz under your command. When we return victorious, you may return the survivors in exchange for rewards." The Khan's eyes rested on her with interest. "Until then, or until the campaign ends, the Golden Pavilion will provide nothing. You alone shall shoulder the burden of restricting these Tasmüyiz. If you should fail—" "— Magus Song will personally perform the duty your men had chosen to withhold today," Meister Bekker finished for their host. "Of that, Great Khan, you can be sure. Is that acceptable, Gwen?" "Wholly acceptable," Gwen affirmed her conviction. Now that she was over the hump of possibilities and into the realm of responsibility, she relaxed. Compared to the moral agony of doing nothing and watching a hundred thousand bodies piling into mass graves dug by orphans, the stress of getting down on her knees to do the dirty work was positively pleasant. In her mind, Gwen could already imagine Elvia's cringing face. Help the Centaurs! Bring stability to the South! That's what she had promised her Evee. Now? Now they had to trek through the Eastern Steppes to get to an oasis so she could set up a makeshift quarantine camp. It was just as well Elvia would support her two hundred per cent in this endeavour. If her friend even had an ounce of sentimentality left in her after all that Faith Magic training, she would chomp at the bits to save the blameless Tasmüyiz, themselves victims of unsanctioned Necromancy from Spectre. "Then our paths align—" the Khan's booming voice rolled over the encampment. "In the interest of safety, Master Lazarus, make haste!" Gwen's quest was in motion the moment Temir Tengri returned to the pavilion, meaning she had at best until nightfall to move the segregated rats. Griping that she had increased his work a hundred-fold, the Necromancer Lazarus Lavtik bemoaned his duty of separating the infected "phage bearers" from those merely ill or malnourished. After speaking with the Necromancer, her first stop was back to her companions, who now regarded her with expressions ranging from impressed to disgruntled. Whatever the case, all complaints died after Meister Bekker informed the crew that both their commanders supported Gwen's self-elected actions and that as a Magister-in-waiting with her potential, her "Maverick" actions were within expectation. "How do you intend to move 'your people' to Shalkar?" Magister Taylor motioned for their Translocation Specialist to join their consultation circle, then conjured forth a map. "That's three hundred kilometres away across nothing but rolling badlands with deserts in-between." "… slowly?" Gwen answered optimistically. "Do you intend to move all of them?" "Yes?" "I don't think you understand, Magus Song." Eli Hill pointed to the map. "It might take you less than two hours to fly that distance, but on foot, a Transmuter can cover at most ten kilometres of moderate wilderness, assuming no Magical Creatures, per hour. Even with healthy Rat-kin, you're looking at thirty, forty or fifty hours of non-stop travel. As your logistical advisor, I can inform you that HEALTHY civilians can endure a forced march of four-plus-four hours if you desire minimal loss of numbers. Realistically, you will be travelling for anywhere between five days to a week to reach Shalkar, do you understand?" Gwen's eyes grew glazed when the hard facts struck her like a moist slab of thawing fish. Instantly, the skin under her figure-hugging suit grew clammy. "In addition, you'll be heading a column of the sick and dying," Hill continued to deliver his opinion. "I shall inform you of some parallel statistics on when I was responsible for transporting refugees from the Algerian coast fleeing the Mermen. Even with three Mage Flights and mechanised transportation, our attrition rate for refugees with minor injuries and rationed supplies was forty-seven per cent." "F-forty seven per cent?!" Gwen felt her heart sink. She glanced at the groups now streaming out of the camp into the desert, where only a few hours ago, they had fought the Sand Wyrm. Now, the bloodstained sand served as their temporary holding cell, one from which any individual could seek to leave on pain of collective death. If half of the poor sods were going to die before they even reached Shalkar, Gwen shuddered, then her self-indulgent quest was merely an act of masochism. "That's bloody terrible! Were you attacked?" "We were— but we handled it," Hill explained. "Far from monsters, it was hunger, thirst and fatigue that struck down the weak. The sun killed the rest. Without cover, you can hardly expect urban folk to survive in a desert. That said, your wards have fur— so who knows?" Gwen felt suddenly at a loss. She brought food and water— arguably not enough food for what was shaping up to be something like almost ten thousand outcasts, but enough. Nonetheless, the journey to the oasis suddenly became far more complicated than going from A to B. "Gwen… you anticipated the attrition, I hope. The Steppes isn't a wine tour." Major Kott said with caution. Gwen smiled in such a way that made the Mages raise their brows. "Oh Lord…" Major Kott, the only Mage genuinely possessing an understanding of her impulsiveness, touched three fingers to his temple. "At this rate, you won't even need to get to Shalkar. How about you pitch in something else to please the Khan, and Meister Bekker can try to convince him otherwise? Maybe set up a camp closer to Nukus?" "No." Bekker shook her head. "The Khan's decree is final, as is my word. Gwen has to swallow her bitter pill. Besides, I thought her plan was perfectly sound." Kott looked at Gwen. At Meister Bekker's prompt, Gwen rummaged through her mental and physical inventory. She had cases of Maotai, but not enough to infuse ten thousand or more individuals. Concurrently, there was nothing magical about her SPAM or her military rations. And even diluting her Remove Disease potions with Healing Potions, she would have a few hundred doses at best. The two Golem Suits? That's not going to help, for now. Her Habitat? She could cram two hundred rats into the grey Astral Space, that's it. Call for Golos? Unless Gogo spontaneously learned healing magic from Ruxin, he was at best a guard dog. Evee? She would soon ask Taylor to contact the Ordo's chapel in Baku, but even if her friend were to leave London right away, she could only bring herself and Mathias and a few Storage Rings of supplies sourced from Walken. Finally, she could improve the health of the Rat-kin with Essence, but she wasn't an endless fountain of youth. In short, many items would help. But she couldn't think of a single way to help ten thousand refugees survive an Exodus through the desert, at least not without the heavens providing manna bread. Were sacrifices necessary then? Unbidden, she glanced at the Centaurs forming a bulwark to fence off the infected refugees. Saran's Shamans were among the Horse Lords, applying mysterious blood-paste to the bodies of those singled out by Lazarus. The stray solutions inside her head finally entwined like the hook and loop of a velcro band. Through clouds of befuddlement, erudition struck like an Empowered Lightning Bolt. There WAS a simple way to keep the Tasmüyiz hale. And orderly. And obedient. First in life. And in death.

Uneasy is the head that wears the crown. The oft-quoted line was one of Gwen's beloved aphorisms, one that she recited to her employees when the office convened to settle bonuses, conduct reviews, and execute firings. Now, the lives of ten-thousand Rat-folk whose only crime was inadequate healthcare weighed down her slender neck with their hopes for another tomorrow. She wanted to say she felt a smidgen of regret for pushing herself into this particular Gu pit, but that much pragmatism would alienate the old-world sanity she wished to preserve. And though Gwen acknowledged that great power came with responsibilities— she wasn't a web-slinging waif; in the world of realpolitik, power was freedom. First, there was the "freedom to", meaning the liberty to act on one's impulses for weal or woe, to act on behalf of the silent and the oppressed by exercising the promise of Noblesse Oblige. Simultaneously, power enabled the "freedom from"— for privilege absolved laws, boundaries, limitation, all the mortal anxieties for food, shelter and comfort. Both were freedoms, though scant were the individuals ever able to attain both. In either of her worlds, the freedoms of the rich and poor, powerless and powerful, seldom overlapped. The Tasmüyiz dream their whole lives of having enough to eat and not worrying about sudden death— the freedom "from". The Centaurs, on the other hand, dream of space and conquest, of more and more freedom "to". In her old life, having acquired more wealth than her teenage self could imagine, she often stared at the rolling surf tossing swimmers like dolls and wondered if she would ever touch that stratum of possessing both the freedom to and freedom from. Now she did. She was free to save these slaves, Rat-faced and meek they might be. She was free to bend their fate through sheer willpower, through HDMs or reputation, or the threat of a Wee-Wee-Wee-We'll consume you until there's nothing left unless you comply. For this, Gwen reasoned, the despair of her labour should inspire joy. Not wasting time, her first decree was for Elvia to join her as soon as possible, delivered via Magister Taylor, who immediately left to notify Baku with the latest updates from the Steppes. After that, while she prepared for the handover, a tripartite of observers remained to stickybeak, wondering what the young sorceress would do. From the Horse Lords, Khudu the Cherbi kept a troop of his Royal Guards on standby, ready to crush the Rat-kin into infectious mince should they seek to flee. So long as Gwen's charges remained in the region of Nukus, any such incidents could be traced to the Khan's guards, meaning the Cherbi wasn't taking any chances with a female he couldn't toss as far as a Rat-kin "Snitch". Standing apart from the chortling stallions, Major Kotts provided helpful commentary when Gwen paused for too long to figure out the best arrangement for her charges. Finally, she was joined by the unexpected presence of Lazarus Litvak, Necromancer of the Old Ways, grumbling that since she'd prevented him from harvesting Soul Shards, which were his bread and butter, he had little else to do other than waiting for her wards to die-off en mass so he could perform his natural duty. Having received aid from the man, her impressions of the Necromancer had improved from loathing to ambivalence. Lazarus was proving to be an existence with greater depth than she cared to admit. More so than those power-mad Necromancers in Shenyang, he far too closely resembled a Tower Mage attached to some local power as an advisor. Even when casting life-draining spells that skirted the Geneva Convention on Magical Warefare established after the Great War, he possessed the attitude of someone watching paint dry, making the taboo merely pedestrian. Ignoring the unhappy Necromancer and the hostile Cherbi, Gwen drew the Mandala for summoning her Planar Ally, then laid down the crates of HDMs necessary to bring the Wyvern across time and space. Aloud, she spoke the invocations. Lightning flashed, Mithril sizzled, bursts of fulminating thunder rolled across the pavilion, drawing eyes from everywhere. Golos, the scion of the Yinglong, unfurled azure wings tipped with vibrant feathers in his usual overdramatic manner. "Is that horses I smell? I LOVE horses!" Gwen didn't want to find out which way Golos "loved" horses and so directed his enormous head toward a platter of Sand Wyrm sashimi resting on four tables joined back-to-back. "This isn't horse, but it's better." "Excellent." The Wyvern sniffed her hair, snorted in her face, then gave her forehead a bop with his snout. "By the by, brother gives his greetings." "Is he well?" "Bored. Ruxin is thinking of expanding northward. There's a Thunder Dragon in Bhutan that's bound to challenge him in a century or two." "I see. I take it things are fine in Kachin and Nagaland, and that Mia and Marong reign without complication? How's Phalera?" The Wyvern affirmed that her friends were doing dandy, then took a sizeable chunk out of the Khan's loot she had requisitioned with HDMs. She also wanted to ask about Lulu, but the Sword Mage was with Ryxi, and Golos confessed to being preoccupied with populating Ruxin's mountain with harpies. "… Wyrm flesh?" Golos spoke with his mouthful. "A sizable one, too. A bit lite on the Essence, though." "Try it with the cumin. It's a local delicacy, so I am told." She grinned at her Wyvern, then flashed winsome smiles at the consternated expressions of the Horse Lords, of the semi-frozen Lazarus, and of the smiling Major who was by now used to such displays. As Demi-humans go, Centaurs were less vulnerable to the presence of Draconic Essence than mundane Magical Creatures. Nonetheless, the respect Gogo commanded was promised in the rugged bone ridges adorning his scale-covered spine and ending in his car-wrecking mace-tail. Should Golos and Khudu come head-to-head, Gwen wondered, who would win? Khudu could undoubtedly draw on a thousand Centaurs' worth of power to bring down her Dragon. Conversely, Golos could cut an arc of pure plasma across the herd multiple times if he put himself in range of their pilums. Both would suffer in the encounter, though Gwen believed that the Yinglong's scion had a fairer chance of emerging wounded but wiser and more powerful for the effort, while the Centaurs would only know the Wyvern's love. While Golos ate, Gwen explained the situation, the pair of them acting as a living exhibition for the Centaur patrols and the gawking Tasmüyiz. For their quest at hand, she explained, the Wyvern's job was to keep an eye on the Rat-kin. Her greatest fear was desertion, for the re-mingling of what Lazarus called the "phage seeds" with the general population would engender new outbreaks. If that happened, it would seal the deal for the next three generations of Tasmüyiz. With Golos grunting affirmation between mouthfuls, Gwen then conjured forth her additional aides. "Shaa-shaa!" One Big Bird. "EE-EE!" One Kirin. "Aroooooooowl!" Sixteen plus two Morden's Hounds. In a row, her army of pets made an impressive and odd-balled battalion. Taking swigs from a Maotai bottle, she glanced at the Cherbi and the Necromancer and took great pleasure in their hanging mouths and wary eyes. If Richard and Petra were here, Gwen wanted to tell them; there would be another ten to twelve dogs and an Undine to rival a mid-tier Marid. Was her army enough to crowd-control ten-thousand desperate refugees? "Yes" would be overly optimistic. If she wanted the answer to be a resounding "YES!", she would have to exercise rarer talents. Shaking her head, she refocused her mind on the task at hand. Stepping into the air, she walked up an invisible set of stairs until she stood above and over the trembling mischief. "Tasmüyiz!" her voice rang out across the empty horizon, to the east of which sat a thousand kilometres of badlands and to the west of which Khudu and his troops paced. "By the mercy of Khan Temir Tengri, your lives have been gifted to me. I shall be your Tumen until such time that I deem it safe to return you to your homes. Allow me to introduce myself, for many of you may not know who I am and may yet wonder— what can this Human sorceress do to secure my survival?" Gwen took a deep breath. "Let us make some things very clear— I AM YOUR SURVIVAL. You're sick. Within your frail veins burn the phage seeds that would infect the blood of the Khan's kin, and for this, through no fault of your own, you art condemned to die." A great moan passed from the mouths of the chittering mischief, radiating from the loci of her oppressive figure in concentric waves of resonant misery. "FRET NOT!" Gwen's voice rang out as a clarion call to hope. "ARE YOU NOT ALIVE RIGHT THIS INSTANT? In your bodies burn not the fever festooned upon you by nefarious foes, but the violent fire of LIFE ITSELF?! HEED ME! You want to LIVE! Do you do not? Can you not feel the unabashed blaze of rioting passion sparking from your souls, crying out for tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow?" Gwen called the Essence to the fore of her Astral Body and allowed the life force to radiate from her black-clad figure, accentuating her point with vivid viridescence. "WHAT SAY YOU?" "We want to live!" a good number of the rats shouted. "ARE YOU ALL DEAD?" she blasted them with her fulminating rhetoric. "I said— DO YOU WANT TO LIVE?" "LIVE!" "We want to live!" "Save us! Blessed Sorceress!" The volume was low but to her satisfaction. "TO THE EAST LIES OUR EDEN!" She threw her body in what she hoped was the right direction. "In Shalkar lies a paradise built by Gaia against the ravages of the sand! The Khan has gifted us this happy, happy land to be your abode, and there, you may heal and rest, but ONLY if you endure the march east." She could see the Rat-kin's ambivalence in their uncertain bodies. "I know— oh, I know that you fear the pathless journey ahead— but what other recourse do you have? To sojourn here is certain death! Look to the west! See the Cherbi and his men with their polished glaives and barbed arrows. Would you prefer THAT to the exodus east? Prefer EXTINCTION to retire to an oasis blessed with sweet water?" Gwen did not know if the Rat-kin understood her fancy words, but her delivery did leave a visible impact. More than anything, the Rat-kin feared and respected the strong while worshipping the powerful. For they who were on the verge of extinction, the hovering presence of a Lightning Wyvern as tall as the pavilions, the glowing form of a godly Kirin and the stark shape of an aberrant Big Bird swelled their tiny hearts with desirous worship. Why did this goddess of death promise life to lowly, snivelling nothings mangy with phage? If anything, most of the Rat-kin found their new fortune a hard nut to crack. Gwen felt the moment was ripe. "But enough talk! The march grows nigh. For now, partake!" Her voice rippled out. "By my decree, share this manna among your kin so that you may have strength for your salvation." The Rat-kin below her dived for cover as she approached. _THUNK!_ Boxes of high-nutrition military rations broke free from the ribbon straps, spilling their precious cargo. _THUNK!_ While a section of the mischief swarmed, she moved away from a distance, then dropped a load of cascading SPAM. She continued until almost half of her supply was gone. Each pallet was two hundred cases of SPAM, with each case having twenty-four cans. The military ration was better flat-packed, with each pallet delivering almost six thousand meals. Her Rat-kin were many— but their lean bodies were also famous for their ability to live on the most meagre of sustenances. Gwen hovered, patrolling the perimeter of her whiskered citizenry, cowing the crowd when the mad dash for food grew frenzied with bursts of Desolation Aura. Her pets as well flocked here and there, with Cali using its vitality-sensing abilities to seek out the weak too frail to scramble for supplies. It took over an hour for the rations to be distributed, a grating affair that foreshadowed the troubles to come. Despite their desperate bid for survival, a significant portion of the Tasmüyiz was too exhausted by the despairing landscape of their homestead to even entertain the common good. Thankfully, morale improved as the group munched on protein admixtures. While Gwen watched her wards eat, she sorely wished for Gunther's Radiant Aura, for her Brother-in-Craft could likely stir the Tasmüyiz into a fervour with only the power of his presence. For her next step, she would advocate a system of command for her rat-tag band. Now that she had inspected her wards, she could see that not all of them are old rats. Instead, most of the Demi-humans were just past adulthood, leaving no doubt about their usual life expectancy. One of the reasons the Elementals had picked the rats was their lack of access to hygiene facilities and their propensity for sleeping in tightly packed quarters. Equally lucky was her discovery from Lazarus that the phage called "Blood Fever" possessed a low morbidity rate among the Rat-kin compared to its ravagement of the Horse Lords. When she thought about it, the epidemiological design made sense. Carriers that remained mobile and active made far better spreaders than those actively diseased and dying. With the demographic of her rats in mind, she would split her marching column into units of Contubernium in the manner of the post-reformation SPQR, meaning one NCO, seven adults, and two elderly or maimed individuals. It was knowledge she had gleaned from her Magisterial course at Cambridge, one she would now put into practice. This Contubernium would be responsible for peer-to-peer surveillance and upkeep. Should even one of them flee, she would threaten collective punishment. Additionally, as she had roughly counted about ten thousand individuals during her flyover, give or take a few hundred, Gwen intended to form the Contubernium into Centuria lead by a nominated Elder. A hundred Centuriae? It was a well-rounded number to arrange into cohorts of five Centuria to have twenty Prefects that answered to her. Therefore, her command pyramid would involve herself— twenty Prefects— then a hundred Centurions to ten Contubernium. The number still frightened her, but she felt confident that the chain-of-command should serve. Finally, there was another reason why she chose to organise her Rat-kin in such a regimented fashion. Death March. A spell thrifted from the Green Skin Shamans, long ago formulated by the Hag Covens to bolster their Warlord's hosts. Death March was a primitive spell more akin to mystic voodoo than Human arcanistry. The principal reagent was the blood of the controller, while the hallucinogenic materials accompanying the potion concoction served the mystic purpose of pain-killing with the added effect of frenzy. The only caveat was that Gwen wasn't a Rat-kin and thereby lacked the intergenerational Essence taint the Hags administered on their subjects. Instead, she possessed something far more potent— Almudj's all-encompassing elixir. In theory, if she could convert the "progenitors" with her bodily-secreted snake juice, she could then empower said parents to empower their "children". What mattered most was lineage and blood— though, in practice, only time would tell. For now, she'll feed her nominated Centurions Essence droplets and convert them in the same manner Dede was improved. At her current level of Essence Sympathy, she could manage a handful every few hours, meaning she should reign over a hundred healthy and helpful officers within twenty-four hours. As for those immediately too ill to continue, she had Cure Disease, Healing Potions, and Maotai to tide them over until they reached the oasis at Shalkar. Then if need be, and only in the direst of circumstances, would she activate her Master's modified IMS variant of Death March, allowing her to act as a conduit between Caliban, herself, and her Centurions. As for rebellious individuals, there was always Soul Tap. The Spell's viability was without doubt. Likewise, she had no reason to doubt the slippery slope that came with its convenience. Strun, Shadow Runner of Clan Jildam, arrived at Nukus with every ounce of strength drained from his lanky frame. He was late. Far too late. Convincing the Elders of the Western Reaches had taken far longer than what should have been necessary. Persuading his kin to flee from the tyranny of the Horse Lords for the unavoidable danger of the Murk proved too much for his traumatised kindred, who preferred the repression of the present. During his final stop, in Clan Shuloam, his fellow Rat-kin had even drawn daggers and warned Strun that his betrayal would only incite violence and that they would tie him up and deliver him to the closest Nokud. After slaying three overzealous slaves, Strun fled. Signing and shedding his cloak and depositing it on the still-smouldering fire pit outside, Strun slinked into the Elder's tent. "Chuach, where are grandfather and mother?" His voice was barely a whisper. "Has it… begun? Or is it finished?" The dejected silhouette inside the tent opened her eyes. "Strun! By the Khan's Grace! You're alive!" "Barely, aunty, only by the skin of my incisors." Strun used the last of his strength to reach a skin of water hanging from the wall. He took a long draught, then breathed out as a reborn rat. "I saw… what the Elementals had done to the captives. It's the Blood Fever, but far worse this time. I tried to get back as quickly as I could to warn the others, but none would listen." "The Elder and your mother." The woman called Chuach nervously wrinkled her whiskers. "Have gone with the Devourer of Shenyang." It took Strun a few seconds to process his aunty's words. The flustered woman took several attempts before she successfully retold the story of the Human Sorceress who arrested the Khan's killing hand. Strun near collapsed with relief. "Mother and Grandfather… they're alive?" Chuach nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again. "I am not sure. They're making for Shalkar, on foot." Strun's eyes widened. "Without a scout? To the Easter Reaches where the great Afaa Al-Halak makes their home?! That's a death march!" "I know—" His aunt's lips pursed shut, then her eyes lit up with a strange wonder. "But the Sorceress leading them is the Mistress of monsters. The creatures under her command, Strun, they're Gods unto themselves! A Mongoose-Dragon that breathes lightning! A black, faceless eagle with human hands! A Wyvern lord greater than even our stoutest Orkok! And her legion of hounds, Strun, you should have seen it! Dogs of living lightning and darkness as large as donkeys." Strun threw a handful of nuts and preserved berries into his mouth and chewed. "Did this Human also command the Afaa al-Halak?" "I don't think so, but anything is possible. You should have seen how the Magus organised the sick, Strun. She split them like the Khan's men into groups of ten; then, she fed them precious rations from the lands without sand. She even elected Mingats, which she dubbed Centurions, and awarded them with new life. Your Grandfather was among that number." "New life?" Strun swallowed. "But of course, those from our Clan would turn to Grandfather anyway. Did you see what happened to mother?" "I was too far to see." Chuach paused, then changed the subject. "They left before the moon was nigh." "Then I will find them." Strun stuffed his pouches with more berry pills. "I must go and find father. Few enough know how to navigate the badlands, and I doubt many of us would be among their number— Mmmgnn!" He quickly covered his mouth with a rag, then coughed. His aunty reared back. "Strun… are you sick?" "I am… tired." Strun had no idea if he was infected but knew that his best bet now was to leave. "Go bath, aunty. Speak to no one of my visitation. Burn my clothes and these old rags." His aunt nodded. "Fair well, Chuach. You have my love, even if we never meet again." "Shall I tell Chuchi?" his aunty's eyes lowered in shame. "She's in hiding. Your father thought it best..." Strun thought of his sister's bright eyes and glossy fur. Chuchi was his surviving sister. When he was a mere pup, their mischief had been twelve strong. Now, there was only him and Chuchi, and mayhap from this day on, only Chuchi. But that was okay. Rat-kin females were strong. So long as Chuchi survived, she could rebuild the Clan from her many children. "No." Strun gingerly took a new sand cloak from the hangers and wrapped himself, affixing his water skin and pill punches to its interior. "If I return with Grandfather and mother, then all may be well. If not, then Strun the Swift had already perished when the Djinns razed Clan Jildam." Gwen fought down the throbbing in her temple. She felt like someone who had swallowed too much sticky rice and was now choking on it. Four hours into the march, they encountered Sand Wolves, which was itself unsurprising. Before Gwen had even left the Nukus, one of her Centurions from a local Clan called Jildam had warned her that after an Afaa al-Halak hunt, there would be scavengers camped out from the Centaur cities for weeks, hoping to get at the scraps. Whatever their number, Sand Wolves were Golos bait, but Gwen had not anticipated that the Elder meant camouflaged wolves invisible in the blue dusk of the dunes exploding forth like sand geysers to raid her rats. Not only that, these were cunning creatures with intelligence, meaning they would stay hidden, then suddenly emerge to snatch at the rats trailing furthermost from the group, or on either flank, then flee into the night. The first time it happened, she had chased down the damned pack and voided the lot— only to find twice the number of victims upon her return to the main troop. The same atrocity then repeated like a looped record. No matter Gwen's number of successful defences, at least one troop of Sand Wolves would have their way. Frustration then clawed at her chest like little rats' feet on broken glass. To stop and wait for Caliban's life-sensing radar to ferret out the wolves would delay their timetable immeasurably— while moving forward meant inevitable losses. With her column of rats extending some two kilometres long, the constant howls, screams, yelps, whines and cries for help were driving her to the brink. In the end, she elected to empower more Centurions so that they could self-help their kin. Simultaneously, as a broad arrowhead, the column forayed ahead with Caliban and the Void Dogs leading, becoming the shape of a flatworm. To Gwen's relief, the troops touched by Almudj's Essence underwent helpful changes in physiology. Perhaps the Rat-kin held untapped potential, Gwen mused, or maybe their body was that starved for SPAM, calorie rations and a single sip of her viridescent gift. Whatever the case, all of her recipients underwent a near-immediate metamorphosis. To take the Elder from Clan Jildam as an example, after kneeling to lick the elixir from her hand, the Rat-kin fell to the dirt and began to convulse. Just as Gwen despaired that her first attempt at catalysing Death March would result in their elected leader exploding into gobs of cancerous flesh, the rat tore his smock from his upper body, then stood with the energy of a newly matured pup. "Milady Sorceress—" The rat's spine creaked as old bones healed and his muscles grew into taut steel cables. Incredibly, Gwen could see the creature visibly growing taller and his fur turning glossier. "This Stian is forever in your service." Standing upright, Elder Stian was far taller than the nearest rat, even discounting their stooping gait. Her newly dubbed Centurion then introduced himself as a Shadow Runner, a Rat-kin warrior caste— though according to the Elder, his profession had been eradicated after the Rat-kin took on the title of Tasmüyiz. Compared to the regular rats, who were little better than an adult Human at defending themselves, her Essence-derived Centurions possessed boundless energy. Likewise, they were far deadlier with their salvaged, make-shift weapons, capable of bringing down a wolf without aid. After the fiasco with the Sawahi Sand Wolves, she straight-away exhausted herself with all of her cohort leaders, then slowed the march until her troops could get up to spec. But even that did not progress as expected. To her shock, the Essence she could spare was enough only to empower six Centurions every few hours, meaning she had considerable time and distance to go before a loyal force of aides could manage the command chain. Later, before dawn, while her column of refugees rested, they had their second encounter with the local fauna. This time, their foe was a Tigermaw Land Shark, the improved variant of that very monster that Gwen had fought in the Outback a lifetime ago. After erupting amidst the unsuspecting column and taking no less than twenty lives, Golos lifted the accursed thing as it nipped and swatted at him with its muscular tail, then tossed the Land Shark at Caliban. Once caught in Caliban's feminine Big Bird talons, her creature squeezed out the early breakfast from the Land Shark, then consumed their foe with extreme prejudice. Watching the shattered bodies rain down into her company of tired-looking rats, Gwen felt no less exhausted by it all— and to think they were only ten hours into a five-day journey. Not wanting to attract more wolves, she consulted with Stian and his circle of growing Centurions, then sent the carcasses into the void, erasing all evidence of their existence. Jadedly, she then urged the group to move once more. Thirty minutes later, another commotion from the rear halted the column. Finally, the first Rat-kin to perish from the illness made himself known— heedless of Spam, Remove Disease or her most ardent well-wishes. Strun caught the tail-end of the death march just as the columns entered the badlands. Along the way, strange signs of battle kept his fur raised and his senses on high alert. Sand Wolf burrows used by the infamous predators to ambush tired travellers lay emptied all around, marked with trails that spoke of a titanic battle yet leaving no bodies to mark their passing. Later, the hollowed-out shell of a Sand Shark the size of a war chariot furthermore made Strun's heart quicken with expectation. Nearer the badlands, after Strun darted from shadowy plinths to wind-worn monoliths to dodge the Wyvern circling overhead, the Shadow Runner caught sight of dark bodies peeling from the group ahead, using the shadows as he did. DESERTERS! The thought came to him at once. There was a good reason these Rat-kin waited for the landscape to change before they made their move. The column was long, and though the sorceress' eyes were many, her attention was scattered, meaning even should they disappear, it would take until the next muster for her to discover that whole groups of deserters were gone. Strun understood the ramifications of losing these rats in the context of the Sorceress' promise to the Khan. Even after the blood-boiling showing by Saran, there were those among the Clans whose only desire was sole survival. Now that they'd been given food and water, these vermins saw the Sorceress' inexplicable generosity as something to be exploited rather than respected. Reaching into his sand cloak, Strun withdrew twin daggers forged from tempered Afaa al-Halak teeth. Even with the Elementals burning their homes and caging their people, why was it that rats like these existed everywhere, in every Clan? Could they not understand that a small act of selfishness could mean the extinction of their siblings, Elders and children? If not, then Strun would relieve them of the gift of wisdom the Old Ones had bestowed upon the Rat-folk. And if they did comprehend and yet refuse to live as honourable rats. Then Strun would teach them how to die as mice.

Snut Halftail cared not for the purposeless title of Contubernium the Human female had awarded him. In his eyes, her selection criterion had entirely been trivial, for those with the most spawn merely raised their hands, and she gave nods without a second glance. At first, Snut was full of expectation that the sorceress would gift the mischief more than food and water, especially when he saw the Elders of Jildam, Plithf, and Chuluu lap at her secreted elixirs, transforming them into something exceeding mortal Rat-kin. To Snut's disappointment, their Centurion, Skaz, a Longtooth from the Great Clan of Saaral, was not "Ascended". The rat's jealousy thrilled Snut, for the brute had cared only for the kin from his Clan, barking orders at Snut even though he was no better. Then— then nothing. No more food or blessings. Snut expected more; was he not a Contubernium? A leader of his pack? Were he and Skaz not equally sick with some forsaken illness spread by the Humans in the first place? It must be because he was from the minor Clan of Bayajuu. During the first leg of the march, Snut had already tested his peers' resolves and found that all bar two would happily escape the column. To prove his leadership, Snut had found a solution for their potential snitches. When the mischief fought off the Sand Wolves, Snut had placed the two dissenters on the flank and then waited for nature to run its course. After the ghosts of the Sawahi with their bean-green glowing eyes had made off with the two dissenters, Snut and his crew anxiously waited for an opportunity to execute their plan. Now, that time grew nigh. "Sruot, Qree, this way," Snut said to the rest of his Contubernium, now numbering eight. The other Rat-kin shot them unhappy glares but were too jaded or tired to care. Their reaction was also with Snut's calculations, for he knew well the meek disposition of his battered people in accepting what came without complaint. Lucky for Snut, there was some commotion happening ahead, something about a child too sick to continue. From what he could see, the Human female was knelt over inspecting the future carcass while her creatures patrolled overhead or fanned out nearer the front of the column. A few of the dogs likewise patrolled the rear, though it didn't take long for the monsters to stray. Once his group displaced from the column belonging to his Centurion, Snut gestured for his rats to follow, then stepped into the shadow of an enormous arch that split the column four-ways. Too easy, Snut's nerve gradually relaxed with the growing distance. The sorceress was powerful, but she was a fool. He was glad that they were the first, for if they succeeded, others likewise inspired would soon escape the sorceress's control. By midnight, the woman would have such a volume of desertion that she would be utterly helpless, while Snut's rat-pack would be hours away, hidden in the Badlands, foraging for nuts and insects to eat. In silence, using all their cunning and stealth, the group continued to travel until the sound of the marching column faded. "Sruot," Snut called for his second as his hunched body rose from the darkness, his nose stirring with the air of freedom. "How's our rear? Do you smell anyone following us?" When no reply came, Snut furrowed his brows and craned his neck to hiss at his scout and rear guard. "Sruot!" "We haven't seen him since the last rockfall." Vixx, a small framed Rat-kin, a tanner by trade, shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe he ran off alone." Snut furrowed his brows. Sruot was from the same Clan as he was, so fleeing alone would be the height of stupidity. He had set his Clanmate in the rear to observe the others, not the other way around. "Impossible. Qix, Qree, have you see Sruot?" The other two rats shook their head. These were another pair from an affiliated Clan. "Contubernium, we haven't seen Vaxz and Zazh either." "Stop calling me that," Snut snapped with annoyance, mindful of the ration bars still in his pouches, then inspected his crew. "… damned pox-bearers, where's Toch— what's that?" There came the whistle of something swinging on a rope, then— _SPLAT!_ The sound of wet flesh striking hard sandstone drew their eyes to the base of a monolithic plinth. Snut, who had the keenest eyes, recognised the mangled shape at once. "Srout!" he inhaled in pure horror. "Scat! Close up on me! Draw your weapons! There must be—" Before Snut could finish, a shadowy silhouette rose from behind the yelping Vixx. For a split second, Snut saw with complete clarity the realisation in Vixx's eyes as the bone-white edge of an Afaa Al-Halak tooth rested against the Ratkin's jugular. "VIX—" Snut's warning choked halfway, for the bone blade sunk itself into Vixx's cheek and sliced horizontally across the rat's skull, loping off the front half of his face like a lump of protruding wood. "GURRRNNGN—!" while Vixx choked on his blood, the shadow reached into Vixx's saddle pouch and withdrew the Rat-kin's blade star, a three-sided throwing knife stitched from the mandibles of the Black-Gold Scarab. Snut dove for cover a little too late, though thankfully, the target wasn't him. The triple-bladed weapon sang a song of chitin as it flew, rounding in an impossible arc, missing Qree, who was the closest, to bury itself in the unsuspecting throat of Qix. "Scat—scat!" Snut scrambled away on fall fours, his finger fumbling for his bone baton. What in pox's name was this thing hunting them? Not a Horse Lord! A Dao? Or was it another one of the Human sorceress' minions? “YEAAGH—YAAAAA!!!” The rat drew his weapon, then made a sound akin to a banshee. Overcome with rabid, irrational horror, Qree chose to stand and fight the phantom. The Rat-kin's bravery lasted two seconds. Their assailant, now entirely at ease with the two foes that remained, stepped from the shadows. From his piebald fur and dark eyes, Snut recognised the rat as a member of Clan Jildam. "YEAAAAAGH—!" Qree charged, claws extended and teeth glinting, a half-length pilum held aloft in one hand. "GURRK—" He made it about a dozen steps before a thrown dagger struck his face with such force that Qree's neck snapped back like a deer shot by a Nokud's tendon bow, stumbling forward like a drunk before the other Rat-kin finished the job by opening Qree's abdomen from crotch to chest, spilling the rat's worm-like guts in a crimson, crescent arc. Snut swallowed the spew swimming in his throat. Snut wasn't stupid. He knew he was alive for a reason. "So…" the rat picked up the dagger and cleaned the edge on the dead rat's fur. In the aftermath of their assailant's killing-spree, there were butchered rats strewn across the valley, filling the air with the stink of rotten iron. Yet, the Rat-kin looked as though a labourer finishing another day at the granary. Slowly, the rat produced a length of rope from his cloak. "...You lead, or shall I?" "Please, sorceress." The pair of Rat-kin parents kowtowed so deep their bodies appear to lower into the ground. "Even if you sell this one and my wife and everyone in my family, we are not worth one strand of your hair, so all we can do is plead. This child has never possessed anything other than life. That's the only thing we could afford to give her." Gwen's jaws grew as grim as her heart was heavy. If she were Elvia, perhaps she would heal herself to exhaustion, but she was the Rat-lin's leader, not a Cleric. A leader made the Rules. RULES were important when leading a large group. And an important part of having rules is respecting the minutes, else why bother setting boundaries at all? Even a leader flouted the rules she had set; how could she then command the Rat-kin and maintain their trust and respect? These rats were meek. But what if they realised her heart could be emotionally blackmailed? Lucky for the rats, their saviour wasn't a hard-headed bureaucrat. In her old consultancy business, only mediocre consultants looked at the rules and warned their clients. Comparatively, the good consultants circumvented customs, while the high-rollers made side-hustles viable and maximised profitability by writing off lawsuits as proportional expenditures. In the past, she was a single-digit income away from the latter. Once her plan ripened, Gwen reached out with both hands to gingerly cradle the sick pup. Up close, the Rat-kin child reeked of disease and rot, yet even so, she could see an immutable ember of hope, one present in the feeblest of creatures. She wanted to save the pup, Gwen decided, though she would first wield its suffering like a fist. "What this child needs... I can provide," she announced. "And yes, there is no doubt that every ounce of flesh on your bodies will not pay for even a smidgen of the gift I may bestow." As one, the family continued to kowtow, making dull thunks in the dirt. "Look about you. Many more need to be saved," Gwen reminded the parents. "This child is but one among a thousand, while my resources are limited by time and volume. For one to rise, another must abstain." She turned to one of the Centurions, the one responsible for the sick child's Contubernium. "Do you understanding, Centurion Ix? Are you willing to forgo the Ascension to save the life of this one under your jurisdiction?" A hundred and more pairs of eyes shifted from Gwen onto the stunned body of the group's yet-to-be transformed Centurion, a broad-shouldered warrior caste from the Clan Chuluu. At her question, the rat's face twitched, his fur growing instantly dank with nervous excretions. The Rat-kin had looked forward to the "Ascension", as their kind had dubbed the sorceress' gift. Since the transformation of the first twenty Elders and then some, the talk in the ranks had been of little else. In the Rat-kin's eyes, Gwen could see their thoughts. Give up the Ascension for a child? A useless, mewling babe? It was a foolish thing to do. The rat swallowed, his throat bobbing with indecision. "The child shall soon pass the gates of no return and be one with Caliban." Gwen wondered if her coerced morality theatre was too much for Ix. "Make your choice, Centurion Ix. There is no penalty for refusing. What's promised to you by your station will be delivered unless you gift it to save the life of another." "Mistress, I…" Ix's whole body was trembling. Something passed through the Centurion's eyes. Understanding? Gwen guessed. Or perhaps acceptance? After a brief pause, the rat deflated. "Please save the child." Gwen nodded with satisfaction. Before Ix could change his mind, she dipped a finger into the mouth of the child cradled against her bosom. The sorceress' pupils grew briefly viridescent, then a drop of Almudj's primordial Essence passed from her finger into the Rat-kin's throat. "What's her name?" Gwen asked the weeping parents, who were now kowtowing toward the relaxed Ix. "Riri, oh Mistress." The father's voice was barely audible through his choked lamentations of joy. Gwen lowered the bundle of fur in her arms. Mere breaths ago, the fever from the Necromantic Phage was on the verge of consuming the Rat-kin's life. Now, Almudj's Essence had not only banished the tiny motes of Negative mana but utterly infused the child's body with a new genesis, awakening dormant physiological potentials. Propped by her newly envigored arms, the child sat upright. "Papa?" Riri's eyes were pure and as blue as the cloudless sky above. Her nose as well grew pink and moist and no longer cracked and infected. The girl's fingers and toes, which had resembled twisted springs, uncoiled. Gwen released the confused child in her arms, allowing Riri to stand. The family remained at a distance, too afraid to approach. "Good work." Standing, she placed a hand on the head of her martyr and ruffled the hair between his rounded ears. "I'll remember you, Ix." Her Centurion fell to one knee. "Thank you for enlightening me, Mistress." Gwen stepped back, giving the family enough space to dote on their child while the rest of the Rat-kin watched with contemplative expressions, attempting to digest the morality play that had just transpired. Gwen trawled her mind for a suitable Shakespearean quote to seal the deal— "MISTRESS, WE REQUIRE AN AUDIENCE!" The contemplative silence of the moment was interrupted by a great commotion from beyond. The owner of the resonant voice was Stian, the Ascended Elder from Clan Jildam. To receive her petitioners, Gwen trod on air. The mischief parted as a stinky sea, revealing Stian's crimson-cloaked visage. The faded salmon was something her twenty-odd Prefects self-adorned without her bidding to distinguish themselves. Presently, Stian stood beside a younger rat standing half-ahead shorter with the same piebald fur pattern, holding a leash attached to a rat that looked to have pissed and shat himself. "What is this?" she made her enquiry from above. "Here is a faithless deserter." Stian pointed to the rat. "While this is my grandson, Strun. He says that he witnessed your grace at the coastal Plague Pits, and he had followed your grace's Flight to Nukus and now, to here." The Plague Pits? Gwen examined the younger rat. She doesn't recall seeing his likeness at all, else Caliban would have voided the sod. "At our rear, he caught sight of a Contubernium peeling away. Strun followed them, ascertained that they were deserting and not merely resting, then slew them for traitors. He had brought you a gift, the deserter's leader— Snut of Clan Bayajuu." "Clan Jildam lies!" The rat Gwen vaguely recalled as "Snut" fell face-first into the sand to grovel like a worm. "We were resting! Is fatigue a crime punishable by death?" "Faithless worm!" the young man called Strun drew a bone dagger as long as his arm, then pointed it toward the traitor. "O Priestess who reigns over the Afaa Al-Halak, do not trust the worm-tongue of this ingrate." With his other hand, he fumbled for something in his cloak. "Here, I present the scalps of his co-deserters." A wet and furry bundle landed beside the snot-faced Snut. The corner of Gwen's right eye twitched as she fought down the bile in her throat. "This rat is a murderer!" Snut writhed on the floor. "Justice, Great Sorceress! I want redress for my slain kin!" "Lying slave!" The murderous aura from both members of Clan Jildam could have sliced cheese. Gwen quickly distanced herself from the rioting emotions on display. To desert at a time like this? That meant Snut was a scoundrel of absolute selfishness who saw personal survival as trumping his ten thousand litter mates, overshadowing the risk she took in saving their tails. To then lie and accuse his prosecutors in an attempt to turn his fate around— If anything, Gwen felt impressed by the thickness of Snut's skin. Circumstantially, she had no reason to doubt Stian, who had been immensely helpful and one of her most instrumental Prefects in organising the Cohorts. The only fate Snut deserved was to be put against the wall and receive a full clip of "Rat-a-tat, tat, tat, tat." Unfortunately, violence committed without instruction may only serve to inspire greater insurrections in her present company. In place of the satisfaction of voiding Snut, she wanted the rat to instruct his kindred, to temper their obsequious natures with the nurturing hand of dignity. But she wasn't a Mind Mage like Petra. Or a Radiant Demi-god like Gunther. Nor an avatar of empathy like Evee. She also had no interest in having Stian torture the sod. Which arguably left her with only one option. The very one she loathed. Luckily, her present circumstance did not align with the dread of sliding into indiscretion, for the traitor Snut was a perfect specimen. Firstly, the rat had chosen his fate and made his choice; what free will Snut could exercise had already been exhausted; all that remained was the consequence. Secondly, she had anticipated that a betrayal like this would happen and that inevitably, saving the "good" rats meant she had to exercise her full potential. Thirdly, whatever the outcome, she had no desire to abuse Snut. The moment the rat's usefulness extinguished, she would grant him freedom. With her mind made up, Gwen cloaked herself with Desolation Aura, then called a Void Hound to attend her side, drooling from a maw half its body length long, dribbling with the Void ooze that served as its teeth. Her first act had earlier concluded; her second act was now beginning. "J-Justice!" Snut's eyes grew bloodshot as his body convulsed from extreme vertigo. "I-I am a victim! They're using our lives to elevate themselves!" "Great Priestess! Give the word!" Strun positioned himself to silence the Rat-kin at the slightest hint from Gwen. Gwen waited until the crowd grew agitated enough to stink. Once more, she ran her deductions through her head, satisfied that her plan was for the greater good. Lowering herself to the floor, she landed beside Snut. "This Priestess will now discern truth from lies," she informed her audience, borrowing the title in Strun's address, for it seemed to resonate with her audience. Kneeling a little, she placed a hand on the warm skull of the thrashing, indignant traitor. "Snut, do not resist, lest you cease to exist." "M-mercy!" Snut offered a final, futile plea. Gwen silently spoke the sacred invocations of the dark-skinned Elves her Master had usurped for the IMS, then activated the necessary Sigils within her Astral Body to enable the Necromantic portion of the incantation. From her Elemental Gate, Void matter flooded her conduits, turning her eyes dark as obsidian. The invisible aura of wretchedness encircling Gwen rippled, tripling in diameter and intensity, sending all the surrounding Rat-kin to kneel, scrap and reel, with at least a half of the individuals refund their breakfast rations, leaving only her Centurions standing among the groaning mischief. "SOUL TAP!" Gwen proclaimed the final invocation with a tip-tap of her tongue. A tendril extended from her Astral Body, crossing the metaphysical space of existence to invade the sacred soul space of her victim. Snut grew instantly rigid, his eyes spinning wildly in their sockets. To the outside observers, Gwen's head-gripping hand glowed sickly green— not the vivid emerald of Almudj's genesis, but the sickly pale fluorescence of deadly fungi busy at decomposition. A tiny pebbled soon joined that densely compacted mass of Essence held within the metaphysical well of her Astral Body. With every effort, she had metered the strength of the soul siphoning so that it took only the tiniest possible mote from the rat, preventing her victim from being extinguished by existential shock. With the deed done, Snut slid from her palm to coil onto the floor. The Rat-kin's expression had frozen in inexplicable horror; his eyes were blank, lacking the means to express his internal horror. Gwen's will bore into the rat's skull. "Snut, speak the truth," she said, feeling distanced from her following words. "Obey your Priestess!" The Rat-kin's mouth moved as though manipulated by phantom threads. "I… am a deserter. I convinced the others to flee with me. Strun killed my fellow deserters and arrested me. What Clan Jildam said is true." "Stand up and speak up." Snut performed as told. The will of a slave-rat was far too fragile to resist her compulsion. After the third confession, the mass of Rat-kin refugees let loose a collective sign. Considering what had happened in front of Saran to doom them all, Snut's betrayal came as no surprise. "Thank you, Snut." Gwen gave the vermin all the mercy she could afford. "Goodbye, Snut." The Rat-kin did not resist her Void Dog. All who experienced Gwen's Desolation Aura first hand understood her kindness and her generosity in giving Snut a painless end implicitly. "Who is Snut's Centurion?" She asked the crowd. "Here I am, blessed Priestess of Sawahi!" The neglectful culprit leapt from the trembling wall of bodies. "Skaz knows he has failed you, Priestess. Skaz will take punishment." Her Centurion's ownership of his offence was pleasing to her. "Skaz's title is at this moment absolved," she said to the creature and watched his ears droop. "Go and form a Contubernium from the survivors, Skaz, and lead them well. Do not make this mistake again, else what awaits you will be far worse than Snut's end." "Yes! Mistress!" the Rat-kin quickly retreated. Gwen turned to their pair from Clan Jildam: as pivotal as punishment was reinforcing positive actions. "You have done well, Stian and Strun. And as you have done Skaz's duty, Mister Strun, I would like to offer you his position as Centurion of his wards. Are you willing?" "More than willing!" Strun's ears perked up at once. Kneeling, the Rat-kin lowered his head. "I live to serve, Mistress! Not a single kin shall escape my watch!" The Rat-kin's passion made Gwen hopeful for risking the effort of eliciting positive reinforcement. "Thank you for the confidence, Strun. As an additional boon for your service in paying an unowed debt, I would offer you Ascension. Do you accept?" Elder Stian kicked the stunned Strun so hard his grandson fell on both hands. "YES! YES, MISTRESS!" Gwen chucked. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the rest of the rats. "RAT-KIN! WITNESS STRUN—" "Strun the Swift…" The Rat-kin whispered. His grandfather boxed the young rat around the ears. “— STRUN THE SWIFT of Clan Jildam!” Gwen's Clarion Call echoed through the plinth-filled valley. "CENTURION Strun, partake in the gift." She cupped both hands and circulated her Essence until a small pool formed. With eyes feverish with worship and reverence, the rat dipped his lips atop her fingers and lapped hungrily at her palm until every drop was gone. "Blessed fruit!" Elder Stain appeared overcome with emotion. The younger rat grunted, coiling his body while his bones and joints expanded to accommodate his enhanced sinews. Unlike the others, the Rat-kin maintained a reverent posture of stoic worship throughout his metamorphosis, like a faithful pilgrim supplicating before an ivory idol. When Strun finally stood, Gwen was doubly impressed to find that he was almost up to her shoulder and was taller than his grandfather, who was already an impressive specimen. Gingerly, the huffing Rat-kin allowed his long fingers to flex, then tested the power of his sinews by bouncing on his heels. Amazed, the rat knelt, then gazed upward with undisguised zeal. "I pledge my life, my soul, my being to you, O Priestess of the Afaa Al-Halak," Strun the Swift declared with a voice that had grown resonant and deep. "Allow this one to be your shadow, your dagger, your hand of judgement." Elder Stian knelt as well, though without the swearing. The pair's actions seemed to inspire the others to do the same. Suddenly, half the mischief was on their knees, even those who had no idea what was going on and was merely going with the flow. Gwen felt her scalp crawl. From their Essence sympathy, she could sense Strun was entirely serious, though someone with her sensibilities, she felt equally stimulated and horrified by the pledge of absolutist obedience. Was this… Gwen gulped at the unwelcome epiphany. Was this how cults started supply-side churches? The Sawahi Badlands. Midnight. Strun, Stian, and the Clan's surviving senior members sat huddled around a heat dispensing magical device their Priestess had dubbed "Maxwell's Camp Heater". Behind them, the weakest of their kin slept two-stacks deep in windproof canvas tents, likewise provided by their benefactor. Strun sat with a full belly, listening to his grandfather speak of transpired events. "If you must blame someone," His grandfather's voice sounded like a ghost's on the wind. "Blame my helplessness. I shouldn't have let her go." "Nonsense, it was mother's choice to work at the Pavilion." Strun felt torn in twain by the news of his mother's sudden demise, his anguish feeling like a jagged flesh wound. "But her passing, that fault belongs to the Khanate." "Don't overthink her death, Strun," a voice said in the dark. "Don't dream of revenge. It will only bring more grief." "She dropped a Djinn-damned plate and was used for sport!" Strun spat, his ire burning a hole in his lungs. "By the Priestess of the Afaa Al-Halak! You'd think mother insulted the Khan to his face, then spat in his food!" The group remained silent. "What else do you wish to do?" The same voice from the senior Rat-kin scoffed. "What do you expect us to do? Fight?" Strun flexed his fingers, watching his elongated fingers unfurl. In the murky dark, the light from the fire cube refracted off his claws and the interior of his aubergine pupils. With his health improved and the phage in his body banished, Strun wore clean clothes for the first time in months. Earlier, he and the other centurions had accessed a magical item that produced water when an LDM was inserted. Once their kins' waterskins filled, Strun and a few others sifted through the "Survivor's Kits" to found soap and shampoo. Strun was no stranger to these items, though regular access to such supplies was rare in the Pavilion. Not wanting to offend the Priestess, whose nose may be more sensitive than even their from what Strun had observed, he had urged the others to bath as well. Most performed the sacred rite of cleansing willingly, though some of Strun's peers had to be convinced with snarls and gnashing teeth. As the youngest and a trained Shadow Runner, Strun welcomed all challengers. A few warriors blessed by the Priestess obliged, only to be floored by Strun in seconds, a testament to both what the Rat-kin had lost to their life of servitude under the Horse Lords, and the potential of what could be. "Grandfather…" Strun looked up at his patriarch, one hand resting on the pommel of his teeth-blades. He had been thinking of his following words since his Ascension and in observing his people aiding one another. "What if… there was a better way for our people to live? What if— Clan Jildam no longer returned to the Pavilion?"

The badlands came to a flat and unenterprising conclusion after two days, leaving only ochre earth and blue horizon stretching over rolling dunes. A shapely silhouette, "The Calamity", hovered over her gathered mischief, with her guardians Caliban and Ariel floating on either side, awaiting the return of their third sibling. Compared to the stretch of sandy space ahead, the rock-strew valley had provided much-needed shelter against aerial and subterranean predators. Above the valley, very few flying creatures were a match for Golos. Below, her Familiars, Hounds and Centurions took care of business from terrestrial predators like the Goanna-shaped Basalt Basilisks. The Ascension of her Centurions had greatly lubricated the passage of her rat-tag stream of refugees through the twisting intestines of the gorge. By now, she had rewarded most of the worthy. And though she had Essence to spare, Gwen decided to save such opportunities for reinforcing positive behaviour, such as in the case of Ix, who finally received his just reward after throwing himself into "public service" with a zealous fervour. The extra caution meant the transit took more time than anticipated, unduly taxing her limited resources. First of all, day four marked the end of her Cure Disease potions. Her Healing Potions were also running low. Her supply of rations was at its last pallet, as was most of her SPAM. When they entered, there had been no visible means to provide food for the rats on the scale necessary, at least not during their slow meander through the badlands. That said, according to Strun, there were Bactrian camel herds in the hundreds of thousands meandering between Smarkland and Ashgabat. Likewise, in the rocky hills of Dushanbe, hundreds of thousands of rock goats scaled the basalt cliffs, while further out, innumerable Saiga ranged just outside the dunes. The problem, alas, was getting the food to her people, or vice versa. "Priestess. Once past the stone forest, we must tread lightly on the sand," the well-travelled Strun had supplied her with additional information for the journey beyond, including the lands surrounding Shalkar. Over the past few days, she had extensively relied on the whiskered Demi-human, whose title of "Shadow Runner" proved more than just a cool moniker. When she had inquired about its meaning, Strun's grandfather had informed her that the title meant courier. Within their Clan, those who possessed the strength to fight, the agility to obfuscate their presence and the cunning to evade foes in the desert trained to be the bearer of messages between the settlements. The Runner's fighting prowess, Strun had explained, was a necessity of the job rather than their primary function. "...Between the herds and us, the Sand Wyrms reign. None may pass peacefully without the means to fly, and even then, there are Rocs and Harpies reigning over the skies. Shalkar is a place with water and shelter— but it is also a natural prison." Curious, Gwen asked the rats how the tribe had reigned in the Wildland's past before they became Tasmüyiz. Stian the Elder wistfully informed her that in the days before the Beast Tide, when their numbers were in the tens of millions and more, Clan-kin would swarm their enemies and pick them apart, each armed with the teeth-blades of the Afaa Al-Halak. Many would perish in such battles, but given enough bodies, their hunts were seldom unsuccessful. However, when the desert rapidly expanded after the descent of the Fire Sea, extensive droughts decimated the Rat-kins' fields. Consequently, Clans warred among themselves, after which the survivors chose bondage. "Strength in numbers..." Gwen recalled feeling ill, coming to understand a small part of why the Centaurs were so keen on pruning the rats' numbers, as well as why they saw death as utterly pedestrian. Thankfully, she had immediate endeavours to distract her. Her Wyvern was on its way back, communicating through thoughts imposed via Empathic Link. Unlike in their arboreal adventures or Shenyang, the Wyvern thoroughly enjoyed the open terrain. When her creature landed, she verified his enjoyment from the crimson gore around his mouth and on his hind claws. "What did you run into?" She inspected her Planar Ally for damage and was satisfied that the Wyvern was unharmed, "The rat speaks true." Her Wyvern dipped its head, blasting her with his foetid breath. "Camels, horses and deer range in the lands beyond the dunes." "How was the oasis itself?" "Hee," Golos snorted. "Occupied." Gwen raised both brows. "By Centaurs, naturally." Golos huffed. "And no, I didn't eat them." Were these Centaurs a part of the Khanate? Gwen thought to herself. How would the residents treat her rats when they arrive en masse? Hopefully, the Khan had sent a message across via his eagles; else, things could get awkward. "How does our passage look?" Gwen continued. "Sand Wyrms?" "Lots of young ones with their sand pits here and there." The Wyvern drew a quick map with the tip of its wings. It didn't take a stretch of the imagination for a flying creature to visualise what could be seen from above. "Just so you're aware, Calamity. There must be a bastard somewhere either to the north or south, where the land turns to Dragon-teeth." Gwen took Golos' meaning to infer that a lower-tier Dragon likely occupied the more mountainous regions. That much was within expectation, as the general rule applied to Wildlands everywhere. However, compared to the Yinglong, the desolation of the desert and the badlands spoke of their "bastard" cousin's poverty, reinforced by the fact that the Sand Wyrms here were infinitely more "Worm" than "Wyrm", both pointing to the end-product of a multi-generational dilution of divinity. When Golos finally finished his etch-a-sketch map, Gwen turned to her crowd and invited her Prefects. "Gents, take a look. What do you think?" The Ascended rats shrunk their bodies as they huddled beside her, wary of Golos' lean and hungry gaze. Now that they had taken on her aspect, their flesh was far more gratifying than ordinary rodents. "This isn't good— the Afaa al-Halak has multiplied," Stian remarked while Golos roughly marked where he had seen the enormous nests. Unlike its far-ranging adult form, a young Sand Wyrm remained in its nest-burrow until it had gained enough vitality or Essence to morph. These, according to Stian's description, ranged from creatures a dozen segments in length to elder variants a century or older, with burrows thousands of meters in length and tremor-senses covering four to five kilometres. That the Sawahi was overpopulated was interesting as well, for it meant the ecological pyramid of the Eastern Steppes had essentially collapsed without the Rat-kin. "This will not be an easy trek, Priestess. It may take weeks if we wish to be safe." Strun's job, together with other volunteer hunters, scouts and half-trained Shadow Runners, would be to fan out in front of the great column, using their survival skills to test the path before them. It was a selfless task, for a mishap would mean falling into the maw of a Sand Wyrm. Looking at the "map", Gwen had to concur. If Golos was even remotely correct, "avoiding the Afaa al-Halak nests" would involve crossing the Sawahi in great loops and swirls, like finger-painting a Van Gogh rendition of "Swirly Swirly Sawahi". In that time, how many would collapse from the extreme heat and cold? While the upper regions of the Caspian froze and the southern coast boiled, the desert's climate meant that at noon, temperatures reached the mid-thirties, while at midnight, the surface could drop below zero. With the phage further weakening the stamina of her followers, she possessed scant confidence that they could dally in the desert for long. In the open Sawahi, the probability of running into an adult Sand Wyrm also multiplied. In that case, Gwen could only pray that their enemy was a younger Wyrm and not the ancient beast that the Khan had bested with the help of ten thousand Horse Lords. "Our best bet is to punch through," Gwen suggested. "Gogo, how strong are these larval Sand Wyrms?" "I could take them if they're exposed," her Wyvern grunted. "If you can lure enough of it out, I'll tear it from its hiding hole." "The young Afaa al-Halak will retreat at the first sign of danger, Lord Golos." Strun's voice drifted toward them. "They're quick— very, very quick for their size. A few breaths, that's all it takes for the larvae to retreat deep into its den." Golos scoffed. "I'll have Cali provide backup," Gwen thanked the rat for this advice, then motioned to her salivating Big Bird. "His Afaa al-Halak form should be able to chase down injured specimens or flush them from the burrows." "As you wish, Priestess." The other rats joined Strun's heartfelt supplication. "Shaa-Shaa!" Caliban extended a pair of twisted, lolling tongues in blue and red. Gwen received the gooey lick without flinching, wiping the slime off her bodysuit with no more bother than a nursing mother brushing milk from her sleeve. "EE-EE!" Not to be beaten, Ariel nudged her arm, demanding a pat. "Right, anything else?" Gwen obliged while addressing her thoroughly impressed Prefects. "We're ready to march!" the gathered crowd of red-cloaked rats attempted to reply as one, though their timing made the spectacle more comical than grand. "Will us into the desert, Priestess!" "Right. Perform a head-count," Gwen gave the command, then took to the air once more. "Check equipment. Pack the camp. We leave as soon as the roll call concludes!" When the sun reached its zenith, Strun's scouts encountered their first juvenile Afaa al-Halak. Her Void dogs sallied forth at Gwen's command, "tumbling" and "stumbling" as the sand turned liquid, sending her creatures downward into the bottom of the bowl-shaped dunescape, which from the air resembled a hollowed-out circle. Mid-tumble, parasitic Shell Scarabs that lived within the Afaa al-Halak's domain burst from the sand in an attempt to hijack their host's prey. But, when her dogs snapped back and consumed the beetles, the swarm quickly discovered more amicable game in the mischief stickybeaking at the pit's edge. The Shell Scarabs converged into a swarm to her relief, making it easy for her to disperse the buzzing spearhead with a Void Maelstrom. Together with the Centurions and her hounds, the Rat-kins escaped with many injuries but no deaths. Nearer the centre of the Sand Wyrm pit, the eye-less, larval monstrosity emerged as a pale-white stalk six meters across and covered in ghoulish chitin. If Gwen had to give the thing a terrestrial parallel, she would say it resembled a Sand Lion Bobbit Worm chimaera. Golos, who had been circling the whole while, instantly accelerated into a supersonic dive, striking with equal grace and power to harpoon the creature as a living bolt of Wyvern-shaped lightning. The sand shifted as Golos landed with outstretched claws gouging the crushed carapace. Then, with purple ichor spraying in every direction, the Sand Wyrm larvae lifted into the air. "Yee—yee—YEE—YEEEE—!" the larvae's weeping was like a babe's as Golos dragged out its prawn-like lower body, snapping cartilage and crushing exoskeleton as the Sand Wyrm rapidly ascended. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. "Screee! Screee—!" came the cries of worship and awe from below. With the whole hog exposed, Gwen could see that its entire lower half was without armour and semi-clear, like larvae in the middle of moulting. Evidently, the older the Sand Wyrm, the more segments it grew and the more armoured it became. Once her Wyvern reached a suitable height, it let loose a sadistic cackle, then allowed the creature ten seconds to learn flight. "THKREEEEEEE—!" came the sound of a semi-trailer meeting a sudden stop on un-compacting sand. Though the larvae's outer armour held, Gwen could see that its internal organs had ruptured from the impact, if not outright exploded by the shockwave of its landing. Gwen and her company of Centurions observed the gory results, then with a mightly "SCREEE—!" from Stian, the swarm converged on the deceased holy beast. Above the Rat-kin, their Priestess suddenly realised she had made a terrible mistake. "Fuck!" Gwen howled with sand-stomping frustration. "Gogo! You need to kill it IN-RANGE! Farrrrrrk! My Afaa al-Halak CORE!” Strun walked among his assigned Centurion, followed by two of his Contubernium, each carrying hefty plates of steaming Wyrm meat. Following their successful hunt of the Afaa al-Halak larvae, the Elders made good use of the carcass, letting nought go to waste. The Priestess was happy to see her people acting industriously, encouraging the Rat-kin to recover the crystalline flesh she jokingly called "Manna". The carcass of a holy Afaa al-Halak was full of treasures. The meat would keep for weeks when dried. Its chitin could be bent and moulded into armour and tools, while its teeth and mandibles made primitive but deadly weapons. Watching his kin feast, Strun considered his preference for the rations and the salty, fatty cans of ambiguous flesh his Priestess bestowed. For his meek people, however, the steady stream of white-jade meat was something that happened only in the Rat-kins' illustrious past. "If we survive." One of his Contubernium adjusted his grip on the enormous platter. "We'll be telling this to our children for generations. The Great Trek from Nukus to Shalkar— with our Priestess conjuring the flesh of the Afaa al-Halak from the air." "Manna," Strun corrected his officer. "She called it manna." "Ma-nuh." The Contubernium mouthed the word. "I like it. What does it mean?" Strun shrugged. "I do not know, Bizth, although I suspect we'll be eating Manna for some time if she has her way." The crowd laughed, some nervously, others with fragile hope. "Eat up!" Strun commanded. "Eat until you're bursting! The march ahead is long, and you will need all your strength when the time comes to flee." Dozens of dirty hands reached out and retrieved their share. The sound of slurping and gnawing filled the camp. Usually, the Rat-kin tasted flesh once a month, and that's if they're lucky to receive scraps from the Centaurs. In winters of great famine, tribes less civil than the Gold Pavilion straightaway saw their slaves as two-legged sheep to fortify a stew, turning mouths into food. Now, watching his fellow Rat-kins eat and laugh despite the fomenting illness brewing inside them, Strun wondered what would happen if his people, who were experts at growing grain and sowing wild seeds, could have a land to call their own. Would their children still die from milk-less mothers? Would their bones still be brittle and their arms and legs the likeness of stark branches washed up on the shore of the Caspian Sea? "Calamity!" Golos' Empathic Link stirred Gwen from her meditation. "Get up. They've returned." Gwen forced her leaden lids to open, revealing bloodshot eyes. After six days of vigilance over her charges, even Almudj's Essence struggled to keep up with her psychic fatigue. While she did attempt to take catnaps here and there, inevitably something would require her attention, such as yet another sick Rat-kin bursting like a virulent pustule, coughing and hacking until they expired. From observable evidence, the manifestation of the "phage seed" inside the Rat-kin progressed in stages. First, the seed took root in the rat's starved bodies. Then, the incubation period brought on fatigue, weakness and mild hyperthermia. Finally, the last stage involved violent expulsion and an all-consuming fever. With the early sufferers, she had felt obligated to offset the illness with motes of her Essence. But on the second night, Strun and Stian had approached with the disheartening news that many in the lower ranks now looked forward to the ripening of their phage seed and had neglected hygiene in the hope of being unduly transformed. Gwen had felt dispirited by the news, though not surprised by the low ambition of the mischief's entrepreneurial spirit. After that, she restricted herself to the hierarchy she had inadvertently created, dispensing Essence-infused Maotai through her network of Prefects, Centurions and Contuberniums. Her concoction wasn't enough to Ascend the rats, though it did stave off the worst of the ripened phage, catalysing a robust recovery. That and Gwen prayed the bounty of Sand Wyrm protein she piled into the hungry swarm would keep their overall health buoyant. After Gwen's priestly duties were delegated, she did her best to rest, entering deep meditation for no more than an hour when their next item of woe appeared on the horizon. Harpies. These weren't the fair-faced birds of paradise like Gogo's pretty Phalera, but vicious, vulture-feathered beasties in black and brown with mien the likeness of Troll-hags. By Strun's confession, the Harpies were the Rat-kin's principal predators from time immemorial, regularly picking off stragglers in the field or those too young or weak to hide in a burrow in time. Occasionally, when either sides' numbers grew too great, all-out battles would break out, with either the Harpies emptying Clan warrens or the Rat-kin swarming up the badlands for bird roasts and omelettes. After the Tide, when the rats' numbers fell, they became fodder. While crossing the Badlands, their first encounter with the Harpies had been brief. Golos had told the Harpy to "Flock off". They did not, to which Golos answered by reincarnating their Priestess with a single Dragon Breath. Now, the birds were back with a vengeance, both for blood and for the meals on legs under Gwen's charge. "Calamity, I think they brought the whole tribe." Her Wyvern's voice brimmed with anticipation. In the distance, where the red-rimmed sun struck the flat horizon, she could see a thin-black horizontal line growing larger. "… That's a damned bird Tide!" Gwen's temple throbbed. This time, unlike with the Big Birds, it was her fault for not entertaining the idea of eradicating all witnesses. She had even chuckled when Golos dispersed their avian foe with a Draconic-flex. "The same shit we saw in Amazonia..." Gwen regarded her surroundings. "...Only now we're exposed." What she meant was that they lacked the cover of the forest. Without the trees to block their foe, even Golos would eventually be taken to task like a Sand Wyrm brought down by wild Rat-kin. "How long until they get here?" Gwen decided they may as well prepare for the worst. "Another five minutes or so," Golos replied. Unlike the Harpies, the Wyvern flew at a much higher stratum of atmosphere to perform its favourite tactic— barrel-rolling its whipping mace-tail into his enemies, crushing their bones and bodies and hearing the lamentation of their flesh. "Use Dragon Fear to delay them," Gwen commanded. "Buy me more time." Her Wyvern obeyed. "Prefects!" she commanded the chittering mischief with a word. "Your natural foes are upon us! Dig in as you've been taught! Protect your wards!" At once, the swarm burst into furious activity. The survivor's kits Walken had procured came with military-spec spades enchanted with Minor Earth Moulding cantrips, allowing the user to expend an LDM to slice stone and shape the earth. In the hands of the Centurions and Contubernium, they served as weapon and tool for shelter and defence. Together with the Rat-kin's natural tunnelling instincts, it was possible for most of the rats to hide in makeshift dens while the battle above took place. Once sheltered, each burrow would be guarded by an Ascended Centurion, whose newfound strength should rival that of a Vulture-kin. Without the need to worry her head over the rats, she could concentrate on dispersing the birds. "Alright." Gwen redoubled her attention on the approaching line of hungry avians. "Ariel, Cali, Gogo— clump up those bloody bin-chickens. I want that flock nice and tight and ripe for a Maelstrom!" The terrible screeches of a tempest-tossed heaven strained the limits of Struns' hearing. Hungrily huffing at the ozonised air, the Rat-kin wondered if the Old Ones in the lost annals of his people spoke of similar cataclysms when they carved the Tribal Totems of his people. Above his burrow, two swirling Maelstroms had transformed the golden dusk of dying day into bruised mauve. From the lightning layer, lashing bolts of fulminating emerald arced across the churning heavens, tossing Harpies like paper planes. Below, a second eye glared down, its pupils the very stuff of the abyss, sucking in anything that flew close enough to be touched by licking tendrils of Void-born wind. Bathed in alternating hues of light and darkness, Strun fought tooth and nail against the wayward Harpie raiding their borrow to make off with his helpless kin. Already, no less than three Vulture-kin lay by the entrance of his makeshift shelter. The first had been foolish, entering headfirst with its violence-maddened eyes. Strun had allowed the creature to pass; then, as it menaced his Contubernium, he had descended with his teeth-daggers, striking the Harpy near the collarbone, instantly disabling its serpentine neck. The next assailant attempted to dismantle the burrow itself, forcing him from his shelter. Strung had parried the Harpy's claws, taking full advantage of his Essence-fed dexterity, then lopped off the bird's feet from the ankles before proceeding to decapitate his foe. His latest kill was a Harpy Matron, a bird-woman capable of using innate sorcery. When the creature disabled an adjacent burrow with its screeching curse, he dove into the shadows then emerged from below the bird. To his dismay, his daggers proved ineffective against the steely feathers on the Matron's wings and legs. The hen's abdomen and lower organs, however, were a much softer story. When finally Strun returned to his burrow, he was crimson with gore and steaming with offal. Around him, hundreds of his kin perished, but ten times that number in Harpes had paid the price. With eyes dyed red with worship with reverence, his gaze swept upward for more prey. "Ariel! Empowered Chain Lightning!" "EE—EE!" came the thrilling trill of death by electrocution. As a goddess of vengeance, his Priestess walked on air, directing the heavens to denounce the Vulture-kin, cooking the birds by the dozen as they sought to close in and strike her down. "SHAA—!" Strun turned his gaze southward, where a giant bird half-melded into the uncertain light snatched Harpies from the air as though hapless mayflies, cramming its mouth with screaming bird-kin even as its slender finger-claws mutilated more victims. No matter how many instances the Harpies scored gouges deep enough to kill a Rat-kin outright, the dark falcon continued its flight, cutting a swarth through the panicked flock. Elsewhere, her Wyvern barged through the scattering bird-Tide as a flying battering ram, shedding down, bone and blood with every passage of its brutal body. In the past, Strun had seen the Khitani Horde do no less. But here was one Human female. His lone Priestess, against a Clan of Harpies! Such confidence flowed through Strun that his veins felt like conduits channelling her viridescent Essence. "SKREEEE—" The Shadow Runner let loose a battle shout, the cry of the free Rat-kin, a cry of anguish and gladness with the pent-up frustration of three decades of abject misery. "SKREEEEE—" another cry echoed from a burrow not far from Strun. Another victor emerged, missing an arm but munching on the wing of a splayed bird. "SKREEE—!" "SKREEE—!" "SKREEE—!" More of his kin announced the end to Rat-kin's humility. "Priestess!" Strun cried out. “SKREEE—!” “SKREEE— SKREEE—!” “SKREEE— SKREEE—! SKREEE—!” More voices joined Strun, some buoyed by victory, others using the collective resonance to strengthen their body against mortal injuries. Louder and louder, the chittering of the Rat-kin swarm overcame the maddening song sang by the Harpy Tide, informing their foe that the Rat-kin had returned to reclaim the Sands of the Sawahi and that without terrible bloodshed and incalculable violence, they cannot be made meek ever again. "… Calamity…" Golos' warning came for the umpteenth time. "What is it now?" Gwen dispersed her Wall of hovering Void and retaliated with a fire-and-forget volley of Ball Lightning in the Void variant. Her eyes followed the trailing balls of hungering Void ink until they splashed against her intended targets. "Did the Harpies call for a Roc or something?" "No." Her Wyvern's tone was curiously wary. "I think our battle has attracted the attention of the one I spoke about in the southeast." "What do you mean?" Gwen squinted her eyes, perceiving nothing on the southeasterly horizon. Clicking his tongue, Golos turned her in the right direction. "An old Wyrm. I can smell its bastardised Essence stink even from here." Gwen's electrified fingers grew arrested at the news. "You're shitting me. That the Dragon you talked about?" "No," Golos assured her. "This thing's Essence is lower than mud— know well, Calamity, that only dumb and hungry things will be attracted to our ancient Essences. Even a bastard would think twice about our Patriarchs before showing themselves." "Then why is it coming here?" Gwen furrowed her brows. Assuming Golos was correct, they were woefully equipped to deal with the Death Worm. "Probably the sound, the mana and the spilt Essence. We are causing quite the stir—" Golos pointed a wingtip to her Warding Bolts, Thunder Storm, Maelstroms and her Familiars, each adding to her brilliance in the night. "How many times have you used the Ancient One's power? I could probably sense your presence from a few mountain ranges away." Fighting off a wave of spell fatigue, Gwen doubled-checked the Harpy swarm, noting that, at the very least, the bird brains were scattering. Her present resources were unbalanced, for though her mana ran on fumes, her vitality was brimming, flushing her cheeks and making her insides all strange. To offset the distracting overflow, she had bled the excess into her Centurions via Death March. "So it's smart enough to find us. Do you think we can frighten it away?" "That's assuming it's also smart enough to think." Golos' thoughts transmuted into her mind. "More likely, if the bastard's bastard is dumb and desperate enough, it'll charge right past us." "Why past us?" Gwen willed her Familiars to return to her side. Below, her rats were emerging from their holes and chanting in as though communing with some netherworld power. "Are we not morsels that could hasten its evolution into a higher-order Draconoid? Help it shed its worm-like coil, that sort of thing?" "For one, we True Dragons fly." Golos laughed with undisguised arrogance. Then, observing Gwen's confused consternation, his tone grew mocking. "Foolish Calamity! Have you forgotten? Your Essence isn't just in you anymore." Gwen glanced down at her mischief. "My rats? There's barely a hundred of them! Surely it's got camel herds to devour?" "Ah— but the Primordial One's Essence is exquisite and nourishing," Golos reminded her, shaking the gore from his silvery scales. "And for an Essence starved bastard living in a place like this with no mountains and no patron, even a mosquito is meat!"

Without a second of hesitation, Gwen activated Death March, simultaneously delivering an unambiguous order for her Rat-kin to flee in four routes away from the incoming Afaa al-Halak. This way, even if one-quarter of her wards got caught up in the earth-churning battle to come, at least three-quarters should remain safe. Unlike the original Greenskin spell, she conducted no ceremony nor worship. Instead, with complete practicality, Gwen tethered her conduits to Caliban, then incanted the rites that would activate the Sigils necessary to mimic the effect of the Shamanistic enchantment. A second later, she became a living vitality transformer, her Astral and physical body substations to Caliban's Consumption-powered generator. Fighting exhaustion, her irises sparked with vivid viridescence as the converted vitality of countless living beings Caliban had consumed empowered her favoured Rat-kins, concurrently saturating their scions with an emerald vibrancy. "Priestess!" "Goddess!" "Scree— SCREEE—" "Scree— SCREEE—SCREE—" Her screeching Centurions transformed into shamrock beacons in the dying light of day, turning the rat horde an eerie shade of chartreuse. Through them, Gwen could feel her rats, their whereabouts, and the buoyant emotions of hope and worship and faith flowing through their minds like a mighty river. "GO!" she commanded them, instilling her rats with a silent command to work as one. Her Rat-kin fled, those hale and able carrying the sick, while the Ascended each bore three Rats, one on their back, one in each arm, bounding down the dunes for the safety of darkness and distance to Shalkar. Some may yet fall victim to the surviving Harpies or the desert cats that roamed the valley, but Gwen had no energy now to spare the unlucky few. "EE-ee?" Ariel nudged her side, sensing the resonating anxiety stemming from her Divination Sigil. "Shaa-Shaa!" Caliban remained keen on finding another source of vitality to replenish what its Master had removed via sorcerous coercion. After soothing her Familiars, Gwen materialised from her Storage Ring a Sand Wyrm larval Core, the largest they had recovered along the way. Then, shuddering as the Void Energy ravaged her overly-taxed conduits, she activated her latent, life-saving defences. "Reactive Bone Shield!" Her first insurance spell consumed the Creature Core, manifesting in the space surrounding her body as phantom scarab shells that would solidify into physical barriers should her health be threatened. "Lesser Sanguine Mantle!" The second spell was her true-preserver— another layer of insurance on top of her Contingency Ring; as helpful as the storages were, it neither prevented mortal injury nor assured survival against the Land Leviathan. "Sympathetic Life-Link!" Concluding with her final insurance, Gwen felt her skin crawl as faint scarlet threads materialised in the direction of her Familiars and her Planar Ally. Caliban was a giant clump of aberrant vitality that manifested in the Astral Space of her mind like an enormous, tumorous growth. In comparison, its brother Ariel was a sleek sliver of condensed lifeforce brimming with Positive Energy, atypical of Lightning-imbued Magical Creatures. Golos, conversely, was a crystalline nucleus of unalloyed life, as befitting the scion of a True Dragon. So long as Life-Link remained active, Ariel and Golos should both benefit from Caliban's future feast. Other lesser buffs followed. Everything from Resist Elements to Enhanced Ability, though these were now insignificant. If she took a full blow from something delivering the equivalent force of a rocket-propelled skyscraper, having a more robust constitution or the means to bench another fifty kilograms wasn't going to help. Her current plan was simple. If the Sand Wyrm proved intelligent enough to negotiate, she would use Almudj's Essence to bluff the beast. However, if the creature revealed itself to be dumb, she could only fight to delay its passage. As for wrangling the worm as though she were Lancelot of old... She had met and fought enough Magical Creatures now to know that the older the being, the more exponential the "force" required to best them. A genuinely ancient monster that had lived a millennium or more in the sands of the Sawahi weren't something Caliban or herself could hope to consume without paying an equal cost. Mayhap Shoggy could give the Sand Wyrm a run for its money. For now— the best she could hope to do was divert the creature long enough for her rats to flee for shelter. "I'll attack first." Golos huffed, filling the frigid night air with motes of arcing electricity. "There'll be a literal mountain of meat to dig through even if we do get through the carapace," Gwen projected the woe of her Divination Sigil. "Assuming Caliban manages to enter the Wyrm in the first place." "That's assuming it can't regenerate," the Wyvern said. "Earthen Drakes are tough bastards, even the bastards." “Void prevents Regneration.” she reminded her half-arsed True Dragon. "Do I look like I have a problem growing back scales after our bouts?" Gwen had wondered about that. "Earth Drakes are ugly, can't fly, and infinitely dumber, but they are far tougher and more robust than us upper world Dragons." Dumber than Gogo! Gwen felt a chill tingling her spine. Not much of a chance to negotiate then. She just hoped the creature was smart enough to know pain. "… It's coming toward us," the Wyvern announced after sniffing the air. "... and now it's advancing southward." Gwen cursed internally. That was Strun and Stian's group. Was it because they had received the most Essence? Out of all her Prefects, the grandfather-grandson duo had been the most useful by far and thus had gained the lion's share of her blessings. Now it seemed her generosity had done her favourites the opposite of a favour. "Ariel, Cali, with me!" "I'll go on ahead and give it a kick to see if anyone's home." Golos dived, twisting so that his enormous head led the charge. "If you see it attacking, then negotiations have broken down!" At her best, Gwen could fly just under a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour, which was nothing compared to a sound barrier piercing Wyvern. Even though she had grown significantly in power, she wasn't sure that their battle would be closely contested if she fought the Gogo of today. While the power-focused Wyvern remained a one-trick pony in many regards, his supersonic attacks, like Temir Khan's "Pilum of the People", wasn't something readily defendable within the realm of Spellcraft. If a Mage had to face Gogo headfirst, they would require prior knowledge and preparation; both luxuries only upper-tier Mage teams could afford. Sometimes, Gwen fantasised about the prospect of revisiting the Lich that had almost taken her for a roundtrip down to the underworld. She knew a little too much about Necromancy now and could keep the creature occupied until her Essence ran out. If so— how would an Undead at that tier resist an alpha strike from Golos? Or would it explode into ribbons of necrotic flesh the moment Gogo reamed the skeletal bastard from behind? "Calamity!" On cue, her Wyvern's guttural Draconic ricochetted around her skull. "The bastard's tougher than I thought! Those rats of yours are worm fodder!" It took her another minute until Gogo and the Wyrm came into view. She was still a fair distance away, yet already, her heart sank like a Land Shark into quicksand. The elder Afaa al-Halak was a God-damned tunnel boring engine, a living Bertha blasting across the desert, with only its enormous head and the occasional segment dipping above the seemingly liquid sand. From the air, its scale boggled the mind, for the only other being which left such a wake was Almudj, whose aftermath she had witnessed a lifetime ago at the Royal National. Comparatively, her private jet sized Wyvern was a flying lizard harassing the back of a black Angus Auroch. Her mind struggled to conceive the prospect of fighting an elemental force of nature. Gliding on currents of air flying off the Sand Wyrm's silica-polished carapace, Golos lifted into the air and met her mid-way. "You couldn't push through the chitin?" Gwen's grim lips were glum from the frigid, desert air. Her Wyvern pointed a claw-tip toward a chunk of armour lying somewhere half-buried in the sand the size of a car. "I think that's the first of a few layers. Also, the damned thing can grow armour back quicker than I could peel it." "… Fuck." Gwen felt her temple throb. The Sand Wyrm wasn't fast, but it was tireless. If Golos couldn't break the thing open, there was little chance she could do anything either. Monsters innately possessed magic resistance, meaning her sorcery could only do so much against a creature like Golos. For a brute at the scale of the Wyrm, she might eventually succeed with Void magic, but by then, Christmas may have come and gone, the war would be over, and Evee would need to go home to her Rectrix. "Does it talk?" "I tried. Watch." Golos sucked in a lungful of electrified air. " _Haug Wux! Xideevdru! Renthisj Svern!"_ Her Wyvern's Draconic insults visibly tore through the air, demonstrating that harsh words could indeed kill. The Sand Wyrm slowed for a fraction of a second. "I think it—" Gwen spoke. The Sand Wyrm moved on. "— Fuck. What does that mean?" She turned to her Wyvern for unlikely wisdom. Gogo shrugged mid-flight. "Maybe it's slow?" "How about I'll try." Gwen mulled over the possibilities for a few seconds, then made her decision. Gathering her Lightning mana, she willed herself to speak in faux-Draconic provided by her Translation Stone, then channelled the words into an Almudj-powered Thundering Shatter. "OI! FATHERLESS IMBECILE! DOTH THOU KNOW HOW TO SPEAK?" She wasn't exactly sure of the etiquette when addressing lowly "bastards" and so had to follow her Planar Ally's lead. The shockwaves of her Essence-enhanced spell, which was enough to overpower portable Walls of Force when concentrated, rippled across the interlocking chitin, sending huge chunks of old carapace flying into the distance while shattering others. The Sand Wyrm stopped, this time coming to a complete halt, piling up a new dune in the process. Its head dug into the sand, then the lower sections of its body began to form a coil. "See? Nothing like a bit of Charisma," Gwen scoffed at her scowling Wyvern, then thought of an off-colour joke the likes of Tao might make. "You know, Gogo, they don't call me the Worm Handler of Fudan for no— WHOOA!" The ground imploded. The Sawahi erupted. Her Divination Sigil screamed. A bullet-shaped head larger than an A380 Dreamliner burst from the rising dune with the pressure of a volcanic eruption, slowly rotating in place while its seams peeled back like a three-petalled flower. In slow-motion and with an insurmountable force, the Sand Wyrm gained altitude with a rapidness that bellied its size, reaching for Golos, Gwen and her Familiars. Gwen Dimension Doored, then Doored again for good measure. As an avowed worm handler, she dared not risk the rapidly distending Afaa al-Halak being a grower. A hundred-odd meters away, she observed her stoic Caliban. "Shaa-Shaa!" Her Big Bird cawed as the whale-like tripartite lips enclosed, locking her poison-pill creature into the Wyrm's maw. In the aftermath, the interlocking chitin sealed the slits, showing nary a sliver of fault. "EE-EE!" Ariel reappeared by Gwen's side, worried that its sibling might be in for more than it could handle. "Cheeky prick!" Golos circled after a sudden acceleration to escape the Wyrm's un-sportsmen-like assault. "If it thinks it can take us because of its girth, it's got another thing coming." Gwen double-checked the phantom sphere of Undead chitin surrounding her body, wondering how well the Bone Armour would hold out against a worm with a partiality for vorarephilia. "Well, Cali's inside now." She winced as she switched to Link Sight. "Strewth, the tongues have teeth!" Though Caliban's optics wasn't helpful in the traditional sense, its life-sensing organ could create something akin to night vision while inside the Afaa al-Halak. Presently, Caliban was rolling its way down the palate and tongues, where every inch had evolved to grind flesh and crush stone. Thankfully, the Wyrm was a swallower and not a chewer, for she could sense the undulating maw rolling its walls of rat-swords, sending Caliban backwards into its gullet. As for Cali, it bounced to and fro as a ball of Da-peng feathers, using its borrowed resilience and anti-Draconic talent to preserve its vitality. Thankfully, its feather armour held, which affirmed Gwen's confidence. Even with the Da-peng's seemingly impressive wingspan, Caliban was half the size of Golos, while the inside of the Sand Wyrm's maw could fit a whole Da-peng from wingtip to wingtip, and again from roof to tongue. Likewise, the crushing component of the Wyrm's mouth did not possess the equivalent of molars, resembling more so a serpent' oesophagus. "It's coming again," Golos warned her. "The imbecile doesn't give up easy." The dunes exploded, pouring silica down on the Sawahi. Gwen waited for the last moment before Dimension Dooring again to safety. By the third thrust, their phallic predator appeared to lose interest, or at least conceded that just as Golos and Gwen were short on firepower, it lacked in other ways. Meanwhile, Caliban had finally made it past the Iron Maiden section of the Sand Wyrm and was now home free in a pink oesophagus thick with digestive mucus. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Outside, the Sand Wyrm once again resumed its bee-line for her fleeing Rat-kin, crushing the dunes like an arctic icebreaker as it sailed into the sand sea. "Barbanginy!" Gwen gave the great Wyrm another thump on the head, enticing the beast with her concentrated Almudj's Essence. The Sand Wyrm ignored her. "I knew it! This bastard's intelligent!" she surmised at once. Golos grumbled. "If Ayxin or Ruxin were here, this brat would know real pain!" And if Gunther was here, Gwen mused. He could probably slice and dice the Sand Wyrm like schoolboys sectioning a flatworm to see what parts would grow back and what would die. "Shaa!" Caliban had transformed itself into its serpent form and was now freely swimming through the digestive slime, replenishing its exterior as it went. Gwen had contemplated using the Earth Wyrm form, but the reality was that increased surface area would only mean Caliban got digested faster. Different to the life-seeking serpent, its Wyrm form was best for solid rock, not the slippery, mucus-lined digestive tract that resembled a Pocket Space of its own. Should she empower Caliban now and have it randomly wreak havoc? In her mind, Gwen had hoped that some distance into the Wyrm, there would be signs, such as segments closer to its heart or lungs ripe for exploitation. At best, a significant nerve cord could sever the creature's movements; at worst, a spleen or a kidney could set the Wyrm to writhe. But it would seem her hypothesis was far too optimistic. Elemental creatures were terrestrial in their anatomy but hardly required to follow the natural laws her body followed. If the Sand Wyrm began life as a creature fed by an Earthen Core and digestive tracts came later due to acclimatising to the Prime Material, why should it follow the evolutionary boundaries of mortal creatures untouched by mystic energies? Whatever the case, the Sand Wyrm was now picking up speed. By her conjecture, she suspected it was going at fifty, maybe sixty kilometres an hour, meaning it would catch up to Strun's pack within the next ten minutes, despite her rats fleeing with every ounce of energy afforded by Death March. Death March increased her Rat-kin's stamina near-infinitely but had limited impact on speed, especially considering that they were sick to boot and hardly consistent in athleticism. As if sensing her growing paranoia, the Sand Wyrm sped up once more. "This fucker…" Gwen swore. "Ariel!" "EE-EE!" Her Kirin transformed into her hammer of chastisement. She gathered up her mana, then sent forth the Familiar to coast just above the Wyrm. Just as the creature crested a dune, Gwen loosened the reigns on her spell. _BOOM—CRACK!_ A triple-threat Babanginy in the form of Thundering Shatter struck the Sand Wyrm on its exposed carapace, lighting up the crevices where the chitin conjoined. As the compressed energy of the sonic spell rapidly discharged, purple ichor erupted from torn ligaments and burst veins. First, a destructive ripple rolled down the Sand Wyrm's side like a Mexican Wave; then, a secondary eruption sent chunks of chitin flying in every direction. "YAAAARHGH—!" Golos charged in at the opportunity, emerging with claws clinging to an enormous block of jelly-like fat. In his violent passing, the exposed flesh became scorched and blackened. Gwen huffed, happy at the result but exhausted by the expenditure. The Afaa al-Halak "shrugged", the wound sizzled shut, then it moved on. "SON OF A WORM!" she swore. That was the equivalent of ripping out a giant's toenails! Was the Wyrm so dumb as to not feel pain? More so than the Wyrm's unstoppable health, she could envision the damned thing slowly catching up to her Rat-kin like the proverbial tortoise, erasing all of her efforts with a steady and agonising pace. "Void Sphere!" Out of both frustration and curiosity, she let loose a tenebrous ball of Void-ink to splatter over the Wyrm. Its scales sizzled, chunks of chitin faded into nothingness, consumed by anti-matter. Yet, Gwen dug no deeper than arm's reach into a layer of armour some meter-thick, not to mention there was another layer of insulating fat, and under that, far denser muscles. Picking up the pace, she, Golos and Ariel arrived at a space ahead and overhead of the Sand Wyrm's trajectory. "Enervating Orb!" Her body grew rigid, this time not from the sympathy of Caliban running through a bed of daggers but from the arcane chill of Negative Energy licking her innards. After almost four days and five nights, her Almudj's Essence was reduced to fumes, as was her mana pool, restricting her to emergency arcanistry like Dimension Door. The sorcery she performed now was raw Void Energy tapped without the protection of serpent juice. Like the Gwen of old, she would have to suffer, then recover, a process to which she had grown accustomed; a testament to the elasticity of the human psyche. When Petra had again labelled her a masochist, Gwen had rebuffed her cousin's compassion with an analogy comparing Void Magic to chilli consumption, drawing on the Scoville gradient. In the beginning, Gwen had explained, even Jalapeno was capable of keeping her immobile with debilitating cramps. But, after consistent "Consumption", the litmus for becoming bedridden grew to a mouthful of Ghost Peppers; now, after years of substance abuse, she could toss a Trinidad Scorpion down her gullet and chase the fact with pickled Void poppers. Most importantly, akin to the sensation of overdosing on Capsaicin, once the life-threatening threshold of Void was surpassed, the complex agony transformed from unfathomable suffering into something of an acquired taste. In detail, there existed pleasure and pain in mixed-measure to each Void spell, distinctly possessed of unique sensations. For example, Void Sphere maintained a sharp Negative Drain like a sliver of ice between one's ribs, accentuating the pleasure of restoration provided by her Essence-soaked body. Comparatively, spells with Necromantic bases such as Enervating Orb seized her lungs— but when the life drain returned dividends, her torso grew soaked with invigorating warmth. Therefore, what should have been undesirable to the Core had transmuted over the years into an addiction that all chilli-fiends shared. Of course, there was the morning after when one contemplated, like Rodin's Thinker, over the bathroom bowl, but the itch for hotter "heat" had to be scratched. Such was the slippery slope to which Sobel rode to the fiery end, sacrificing both mind and body. Such was now Gwen's fate as well if she wasn't careful. Below, the Sand Wyrm passed without incident. It was a shame that her Necromancy-empowered Enervating Orb was not a physical sphere that the Sand Wyrm could swallow. Feeling light-headed, Gwen reviewed her remaining resources. The answer was more despairing than not. What she needed was a way to inflict catastrophic damage. _Shoggy?_ Even if she could set up the Planar horror, how would she put the jack back in the box without endangering her Rats? Besides, there were strict parameters in place for summoning the Shoggoth. If she conjured her trump card at a time and place where she was in no danger, and only to save "disposable" Rat-kin, how would the Mageocracy trust her "sterling" judgement ever again? Use Strun and Stian as bait? No. That was a lose-lose scenario. She didn't want to lose her chittering worshippers. AND she loathed the idea of losing. "Bloody Petra..." Gwen sighed. Her spine straightened as her mind settled on a particular course of masochistic action. She had a reason, though. Without entering the tiger's den, one couldn't traffic in tiger cubs; without risk, how could she reap the rewards? "Cali!" She whispered through her Empathic Link. "Hydra-form! Give the bastard indigestion! Slow em down!" "Shaa— Shaa—!" First came the reply, then came the skull-numbing Negative Drain. The onward march of the Sand Wyrm grew suddenly erratic as a twenty-meter Hydra manifested inside its gut and began to furious imbibe every mote of vitality upon which it could get its slimy lamprey-heads latched. Like a seven-headed Potter Wasp larva, Caliban attaching itself into some uncertain anatomy of the Sand Wyrm, its seeking tentacle-tongues piercing the slime and the membranes to seek out the white-jade mutton flesh of the giant caterpillar. "How's that?" Gwen shouted at the Afaa al-Halak, channelling the stolen vitality toward herself, balancing the output with Sympathetic Life-link to prevent a potentially orgiastic overdose. "If you know how to beg, now's your last chance." The Wyrm's body coiled and writhed, crashing through the dunes to simulate a spontaneous, localised quake. Dormant bursts of Earthen mana ruptured from its magical organs, turning the sand liquid or solid or creating crashing waves of rolling silica. "Bastard was hiding his talents!" Golos' voice stabbed her teaming brain like a fistful of needles. "Good thing we didn't fight it on the ground, eh? Calamity—" Her skull buzzed like a knocked nest of hornets. From inside the Wyrm, Caliban's hydra-heads dug in, boring into the flesh, seeking out the creature's mana veins, trying to ascertain the whereabouts of its Core. At the same time, Gwen could feel her body tingling with overstimulation, particularly her sticky dermis, which shared some of Caliban's senses. The concentration of the acid surrounding her creature had grown significantly more potent, and parts of her Hydra's lower body were already failing to keep up with the dissolution rate. At the same time, the Sand Wyrm's rapid regeneration kept Caliban from meaningful ingress. She needed to apply more pressure on the bastard. They were locked now in a deadly balance, and for her to triumph, one of them had to up the ante. "Gogo," she called to her Wyvern, instantly transferring her plans through a series of empathic impressions. "I am going to try and invade the worm." Golos dipped his enormous head. "Where?" "There, punch a hole big enough for me to land." She gestured to a section of the writhing Afaa al-Halak. "I can't enter through its mouth, but if I can break into a part of its body where it can't get me, I'll gift it with enough of Cali's mates to matter." The Wyvern's arrogant mug grew strangely severe. "Calamity… you disgust me." "I just hope this dumb-ass will give up before it's too late." Gwen drew in a deep breath. "I'll keep it distracted by insulting its lack of ancestors," Golos promised with a cruel smirk. "Ready?" Gwen shook out her body. Hopefully, what she had planned wasn't going to hurt too much. "Start the fireworks, Big Guy." Her Wyvern responded by turning in a great arc until he drew enough distance for a supersonic approach. At an optimal range, the creature opened its maw, gathered its innate mana, then— " _LOREAT_ —!" The lightning-charged Dragon Breath, empowered by Golos' growing mastery of Dragon speech, beamed through the night, illuminating half the desert, turning dunes to shadowy mountains as it struck the carapace of the Sand Wyrm. The section afflicted by Golos' best efforts glowed red hot as the extravagant energy obliterated the Wym's magical resistance, cooking its flesh, then— Her Wyvern struck, removing the crispy layers of armour entirely. "BLADE BARRIER!" Gwen's follow-up was instant. Through stacked feats of Spellshaping, Gwen condensed the original wall of inky Void Blades into something resembling an inverse semi-sphere dome, manifesting just inside the wound. The spell fatigue that simultaneously struck felt like Golos clipping the side of her head with his tail club. If Magister Patil were present, the sorceress would have scoffed. "GUUUAAARRRRL—" Finally, their stoic victim made a sound that indicated the limits of its pain tolerance. Before the Wyrm could halt its body, her Blade Barrier gauged out a lesion the size of a bi-lane swimming pool long enough to do laps. At the same time, even as the afflicted flesh stanched its bleeding, it grew tumorous with scabs spurting purple blood, signifying that her Void matter had corrupted the Wyrm's regeneration. "Dimension Door!" Gwen executed the next stage of her plan, arriving inside the wound with a splash of Void as neighbouring interlocking plates began to converge, sealing off the open area to prevent further assault. Without delay, she activated all of her defences. Sanguine Mantle. Bone Armour. Gunther Shield. Her world instantly reduced to the darkened interior of a Void Egg. For what she was about to perform, she had no idea how the worm would counter, though she could imagine the creature leaping through the air to land on its "bedsore", attempt to bust her like a bloated tick. "Quickened Elemental Swarm!" The meta-magic for rapid manifestation of spells usually applied to sorcery with direct cause and effect. In the case of Elemental Swarm, "Quicken" maximised her rate of Conjuration from the get-go, averting the ramp-up but placing an ill-advised burden on her body. Multiple portals opened outside her shell, pouring forth her tiny minions, each the size of a River Lamprey, all possessing the potential to become Amazonian Pythons if given the opportunity. Within moments, she felt her creatures connect with the necrotised flesh of the Sand Wyrm. Though she couldn't see, it took no feat of the fantastic to imagine her eel things instantly reaching a state of existential frenzy. She wasn't done yet. "Hydra!" Sobel's Signature Spell possessed an unusual feature. If the Void Conjurer was willing to yield control of the multi-pronged Void Worms she summoned, she could keep pumping them out until her vitality ran dry. Unlucky for the Sand Wyrm, all Gwen had left was excess vitality. As with her Elemental Swarm, the Hydra "Swarm" took to meat like maggots to gangrene, digging into the translucent inner flesh, gorging themselves full of Demi-divine vitality. Concurrently, Caliban Life-Linked the vital forces collected by its summoned siblings, repairing itself while simultaneously draining the Wyrm. For how long could the Sand Wyrm last? Gwen wondered as the first tremors came. The worm turned, attempting to nix the cancerous growth on its skin. Outside, she could feel the pressing of grinding plates gnashing her Void and bone barriers like a gigaton press. Yet, within the Void Egg, she was sans sight and sound. All she could feel was the icy sweat oozing from her pores, making slick her arrested body while the vitality flux taxed her with unimaginable fatigue. Her egg was being churned in the flesh-space like a tennis ball in the well of a front-loaded washing machine. Yet, within the dark interior of her weightless egg, the Devourer of Shenyang felt only the call of the slumbering dark. Would she hold out? Or would the Wyrm hold out? The walls cracked and crinkled, then began to close in. Her mind slipped on something slick, then suddenly, her consciousness began to spiral. "CALAMITY!" Golos' voice tore Gwen from her chambered cocoon of sensory deprivation. "Calamity. You can come out now. Are you still sleeping?" Her leaden lids shot open. _Holy fuck_ — Her spine jolted her body with a shot of pure adrenaline. _Christ! Had she dozed off?_ "Is the Sand Wyrm dead?" Gwen heard a voice speak. It was her voice. "How long was I out?" Now awake and paranoid, she inspected her Astral Body, then the state of her active invocations. To her surprise, her Elemental Swarm was gone, as were the Hydra swarm. Caliban remained materialised, nestled in a tunnel, while Ariel was some distance skyward, likely patrolling. "The bastard's fled back to where ever desert it came from," Golos said. "But it's left you a spoil of war." Gwen winced as she forced herself to sit, wincing when she saw the red-rimmed horizon. "Oh, Jesus…" She shielded her eyes from the reflected light. "It's daytime?" "Daybreak, actually." Golos coiled around her protectively, spraying her with sand. "Well done, Calamity, you showed that bastard who is pure-blooded and who is _Edar_." In the warm light, Gwen inspected herself for potential damage. Her Sanguine Mantle had triggered. She could tell that much from the spell's invocation and the expenditure of her blood reagent, not to mention the bloodstains covering her armour. Her Reactive Bone Armour had likewise been expended, which was something she had anticipated, considering the topsy-turvy tumbling she had to endure. She slid a hand inside her armour. Her fingers emerged covered in clotted blood. Something had broken, and then her Sanguine Mantle had stitched her together with glue. Along with the Balefire Golem, this was now the second time she was spared the Contingency Ring. For a second, she imagined herself with Bone Armour expended, Sanguine Mantle covering her body, bouncing like a rag-doll inside the Sand Wyrm. "Your injury was from later." Golos read her thoughts. "When the Wyrm split in half, I had to drag you from out under it..." "I see..." Gwen nodded. Her plan had worked, but she couldn't sustain the aftermath. Five whole nights without deep sleep had proven the better of her resilience, and when she had delved into the darkness of the Void Egg, the womb-like warmth became the final Hydra that broke the Sand Wyrm's back. Still, the Afaa al-Halak fled? Gwen bit her lips. For a tiny moment there, she had thought the Core of her future Tower ripe for collection. "EE-EE!" Ariel came drifting down from above. She placed a hand on her creature's mane to steady herself, then gave the beastie a full-bodied hug, thanking it for the fluffy offering. To see what Golos meant for the Sand Wyrm, Gwen invoked a spell of Flight, then took to the air with Ariel's aid. "You broke off its arse." Golos' delight was boundless as he joined her. "Ha! I can't wait until Ruxin hears of this! Worm handler, indeed, Puhahahaha—" There, lying half-buried in the sand, was a length of Wyrm about four to five carriages long, with yet more segments still buried somewhere underground. "Caliban!" She called in the general direction of her Void monster. "Cali, come home!" Where the carcass of the Sand Wyrm's lower half lay, a piece of carapace lifted, revealing her Caliban, or at least something that resembled Caliban. Her creature slithered from the carcass with difficulty, landing with a "Plop!" then rolled around with great comedy until it righted itself. "EE-EE!" Ariel's mockery rang out. "Hue—hue—hue—" Golos was no less amused by the indignant condition of his once-abuser. "Oh, Gods…" Gwen's eyes watered. "Poor Cali…" Without her there to temper and portion away excessive vitality, her creature had grown not just bloated but positively corpulent. The Caliban that now inched forward wasn't so much a sleek serpent with a thirty-inch waist the likeness of a nightmarish, Lovecraftian statue crafted by Surya, but a blob, a Void slug, wobbling with every inch. "It commanded, then consumed your other beasties," Golos explained. "Then it became like this." Gingerly, Gwen prodded the Vitality stored within Caliban with a very long and very delicate mental stick. As she suspected, her creature had reached the limits of what her tier 7 Conjuration could endure. Its Astral presence was so choked full of the mystical "life force" siphoned from the Great Afaa al-Halak that its physical manifestation had deformed. Observing her Void beast, she was reminded of what she had done to the Soul Flayer in Shenyang and how the Undead had reacted to her pouring every ounce of vitality into its withered conduits. Never had Gwen felt gladder that she could shut Caliban's life-well through Life-Link. If this were the old days, and if this much vitality were to flood into her— Gwen shuddered. No sorceress would want to experience a reckoning of that magnitude. For now, it was safest to leave Caliban out in the open. If need be, she could command it to transform into an Earthen Wyrm to blow off some steam. "Gogo, Ariel, can you round up the rats?" Gwen approached, then sat on the bloated body of Caliban. To her delight, Cali was bouncy, blubbery, blobby and warm. "I am going just to sit here and… rest." "EE!" Ariel pawed the air, gaining altitude with every leap. Golos eyed the immobile Caliban. "Why is it still looking at the bastard?" "Shaa—! Shaa—!" Caliban's Empathic Link entangled her mind once more, transmuting her creature's latest report. "… Are you for real?" Gwen fought off the sleepiness threatening to send her off to another catnap on Cali the Void-stuffed daybed. "What's wrong?" Golos craned his neck close enough for his ridge feathers to brush Gwen's cheeks. "What's it saying?" "Cali says…" Gwen pushed the giant Wyvern's snout away, then turned to regard the buried lower half of the Afaa al-Halak with hazel eyes brimming with uncertainty. "I don't know how— but Cali reckons... that thing's still _alive_."

It took just shy of two hours for the Rat-kin to gather once more, finding their Priestess in the middle of brushing the fine dust of spent HDMs from her all-black armour, looking regal atop her obsidian Afaa al-Halak. "… You're all injured—" Gwen's face twitched as her mind drank in her mischief's vitality. "And your numbers are reduced. What happened? Strun? Stian? Ix?" It took a great deal of will to stop her face from showing her fatigue. She hadn't even managed to find a solution to the "living" arse of the Sand Wyrm yet, and already the rats that she had risked her life for were diminished? Were it not for the image of an almighty, undaunted Priestess— she would have transformed into Yue there and then. "We made it to Shalkar," Strun spoke in place of his grandfather, who wore his arm in a sling and was bandaged all over with filthy rags. "The Centaurs in the fortified encampment refused to let us enter. Then, when we tried to find shelter in the shrubbery outside the oasis, we were beset by the Qasqir Clan." Gwen refrained from biting her lips. That her Rats travelled directly to Shalkar had been her directive. By her count, they were only sixty kilometres from their goal, and if Strun knew the landscape well enough to lead his people through goat-trails and parts of the shallow-Murk, a single Death March was more than sufficient. "They refused to let your people enter?" Gwen asked as she searched her memory for mentions of this Qasqir Clan. Finding only vague memories, she motioned for Stian to come forward. "Before you answer, what are the Qasqır Clan?" "Wolf-kin." Stian nursed his cracked lips. Gwen raised both brows as the name clicked, recalling the conversation with Bekker. Wolf-kin were not Lycanthropes, who lived closer to where the Vampires made their home as racial foes. Instead, these were Beast-men like the Rat-kin, a variant of the dog-headed Kobolds. "Don't they range to the east and the north? Where Gora Boboiob rises and the deserts end?" "We do not know." The pair of rats shook their heads. "Much has changed since we last returned to the steps. From Karagandy to Almaty to Semey, all the flatlands were once the domain of our people. Many parts remained contested until we lost our numbers and had to flee west. By then, our options were to perish by the hand of the Elementals or seek the protection of the Horse Lords." Gwen grimaced. She could imagine the despair of a two-thousand kilometre Exodus ending at Nukus, only to realise that there was no Jerusalem nor salvation, only thirty years of slavery. "Tell me about what happened at Shalkar," she implored her band of rats, then slapped her Familiar on its shiny hinny. Surrounded by swirling motes of Void and with her eyes glowing vividly viridescent, the Devourer of Shenyang once more bestowed the boon of Death March. Now that the "Priestess" had recovered her wits, she once more possessed the mental fortitude to fine-tune the flow of Vitality from Cali to herself and the Rats. It was a necessary act, for Caliban's stowed vitality felt like a dam threatening to spill. Thankfully, the mechanisms for the floodgates provided by Life-Link, combined with the mass of bodies offered by Death March, were enough to exercise the desired effect. On cue, Strun, Stian and her Centurions blazed with eerie emerald light, eventually passing the effect onto those with descending Essence-ties. Gwen cocked her head. Why did her mischief look so bleeding _fiendish_? Understandably, the effect should possess the aural and optic verisimilitude of Al's genesis aura, considering the source of Gwen's Essence was a primordial bringer of life in a land of death. However, with the Shamanistic sorcery and Necromantic Sigils working into the process, she felt like the Overlord of a Void-worshipping vermin tide. "Blessed Priestess!" "Hail the Priestess of the Afaa al-Halak!" Excess vitality did not equate to quick-healing, but it was enough to lift mood and add stamina, elevating the morale of her mischief to a reasonable standard. "So, Shalkar?" Gwen dispelled a prophetic vision of ten million rats swarming over the Steppes, hoisting glowing green banners and screeching for SPAM. Still, squaring her shoulders, she assumed an imperial air, then persisted in her query. "Tell me everything." With the new vitality burning in their bodies, her Centurions spoke at once. "Strun! "Gwen hand-waved the others into silence. Lacking the omniscience of a real God, she couldn't understand the collective voice of her whiskery worshippers. "You first." "Beloved Pale Priestess." Strun fell to one knee. "Allow this one to speak of the injustices visited upon your flock..." Gwen listened wholeheartedly to the story while keeping half a mind on the "living" body of the Sand Wyrm that remained thus far dormant. According to the Centurion and his peers, her Rat-kins had taken a trail Strun used to traverse the desert safely in his occupation as a Shadow Runner, taking advantage of their endless stamina to cover the distance in just under three hours to reach Shalkar. There, with the oasis in sight, the rats had emerged into the light of the watchtowers, hailing the guards with peaceful intentions. What met them was a flurry of arrows that would have harvested a least a dozen rats if it not for their improved vitality. Choosing to give the guards another chance, Strun, Stian, Ix, and a few others lit the Day Light Globes from Gwen's survival kits, then presented themselves once more, shouting that they have come at the order of the Khan. A second volley of arrows came from the dark, this time with far more intent, near-taking their lives were it not for Strun's knack for danger. After that, the Rat-kin retreated a distance to discuss how they would proceed. The meeting never took place, for the three thousand rats huddled in the valley between two jutting plateaus, hungry, exhausted and tired, were ripe for raiding by the incoming Qasqiri wolf pack. "The Qasqir numbered about three-hundred," Stian spoke with a pained solemnity. "We fought them the best we could, but the Wolves are born warriors, more so than we. Us Centurions could match one or two alone, but their pack tactics were beyond our ability to defend against." "The Wolves slaughtered indiscriminately," Strun cut in with an expression of pain. "They will come back for the carcasses, but in a hunt, their prerogative is to kill as many as they're able until the pack grows exhausted and has to retreat." Around them, the Rat-kin grew silent. "We realised there was no hope within the confined space of the valley, so we lured them into the open desert, where the Afaa al-Halak nests lay..." Strun then spoke of how the mischief retraced its steps, leaving behind a trail of bodies. It wasn't until a pack of twenty-odd Qasqiri warriors misstepped into the larval trap of a Sand Wyrm and perished that the wolf pack relented, leaving the rest of the rats to escape, hiding in yet another badlands canyon until they saw Golos flying overhead. Gwen's jaws grew grim. "How many did we lose?" "Two Centurions, Domi and Wex," Stian spoke before his grandson could. "And eight hundred and forty-two kin. The other mischiefs were luckier. Though harassed by surviving Harpy Vultures, their losses were within reason— about four hundred among the three packs." Gwen's self-congratulatory euphoria from besting the elder Sand Wyrm evaporated. Twelve hundred rats! Mother of Christ! Her bunched fists struck Caliban so hard a blurt of grey goo squirted onto the sand. After all that! After everything she did, she lost over one-tenth of her flock? And eight hundred of them! EIGHT HUNDRED! Lost for no good reason other than— than what? She had no idea. Her rats had no idea. Albeit she had a good idea which Horse-headed bastard would pay the price. "I see." She dipped her chin at her rats. "Rest up. We will deal with matters here, and then I shall accompany you to Shalkar to air your grievances. There will be justice, mark my words; no horse shall go unpunished." Her creatures gave thanks. She walked through the camp, comforting her flock and offering manna in the form of rations and pallets of SPAM, then called Golos to her side. Now that she was recovered and her rats were convened, it was time to inspect the spoils. After "lunch", it took the healthiest of her rats another half-hour to excavate enough of the buried Sand Wyrm to reveal the portion that had escaped Caliban's ravaging hunger. Its frontal facade had already scabbed over with pink flesh, though from what Gwen could see, there was no telling if the thing was capable of regrowing itself entirely like sliced Flat Worms she once saw on Youtube. Of course, the Afaa al-Halak was no minute flatworm; even the tail-end of the monster she had fought was forty-plus meters or just under the length of half a football field. Its circumference was likewise imposing, measuring some six to seven meters wide. Considering that this was where the Wyrm's "waist" tapered off into a narrowing tip, Gwen could only imagine how the creature would have looked if laid head to tail in plain view. After a thorough inspection, Stian, the oldest of the Elders, stated that records existed which spoke of this particular strategy used by the Afaa al-Halak. In the days of yore, when "Big Birds" still ruled the skies and the Rat-kin and other predators were plentiful, a distressed Wyrm would break off segments of its lower body as a "tribute", allowing its head and torso to escape into the depth. It was a strategy that worked well, though this was the first time Stian had ever heard of a behemoth-sized Sand Wyrm performing such a feat, leaving behind at least two hundred years of segmental growth. "Stand aside, slaves!" Golos commanded the rats. The meek rodents obeyed without delay. "YARRR!" With Gwen and her Familiars watching, the Wyvern swung its tail-club, striking the shell with the sound of a hammer hitting a petrol tanker. The surface cracked, as did the layers beneath. The arse-end did not retaliate. However, undulating movements from the mutton-jade flesh beneath the shell visibly contorted, growing a new under-layer. "There's no Wyrm inside." Her Wyvern sniffed the giant section that was almost as tall he was, then tapped the shell. "Here's an idea, Calamity. Why don't you claim it." "Can't fit living things in the Rings." Gwen shook her head. "And it's too big. I guess we'll have to get the rats to dice it for Wyrm steak." "FOOL!" Her Wyvern huffed in her general direction, forcing her to dodge the globs of sparking spittle. "I said you must CLAIM its flesh, silly Calamity!" the Wyvern gave her the most disappointed look. "Have you not been usurping the bodies of others by polluting their Essence since your invasion of our mountain?" "You mean—" Gwen put two and two together very quickly. "You want me to feed this thing Al's Essence?" Golos' feathers bristled. "If your Fiend is insufficient, then use your Soul-claiming sorcery while this segment's Astral presence remains fragmented!" "Oh— Soul Tap?" Gwen looked to her next victim. Though horny, a broken Gogo was right twice a day. If she wanted her ultra-rare loot to be anything other than meat, then the best course of action was to make use of it somehow. Earlier, it hadn't occurred to her to claim the still-living arse because the butt, if revived, could be more dangerous than a livid Gogo. But what if she Soul Tapped it? The thing was alive, so it isn't Necromancy. It also possessed no free will. Hence there was no ethical dilemma. Gwen wetted her lips. And if Soul Tap worked, then Hallelujah. If it didn't, or if the body died outright from shock, then she still had a mountain of meat. The situation was win-win, and she was a girl who liked winning only a little less than she hated losing. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "You don't want to… have a go?" Gwen eyed her Wyvern in case Golos was looking to use the tail for evolutionary purposes. "Is there a Core inside?" "I do not desire a minion that crawls," Golos declared with complete confidence. "And no, though it should generate one if you revive it. Else it will remain dormant until a new one forms." Gwen snorted. If Gogo got lonely enough, she wouldn't put it past the Wyvern to start to take an interest in the perfectly cylindrical Sand Wyrm. "Alright, step back." Gwen drifted closer to the pink, puckering flesh, then placed a hand against the pulsing tumour. She spoke the invocations in a low, nefarious tone suitable for the dark purpose, flooding her eyes with obsidian mana so that her aura grew ghastly and her appearance gothic. Different to her usurpation of Snut, she shifted a significant portion of vitality from her bloated Caliban, maximising the potential of her spell's penetrative invasion into the Sand Wyrm's Astral Body. "SOUL TAP!" The final Svartálfar syllable of the Dark Elves' unique sorcery left her tongue as a coil of shadow. The air around her formed a hollow depression, warping the space around her figure, drawing out that which was immaterial and quintessential. Gwen sensed something akin to a tendril of heat leech from the Sand Wyrm's incorporeal existence into herself, flowing down into the well of her soul to mingle with her Astral Body. The Essence was muddy and possessed a wilful touch of the Draconic, though the moment its rebellious body sensed Almudj's Essence, it grew pliant and placid. Was this the natural supplication of a lower Draconic Essence to a higher one? It was an interesting thought that belied the assumption of free will in Magical Creatures— if so, was this a manifestation of existential "Chain of Being" unique to Elemental creatures? Or was anarchy distinct to Humanity? In the time it took for her to masticate her thoughts, the incomplete "Soul" ripped from the remaining half settled, becoming one of the many layers of sediments in the stratum of her Astral Body. "Okay." Gwen withdrew her hand. "Now what? It's still a blob of meat." "Are you not the Calamity?" Golos directed her eyes to the taller of her rats, her dear Ascended. "The Kirin says you usurped a rainbow-hued feathered fiend while you were living in the Western Empire?" "Ah, Dede, yes." After so long, Brown had ceased questioning the fact, and Dede had settled down as a staple feature of Emmanuel's College. From what she had gleaned, fighting the duck to gain access to the Old Court was now a part of the first year's initiation ceremony. They had even given the practice the name "Slaying the Drake", though arguably, a more accurate title would be "How many first-years could Dede fleece if First Years did have fleece?" Grinning, the Thunder Wyvern patted the Sand Wyrm's "butt" with a clawed wing. Observed by a ring of Centurions and their followers, Gwen gingerly laid a hand against the pink, puckered flesh wound there, where the Wyrm's gut would have closed up in its bid to escape the Hydras and the lampreys. She closed her eyes, then worked what little Essence she had collected through her conduits before forcing the viridescent energy to gather on the palm of her hand. The flesh beneath her palm pulsed until it grew soft like a marshmallow, then enveloped her hand. Fighting the instinct to withdraw her limb, Gwen sent a warning to Ariel and Caliban to assist if necessary, then continued to release her Essence into the rotund segment of flesh. Slowly, her arm sunk to her elbows. Inside, she could feel the susurration of the Sand Wyrm's flesh absorbing her Essence, kneading her fingers, gnashing her dainty digits. Perhaps Golos should have tamed this creature; an obscene thought came to mind as she gazed at her Wyvern, who was staring back with dumbfounded anticipation. When she refocused, her arm was down to her shoulder inside the Sand Wyrm; any more was undesirable. Any more, and she would have to feed it a Void Bolt. One because it had sucked her Essence drier than the Sawahi. Two because she was the "usurper", not the other way around. Abruptly, the nudging of her finger ceased. Could the thing read her thoughts? Gwen wondered. To test her hypothesis, she commanded it to eject her hand. To her fascinated horror, the mindless lump of meat did precisely that, pushing her hand outward until she could extricate her limb out of its limy, oozy orifice. For a few seconds, she stared at the calcifying goo, wondering how she should next proceed. Then, as the Sand Wyrm began to quiver, something in her Astral Body informed her of the transmutation at hand. "Out!" She commanded her rats. "Everyone! Get clear of the trench!" The Rat-kin were experts at traversing the sand with their lightweight bodies, successfully clearing the dig site as the Wyrm began to turn its body. Gwen, Golos, and her Familiars held their breaths as a plethora of gurgling, shifting flesh and re-organising organs resounded from inside the enormous sushi roll. Two minutes. Ten minutes. When close to twenty minutes passed and the flesh continued to churn, Gwen resolved to sit once more on Caliban and meditate. Meanwhile, her rats returned to their units, leaving only four of her favourite Centurions to attend to her questions and needs. Whatever the future held for the regenerating Wyrm, it would take time for nature to traverse its new course. In the interval, Gwen questioned Stian and Strun once more regarding matters at Shalkar, concluding that she would attend to the garrison in person. From their collective tale, she did not doubt that the Centaurs there were responsible for the loss of some eight hundred lives for no good reason. Despite the implied diplomatic alliance, she wasn't opposed to teaching these arrogant colts that actions have consequences and that every slight against the Devourer of Shenyang would elicit an equal or greater reaction. It took eight hours for the Wyrm flesh to settle into its new form. At its conclusion, the peace of the impromptu Rat-kin encampment evaporated as the earth-shaking body of their Priestess' new super heavy-duty earth-moving equipment came to life. Golos and Gwen, joined by Ariel and Caliban, watched their Wyrm take in its bearings, stretching its new form. Compared to the original Sand Wyrm, the creature's nouveau appearance was very distinct. "… It has… two arse-ends?" Her Wyvern was impressed, mistaking that Gwen had remained displeased with the Sand Wyrm and so decided to create a creature that was an Ouroboros of butts. "Calamity, your cruelty knows no limits." "Thanks, Gogo." Gwen studied her new minion, recalling seeing such a creature in Australia when she had studied at Sydney Tower. In a continent inundated with deserts and badlands, the Down Under likewise possessed a facsimile of the Mongolian Death Worm. At any rate, considering that her Essence was arguably thrifted from Almudj, an Aussie Land God, it made sense that the "usurped" flesh with the mutated Essence would manifest as fauna from down under. Therefore, the double-arse ended Sand Wyrm wasn't a practical joke taken too far, but rather a local species named the Shingleback Shale Wyrm. It was a creature that possessed the surreal means to traverse forward and backwards, with both ends capable of "tunnelling" with equal ease. Of course, it had only one head, and its butt-end still dispensed Elemental Ooze when required, but its unique physiology could indeed fool the casual observer. "Hello there!" Gwen raised a hand in greeting. "GUAARRRP!" The enormous tri-petal maw opened, made a sound like blowing raspberries, then shut seamlessly. Unlike the variant in Australia, her creature remained a Sand Wyrm, possessing no eyes. Was that a "Hi?" Gwen simultaneously spoke and thought aloud. "Can you understand me?" "GARP!" More splutters darkened globs of sand. In this regard, the Wyrm resembled an early Cali. Gwen floated closer. The overlapping scales of its mouth parted, distending a thigh-thick tentacle in pink, covered with thorny white growths that resembled the teeth-daggers she had seen in the mature parent of her "young" adult Sand Wyrm. As its Soul-linked Master, Gwen implicitly understood the Wyrm's desire. Extending a white hand, she produced what little Essence she had managed in the last few hours, then allowed the tongue to wrap around her hand and fingers. Though her Wyrm remained immobile, its taste organ was fully mobile and wholly prehensile. "That looks like a—" Golos' voice possessed a tone she recognised. "—Gogo, shut it," Gwen warned her Wyvern, then turned back to the happy Wyrm. "What do you want, Wyrm?" "Garp!" The wriggling Wyrm barked. "It says it wants to follow you," Golos translated, affirming her imperfect, empathic understanding. "Well done, Calamity, you've tamed a Wyrm of the Sawahi." Then, for whatever reason, Golos' last words were spoken so that her followers could also understand. Instantly, eruptions of "Priestess!" and "Wrangler of the Afaa al-Halak!" "Whisperer of the Black Worm" resounded from the crowd. The resulting tremor from thousands of rats was enough to send the Shingleback swinging for the dunes, where the Rat-kin fled before its cresting head, breaching the lip of the dune like a frigate. "Hey-hey— Oi!" Gwen floated just out of range in case the sudden movement of the giant Shingleback swatted her like a gnat. "Wyrm! Obey me! Stop! Rats are friends." "GARP!" The eyeless Shingleback Wyrm barked with what she hoped was an affirmation. Below its belly, its scales bristled, sending its freight train body effortlessly up the trench to coil atop the sandhill. "Strun, Stian, get the mischief to stay at a safe distance," she shouted at her Centurions. Once the Shingleback settled, she drifted closer, feeling its amicable feelings transmuted through their soul bond. Calling the creature "You" "Oi", "Wyrm" was a hassle, Gwen decided, thereby offering to give the Wyrm a name. "How about—" Golos said a rude word that inferred "brown log" in Draconic. Gwen glared at her Wyvern until he ceased his stupid "Hur-hur-hur—" "How about Sandy?" she said to the Sand Wyrm. "Ariel. Gogo. Cali. Dede. Sandy." Gwen felt pleased with Sandy. She was, after all, terrific at naming things. Golos grimaced. "At least use Draconic, Calamity. I think it would prefer 'Turd' at this rate." The Shingleback shook its head, steadfastly refusing both "Sandy" and "Turd". "GARP!" "How about Garp?" Golos informed her. "It's low-Draconic for… stone." "Garp— According to Garp," Gwen cited a rather famous novel she was partial to from her old world. Garp the Sandworm was no John Irving, but if it wanted to name itself after a titular protagonist with a staunch feminist as a mother, who was she to fight fate? For a monster that looked the part of priapism personified, the name was apt. Indeed, if anything, Garp was a genius for choosing the name, even it didn't know it. "Very well, your name is Garp." "GARP!" With her holding onto a literal portion of the creature's soul, her Shingleback could only agree wholeheartedly. "Good, good." Gwen nodded, seriously pondering the PR potential of Gwen, Gogo and Garp, marauding across the sand, the "three Gees" of the Sawahi, legends sung by the bard Peaches. "Garp!" "EE-ee!" "Shaa— Shaa—!" "Another slave for the Calamity!" Her minions greeted the newest addition to her menagerie. After relaying the Shingleback to her Rat-kin, the Prefects managed to worshipfully beckon the Wyrm to dig a defensive trench around their encampment four meters across and three meters deep. The mischief prayed as the Afaa al-Halak passed. A few of the Elders wept bitter tears for a vision their progenitors could have seen. Gwen's glee lasted until the following daybreak when she fully recovered her mana pool and some Essence. In the golden hour, watching the dull glow of a thousand Maxwell's Camp Heaters suffuse the Rat-kin's open camp, her mind once more shifted toward the betrayal at Shalkar. "Strun! Stian! Ix! Skaz! Prefects!" Once the camp broke fast, she motioned for the rats to ready themselves. "Pack the supplies! We make for Shalkar!" The Rat-kin hailed her with a mix of salutes, bows and kowtows, quickly reforming into ranks. "GARP!" In the distance, an armoured Tunneling Engine raised its eyeless head. "Garp! To the east!" she commanded her newest minion, growing pleased when it began to fluidly traverse the compacted sand with the ease of a carrack slicing through open water. Commanding Cali to follow and Ariel and Golos to scout, she cautiously landed on the Shingleback's head. The Wyrm's velocity couldn't match her flight speed, but neither were her rats any faster. Besides, she had no reason to rush, for the Centaurs weren't going anywhere. "Clamber up the sides," she permitted a few of her favourite Centurions to join her, naming those having exhibited the highest ardour for public service to mount her tamed worm. "Learn to work with Garp, for it shall be your guardian in the future; in my absence, it will protect our people from the Wildlands." And if things go well, Gwen surmised in silence, Garp held infinitely more untapped potentials. Her Prefects obeyed with misty eyes green with worship. Gwen turned her Essence-infused eyes to the fore, enjoying the iconic moment of a popular science-fiction made real by her sorcerous efforts, savouring the rare, meta-textual moment. Several hundred meters later, Golos circled back to intercept her sand-surfing Wyrm. "Calamity..." The Wyvern said without expression. "Shalkar is to your right." Shalkar. The Sawahi Desert. The oasis at Shalkar wasn't large, but it had been a staple waystation for travellers through the Sawahi basin for aeons, possessing a deep and near-endless aquifer sheltered by a tiny opening no larger than a block of flats. Around the oasis, a dense wall of palms, olives, apricot and fig trees had been cultivated by Rat-kins from generations past, though all had been left to ruin by the Centaurs who used the oasis only as a walled watering hole. Around Shalkar, thanks to its uncharacteristic inundation of Elemental Water, shrubbery and scattered trees dotted the oasis's surrounding for kilometres, providing shelter against the Afaa al-Halak, whose young shied away from such Elemental compositions, preferring the deep dunes of the inner desert. But Gwen did not have eyes for Shalkar's rare beauty. Along the way, her resolve grew strengthened by the carcasses of her Rat-kin, scattered like rag dolls, strewn about the sand and the badlands like plastic cups in the aftermath of a frat party. The fallen she had ordered her Rat-kin to collect, consigning their remains to the Void, playing her part as their make-belief Priestess. Closer to Shalkar, Gwen sent out a dozen of her Centurions to find the Qasqir Clan's dens, then floated atop the tallest of dunes overlooking the oasis to gain vantage over the low-lying "Billabong". Seeing the Centaurs milling about within their private paradise in their sheltered barriers, eating melons and drinking what passed for wine, her anger simmered like the summer heat on golden sand, distorting all thoughts with her undisguised bloodthirst. "Bastards..." Undoubtedly, she would get her Rat-kin the justice they deserved, but first, she would show the Khan one last respect, considering the Horse Lords and the Mageocracy's alliance. Either way, those responsible would pay— but as a collective, the unaware may yet survive. Making no show of hiding the rats now lined up as a sea of refugees westward of the oasis' "fort", she took her time walking down the dune, Stain and Strun on either side, slowly approaching the twin watchtowers with their slanted platforms for the horsemen's easy entry. At a distance from the entrance, she channelled mana into a Clarion Call to declare without ambiguity that she was the "Emissary from the Khan," in charge of these "Tasmüyiz", victims of the Elementals' devious, diseased designs. As the nominated Mingat of the Khan, she demanded immediate command of the outpost and that the Centaurs "vacate" lest they become vectors for the Blood Fever's spread. _PING! PAK—!_ Arrows clattered against her invisible shield, turning the barriers milk-white. Gwen closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. In the next few moments, more arrows and even a pilum of "fifty people" made their purposes known, turning her complexion paler than the fat under Garp's armour. "Mistress..." "Priestess..." Strun held a recording device in one hand. The Lumen Recorder Richard had argued she should keep in her Storage Ring always blinked as it took in the scene with its crystalline eyes. "Pack it away," Gwen commanded her Prefect. The footage was no longer of use, for she no longer anticipated witnesses. Simply put, there were insufficient Centaurs to match the losses suffered by her whiskered paw-pals. "Gogo," she commanded her Wyvern, who was already salivating over the prospect of horseflesh. "Go knock." _TINK! Pak—PING!_ With every other arrow bouncing off her shield, her resolve amplified. Her Babulya once said that she would walk the Path of Violent Reckoning. Unlucky for these Horse Lords, Klavdiya Song was a very, very foresightful woman.

Strun of Jildam hung by the tail in the shadow beneath the evergreen palms, camouflaged by the innate craft gifted by his grandfather's training. A bowshot away, the Horse Lord's fort burned blue with thundering spellfire. Lord Golos, a disciple to the Pale Priestess of the Dark Wyrm, was thoroughly enjoying himself at the expense of the Rat-kin's former Masters. Uphill of the oasis, Strun's kin watched the spectacle below. Half of the Centurions had offered to join the fray, but it was self-evident that there was no need— for the difference in power was simply too great. How strange, Strun realised as he licked his cracked nose. For so long, he had thought the Horse Lords some higher, nobler existence— insurmountable in their power and grand in their majesty. Ever since he was a pup, he had looked up to these magnificent specimens of Demi-human dominion, whose legacy stemmed from the Golden Khanate of yore. "FOR TEMIR KHA—" Not far from Strun, a desperate cry for honour ended with a resounding splatter of meat and bones on apathetic sand. The Shaman Sigils protecting the gold-clad Jagun shattered from a single blow from Lord Golos' tail, dissipating like a puddle of blood-tinged water. In the next moment, the Wyvern's implement passed without impediment, as though the Centaur's powerful body was air, sending up a cloud of pink mist, leaving only the horse-half. "HA!" With a swish, Lord Golos swiped his supper aside; poignantly, Strun recalled that the Wyvern had been grumbling for horse flesh since the Badlands. Pilums from the Jagun's guards struck, leaving no more than white marks against the Wyvern's brutal, lightning-charged armour that melted the iron spearheads. In retaliation, the Wyvern accelerated. The horses scattered too slowly, and with little to no effort, the top half of an unlucky Centaur lifted into the air, where Golos shook him like a doll, then toss the inert body at his despairing companions. Seeing that their efforts against the Wyvern were fruitless, the survivors refocused on the Pale Priestess, thinking that perhaps killing the Mage would banish her creature. Strun had to circulate vital energies to his abdomen to avoid bursting into laughter and falling off the palm frond. Drawing their curved blades, the Horse Lords charged the Priestess, who even now leisurely strolled with his grandfather with the air of an Elder inspecting a campsite. More pilums were lunched in flights of fanciful futility, clattering off her shield, then just as the Centaurs thought they were within reach— Lord Caliban burst from the sand and transformed itself into a seven-headed Wyrm, the likes of which Strun had never before seen. In a flash, its bloated form snatched up the closest Centaurs, invading their screaming bodies with rope-thick tongues that penetrated the Shaman's protective blood haze as effortlessly as poking through wet paper with a sharp claw. The rest attempted to flee, then was caught by an abruptly materialising wall of swirling, inky blades that reduced the riders to mince. At the horses' renewed despair, Strun's body flushed with spine-tingling thrills. As he swept the battlefield, he noted that another squadron sought to flee by abandoning their kin. If discovered by the Khan, it was an act that would warrant a slow and very public execution. "Lucky fools," Strun mouthed to himself. Not because the fleeing Centaurs could escape, but because it was infinitely better to die by Lord Garp than by Caliban. The Rat-kin held his breath, counting to ten. The fleeing riders made it just to the outskirt of the oasis when the ground turned to quicksand, miring their hooves before Garp's enormous head burst from under the herd, taking the trapped patrol in a single swing. In its wake, a natural trench some seven meters across and half as deep ensured no other survivors could pass where the Sand Wyrm marked its territory. "SCREECH—" Strun raised his head, perceiving in his Essence-fuelled vision that an Eagle-kin, the messengers of the Khanate, had chosen this precise moment where Lord Golos was distracted to flee. Strun did not cry foul, for the Priestess could not hear him amid the fulminating chaos of Lord Golos' passing. "EE—EE!" A piercing screech from the invisible Lord Ariel sounded, its watchful eyes keeping the foes below captive. No less than eight orbs of foe-seeking Lightning from the divine Kirin's horns instantly surrounded the Golden Eagle-kin, reducing the scout to a cloud of flaming feathers burning the same blue flame as the fort below. Just as Strun fought down another urge to howl in triumph, something within him tingled, igniting the Essence within his wiry frame. The time had come. His Pale Priestess now called upon the great tide of her whiskery worshippers, turned the hills emerald with bubbling Essence, buoyed by sympathetic bloodlust. It was now the Rat-kins' turn to vent. Such was the generosity of their Priestess. Such was the Rat-kins' retribution. Gwen hovered above the oasis, watching her Rat-kins form into overlapping circles of raggedy fur, the mischief's loci centred on the southern shore of the brightly burning billabong. The fort's sole survivors sat in the inner ring, consisting of a stallion, a mare Shaman, and her entourage of three Şöpter slaves. The stallion was the oasis' administrator, a Centaur who had hid with the women instead of fighting. Now, the horseman knelt with the trembling women, his pale complexion and glossy fur oozing sweat, as though already in the late stages of the Blood Fever. Not far from the docile prisoners, Golos picked his way through a pile of horse carcasses, an act that turned Gwen's stomach for reasons she self-censored. She had forbidden Ariel from taking part, offering her creature a generous pile of HDMs in place of the meaty spoils. As for Caliban, her serpent sat as a worshipped idol among the Rat-kin, enjoying their undisguised adoration. Immediately outside the ring of rats, Garp slumbered, digesting its meal of Centaurs as a dozen volunteer Rat-kin crawled over its body with trowels and picks, working the old and loose scales, harvesting materials for protective equipment while "massaging" her Wyrm. Between the water and the undulating Shingleback, the rest of the mischief busied themselves digging semi-permanent residences, knowing that in life or death, Shalkar was now their home. Flying here and there, Gwen set her Warding Glyphs, Alarm Barriers and Faithful Hounds at the edge of the oasis, then looked to the horizon, hoping to see a few familiar silhouettes. By her count, it was their eighth night since leaving Nukus. Assuming her Magisters did relay her Message, Elvia should have gotten her request for immediate aid. If she imagined that her Evee took a day or two to finish her Clerical duties, then another few days to prepare, she should be expecting her very soon. Likewise, as she and Golos had erased most of the aerial threats between Nukus and Shalkar, Elvia and her entourage should have met with no impediments. If so, where was her Evee? Gwen glanced at her gathered Prefects and the ring of Centurions sharpening their claws at the Centaurs and their Şöpter slaves. She felt a little less sad that Evee was late. Though she missed Elvia, it was best that a Knight Companion of the Ordo Bath was not partner or witness to what she had next planned. Soundlessly, Gwen landed in the circle's centre. As she descended, eight thousand pair of eyes converged on their black-clad deliverer. How had she wound up here? Gwen wondered as she activated her Desolation Aura's lowest-tier domain. What happened to buying a beach house in Sydney and getting two cats? Ever since Hengsha Island and Tonglv, she had intermittently wondered about her endless tangent from her initial goal. Since when had a business consultant become so comfortable in donning the mantle of judge, jury and executioner? The Gwen of old felt a little horrified. But the true horror was that in her present world, her mentors and family had patted her back, applauded her decisiveness, and given her titles and accolades for the fact, a stark opposition to say, throwing her in an asylum for possessing megalomaniacal delusions of grandeur. Yet the script was sound, the costume fit, so the Gwen of now happily played her part. "You." The Pale Priestess of the Rat-kin stood on air, looking down upon the Horse Lords and the Şöpter slaves, addressing the stallion draped in an embroidered administrator's tunic. "What is your name?" “Kokochu of the Kindum Clan, son of—” "Why did you prevent our entry?" Gwen cut the horse's sophistry with a wave. She had no interest in lineage, only answers. "These Tasmüyiz are diseased." The Horse Lord faced her with admirable courage and stoicism. "My men are healthy and untainted." "Irrelevant." Gwen shook her head. "You knew that before we got here." "You've brought too many of the Tasmüyiz." The Centaur's eyes scanned the horizon full of furry bodies. "We'll never be able to feed them." "I left Nukus with more than this." Gwen's voice grew grim. "There would have been eight hundred more were it not for your foolishness." "The lives of my Nokud riders take precedence," the Centaur replied. Perhaps Kokochu could not read human expressions, or mayhap that's how the Centaur thought; whatever the case, the candid words of the Horse Lord was enough to make Gwen grit her teeth until her jaws hurt. "Lord Mage— Allow this one a chance to plea. Desiring the safety of my men is not a violation of our Khanate's laws, nor is leaving the Tasmüyiz to their fate." "Nor is their casual slaughter, so what?" Gwen took a deep breath before she could speak again, becoming reminded of Strun's mother. When she found out that the Rat-kin's mother was the one who had triggered her sympathy, she had felt overwhelmed by unfathomable repression. "These are eight hundred Tasmüyiz, Kokochu, not eight hundred bales of hay." "Hay would be more precious. Even if we left, sorceress, how can we return when we might be infected? The filth would have left their diseased corpses at every watering hole and shelter between here and Nukus." The Centaur grew in confidence. "The Khan gave me the oasis, gave these Rat-kin the oasis." Gwen kept her voice level. "I was there when he gave the word. So you dare to contest Temir's command?" "Never. That is why the Tasmüyiz may rest around the oasis." Kokochu smiled cautiously. "But they may not approach the water, for they may contaminate it with their fever." "They are not safe around the oasis," Gwen retorted. "There are Wolf-kin hereabouts and other predators like Harpies in the skies. Besides, they need water." "The Tasmüyiz's weakness is not our concern." Kokochu's attitude grew dismissive. "We are sons of the Great Khan; they are the Tasmüyiz. Such is their lot in life, what they choose for themselves. As I have said, there is no law, nor lore, that prevents a Nokud from denying a Tasmüyiz. If you would let us live, I shall inform the Khan that this is a great misunderstanding. With your prowess, great sorceress, the Khan will be forgiving and may not even demand compensation. Neigh, you may even receive a reward." Gwen pondered the Centaur's words in simmering silence, feeling a little deflated that the Horse Lord wasn't a raving, glaive wielding madman. In all honesty, she had not expected the dead horse she intended to flog to be an equestrian lawyer. Was it a mistake to question the horse? "WHAT A PILE OF HORSE DUNG—!" The timely interjection came from Strun, once more affirming why the piebald Rat-kin was her favourite. "Priestess! Allow me the opportunity to duel this foul-mouthed conniver! I will show him the conviction of my people!" "You would dare?" the Horse Lord laughed. "A Tasmüyiz cannot challenge a Nokud." "Refuse, and you shall die right here by our teeth and claws." Strun drew both his daggers. "A Horse Lord, murdered by the cowardly Tasmüyiz, never knowing the limitless plains where the Immortal Khan wars for eternity with his Golden Horde." The Centaur ceased his mirth once. "And if I win?" "If I die. You leave with your mares." Strun stared down the disapproving eyes of his fellow Centurions. "My Grandfather will guarantee it." Both rat and horse turned to Gwen for confirmation. "I accept Strun's proposal." Feeling the confidence radiating from Strun, she gave her consent, not because she didn't want to outright murder the wily Horse Lord— but because the theatre of the Rat-kin's victory far better served her purpose. Already, her Rat-kin had gained enough spine to stand up to the Centaurs. Now, Strun would show his people that they were no weaker than the Centaurs via the birth of a new legend. "By Temir Khan's Blessing, I accept this trial by combat." The Horse Lord stood, suddenly standing from his kneeling height of just under two meters to three. "Enbi, gift me with the Khan's strength." In one pull, the Horse Lord tore the cotton tunic from his chest, revealing the scarred skin and chiselled physiology of a seasoned warrior. Then, on cue and without care for the chittering swarm, his mare Shaman began to prepare the runic ley-lines along Kokochu's body, tracing the scars with her fingers. The rats broke into a low, angry clamour. "That's cheating!" "Unfair!" "Foul Horse-kin!" Protest erupted from her Centurions as well. "I am fighting for my life and the lives of my Shaman, not to mention the honour of the Khan." Kokochu gazed up at Gwen. "Great Sorceress, if you deem fair competition excessive, extinguish us as we are— leave us not for the rats." Gwen felt genuinely impressed, for the horses' wit was wasted on the Centaurs. The silver-tongued fucker would have fitted right in if they were in London. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. But she as well had a little something up her sleeve. "Strun, approach." Gwen descended from the air until she stood chest to nose beside her rat. "Strun." She touched a hand to the rat's flickering ears, her fingers playing about the soft tufts of fur. "Can you win?" The Rat-kin nodded, then shook his head. "I can deliver a fatal blow, but I do not know what their Shaman may gift through her vital blessings. Fret not, I shall do my utmost, Priestess, even if it costs my life." Gwen nodded, welcoming the Rat-kin's conviction. "I, too, have a blessing to offer," she said to the rat. "One that will cost you dearly and may yet cause you to perish if you cannot endure it. The reward, however, is palpable, for it shall link your vital forces to Garp." "I shall share a life with…" the Rat-kin gulped. "A Deity of the Sawahi?" "Indeed." Gwen nodded. "Do you accept?" Strun fell face-first into complete prostration. "My life is yours, now and until the Elementals transmute all the sand of the Sawahi to glass." "I'll hold you to that." Gwen then turned to the thoughtful Centaur listening to their dialogue. "I hope that's acceptable. After all, Strun is fighting for his life and the lives of his kin, not to mention the honour of his Clan." "— And my Priestess!" The Rat-kin added. The Centaur spoke in solemn tones to his Shaman. At the mare's behest, the three Şöpter women bared their bosoms, allowing her to draw a smidgen of their heart's blood with a Mithril implement. The Shaman likewise bled from a point below her breast into the concoction until Gwen could sense the vital energies pulsing within, then rapidly applying the burning paste. When she met the Centaur's eyes once more, the creature's gaze remained arrogant, for this was a being who saw the world from the lofty height of old Empire and history, possessing no remorse for their careless tyranny. Gwen riposted the glare with a smile, then returned to her nominated Champion, her rare rat with the gonads and the aggression to stand up to the Horse Lords. Circulating her Essence, she bid her rat partake in another dose of snake elixir to fortify their link, then rested her Essence-dripping palm atop her creature's head, allowing the priceless excretions to dribble between his ears and down his furry cheeks. For the Rat-kin to find a new path, they needed a "Che". A representative who was young. And fearless. And angry. And possessed of boundless hope for the future. How else could a revolution take place? Any movement of any significance required a leader willing to part the Red Sea of status quo. Else, once the heat of the moment passed, the yoke of slavery without the counterbalance of Noblesse Oblige would return. That was the thing that ticked her off most about the Khanate. To have power is a fine thing, but what the fuck was the deal with Strun's mother? _The abuse of greatness was when it disjoins remorse from power._ How strange that her commitment to Henry's ideal world would manifest in the desolate sands of the Sawahi. "Relax," she comforted her Champion. "Dream now of tomorrow. When next you open your eyes, a new day for the Rat-kin will dawn." The aura of life and vitality around her grew dull as she switched Sigils to Svartálfar Soul Sorcery. Beneath her hand, Strun trembled as though a newborn pup, happy for his hardwon baptism. Strun realised as he toyed with his new Ring of Storage, just how much he and his people owed the Priestess. His match— if a massacre could be termed so euphemistically, had lasted a minute. Kokochu had hidden his prowess well, for Strun could see that the Centaur warrior's skill was on par with a Mingat, the leader of a thousand men. In hindsight, he should have suspected the "Administrator" who had remained, for there was no way for the Shaman mare to survive otherwise. In the Khanate, the loss of a small army was nothing compared to the death of a proficient Shaman. Though wreathed in victory, Strun felt no triumph. When the battle had opened, he had been too slow in evading the suddenly appearing pilum tossed by the Centaur from a Ring of Storage, the kind of item that only Mingat Officers possessed. As a reflexive response to prevent the rogue pilum from striking his Priestess, he recalled channelling the vital energies of his newborn body, feeling the intensity of Garp's profound, limitless vitality oozing like molten magma into his Creature Core. To his and Kokochu's shock, he had deflected the pilum without breaking his arm or wrist, going so far as to catch the spear by the weighted haft with a screeching scream of steel and sparks. The fur and skin of his dominant hand had sizzled like wildfire, then instantly cooled as though quenched by the life-giving waters of Shalkar's oasis. Growling, his opponent then charged. Once more utilising the secretive arts of the Shadow Runner, Strun had met his foe head-on, finding his foe moving in slow motion, with the instance of their encounter dilating like the slow-moving orb of the sun just beginning to set. Reversing his grip, Strun clutched his dagger with his restored digits, ducked under the sweeping glaive of the Centaur, then stabbed at the creature's abdomen and chest. He struck, though both weapons felt as though he'd stabbed mud. Kokochu was protected by his Shaman's art and shared life with the healer. As the Centaur passed, Strun had struck three more times, once on the neck, once on the Centaur's spine, and another around the horseman's elbow. He drew blood, though the effect proved less than fatal, for Kokochu turned with a reverse strike, swinging the glaive to slice Strun in twain. But, just as with Strun, the Centaur's wounds had also healed. Procuring more vitality from the limitless well that was Garp, Strun had parried the reverse blow, using the momentum to send his body into a wild spin, then landed with both daggers down, embedded into the Horse Lord's flank. The Centaur screamed as the Afaa al-Halak's teeth cut skin and sliced the soft cartilage holding the horses' organs intact. Usually, magical barding would have protected the Mingat. However, in his bid to appear a scholarly administrator, the fool Centaur had forgone the heavy armour that made his kind near-impervious to most melee implements. Next, Kokochu had attempted to kick Strun with hooves the size of war hammers. Strun dodged by a millimetre, stabbed at the horses' tendons with his blades, then whipped at the Centaur's eyes with a crushing lash from his brass-bound tail, an implement inspired by Lord Golos. His sneak attack struck true. The horse howled, blinded by the Rat-kin's fifth limb. Strun then slid under the horse, learning from his earlier lessons to strike where the flesh and sorcery were weakest. There, he tapped once more into the blessing, drawing such a boon of vitality that his veins felt on the verge of bursting. In contrast to the slow-moving body of the giant horse, his daggers diced at the Centaur's underbelly as a bone-white blur. In horror, Kokochu fell into a mad stampede. Strun remained unmoved, even when a hoof crushed his chest, snapped his femur like a twig. Another blow broke his ribs and mashed his organs, bursting a lung. Shielding only his head, the sheltering seat of his indomitable will, he attacked with dagger and claws at the awful stuff that now fell from the horse. Two exchanges later, horse and rat parted. Strun had remained standing, covered in blood, shit and bits of minced offal, his eyes viridescent with vitality and burning Essence, hobbing on a leg and a tail. Kokochu stood as well, trailing guts and chopped intestines, his ruined underbelly and unmentionables scattered all over. The Horse Lord's upper body was entirely untouched, but that was beside the point. The Shaman and her Şöpter slaves were ashen white, their life force quickly draining with the depleting of Kokochu's fleeing vitality. He won, but the Centaur was the better combatant. Their difference was in the league of their blessings. That was why Strun had felt ashamed. "Do you yield?" Strun croaked, his body rapidly restoring itself thanks to the blessing of limitless vitality, racial talent and gifted Essence. "Never." The Horse Lord's pride, unlike his body, remained unbroken. "No Tasmüyiz shall—" The Horse Lord did not have another chance to speak, for Strun's Priestess now approached him. Even as Strun's heart palpitated with the undesired possibility of his mistress offering mercy, she placed a Void-tinged hand against the creature's chest, then enacted the same spell that she had used to elevate Strun. "Soul Tap!" Strun's body reflexively seized, recalling the exquisite agony he had earlier experienced. Behind her, the Shaman and the three Şöpter slaves collapsed, holding their heads in silent moans, their eyes bulging with horror, their jaws gnashing so hard that specks of blood sprayed from cracked teeth. Strun gulped. Wasn't this blessing how his Priestess had elevated the Afaa al-Halak? How she bound him to her person? Why was she trying to Ascend the horse-kin? Strun felt a sudden sense of shame. Was his mistress that generous? "Speak the truth, Kokochu." His Priestess' voice was wintery ice on the Caspian shore. "Why did you deny my rats entry into Shalkar? The quicker you deliver, the quicker this agony ends." To Strun's surprise and horror, the Horse Lord whose honour could not be touched, not even by disembowelment, could not resist her compulsion. "T-the Khan did not expect that a Mageling would s-succeed!" The Horse Lord spoke as though screaming into the abyss. "You were supposed to emerge with no more than a thousand Rat-kin!" "Why does the Khan think I would fail?" the Priestess demanded. "Temir had sent his Eagle-kin Emissaries to the harpies!" Kokochu continued to scream. "The Qasqır as well serve the Great Khan. At any cost, we cannot allow the B-Blood Fever to spread!" "What else?" "H-he wants your meddling Mageocracy to lose honour. He tires of your arrogance! P-please, no more, Mistress— banish the sand s-scorpions in my Core! Release me!" In Strun's eyes, his Priestess watched the Centaur's suffering as though a Rat-kin saving the last bite of nan for a desperate day. "Void Bolt!" The screaming neighs ceased. Four more bolts erased the convulsing Shaman and her slaves from existence, leaving only tufts of mane and a few hooves. There was a lesson here for his kin: live faithfully to her teachings, for the Pale Priestess giveth, and the Pale Priestess taketh. Strun mulled over his epiphany as his Priestess stared about her contemplatively, her bloodless complexion aglow in the nimbus of the Day Light Globes, gazing into the middle distance, searching for something only she could see. "Strun, Stian, I grow tired," she declared to no one and everyone. "Prefects, set sentries while I rest. First thing tomorrow, we shall plan for the rebuilding of the oasis and its fields." This time, without confusion, the Rat-kins prostrated as one, circle upon circles of kneeling bodies, expanding outward in concentric loops, moving as one rat, making only the sound of a single footfall. Sawahi. The Western Badlands. "Lord Chaplain, we really must be on our way." The sweet voice of Elvia Lindholm, Cleric and provisional Knight Companion, implored her armoured trio. "Peace— for there is virtue in patience, Novitiate. Your War Mage companion, if her achievements hold weight, will not be bested so easily." Elvia's senior officer spoke with a tone that made her uneasy. Arguably, anyone would be nervous when conversing with Chaplain Kent Hawkford, one of the three Inquisitors assigned to the Order of Bath and formerly Alpha Company's Knight Commander, presently seeking information on Spectre's activities in the Steppes. "You forget the sorceress' age, Commander. Powerful she may be, the girl is no older than our Sister." The friendlier voice came from a smiling Knight with a middle-aged face that was beginning to sag. "When I was their age, I was still hunting Goblins and copying scripture at the Seminary. Besides, she's a fair lass— and we all know how the Tower can be." "Gwen is no 'lady', Sir Smallwater." Their third companion, a Knight Protector of Saint Michael and Elvia's sworn fellow, shook his head in refutation of his seniors. "We should not underestimate what Evee's companion may do or dare to do. She has ambitions beyond our Ordo's understanding. Like a Drake, Gwen traffics in Crystals and power, milords, in volumes no less than the crows who sit in parliament. Her Master, if you recall, was none other than the late Lord Kilroy, and her current sponsor is the Lady of Ely." "Thank you, Mathias, we know that you know her well," Sir Smallwater chuckled. Both of the men's eyes laid on the Spellsword hanging from Mathias Rothwell's waist. "As I said, she's a pretty one, hmm?" Elvia stifled a giggle as Mathias' face grew stark red. Rather than a warning, the men likely thought Mattie was smitten with Gwennie. After all, Mathias was a benefactor of Gwen's connections. Unlike Hawkford's inherited blade or Smallwater's issued inventory, Sir Rothwell's blade was new— the first true Dwarf-blade in two decades to come out of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. If Mattie didn't share a bond with the sorceress, why would she gift him so kindly? "Thank you, Ser Rothwell." Their Chaplain's tone was indecipherable. Mathias lowered his head. Not even a full-fledged knight was immune to the judgemental glare from an Inquisitorial Knight of the Order. "Novitiate Lindholm, if you would perform the honours?" The Chaplain commanded. "Of course, your Grace." Even as she agreed with a sun-lit smile, Elvia felt the stinging agony of sinful impatience burning a hole in her chest. Thus far, they had stopped several times in their "rush" to reinforce Gwennie. Yet, they had been relentlessly delayed by what Elvia suspected was newfangled Spellcraft acquired via Gwen's peculiar "abilities". Under her Chaplain's watchful eye, Elvia found a good spot among the buried ash mounds where the Rat-kin must have camped, then produced her Faith Relic. She slowly released the Mithril tri-crown icon into the air with a gentle toss, chanting the prayer words of truth-seeking. The sun-token began to glow at once, first with a gradual radiance, then warmth, filling the air around them with illuminated threads of fading gold. Slowly, other "lines" began to appear, indistinct in their hues of lilac and black, representing the passage of various Elemental mana, Schools of Sorcery, and other crafts that had intruded upon the Prime Material. The trio of Knights gathered around the impromptu light show and studied the results of her augury. Looking at the lingering mana pollution, Elvia felt a strange little knot forming in her belly. Just what in the Nazarene's name was Gwen doing? Four days ago, while still in the middle of her preparations and prayers to gather Faith into her Tri-Crowned Sun, a Message had arrived from a flustered Magister Walken, stating that Gwen had shouldered ten-thousand Demi-human lives onto herself and was now taking them across the desert in the manner an Old Testament pilgrimage— alone. Walken's worry wasn't that Gwen might fail in her suit— but rather feared the degree to which she might succeed and bring about some calamitous subversion of London Tower's plans to push back both the Khitani Centaurs and the Elementals. Sensing a terrible premonition, Elvia had pledged to leave immediately, appealing to Theodora St. Claire to bless her with passage through the Ordo's secret Teleportation Chapels to Baku. As promised, her Rectrix allowed the privilege, though unexpectedly, her entourage had increased from one Knight Protector in the form of Mattie to the addition of a Knight Inquisitor and his Senior Protector. But why? Elvia could only guess at the Rectrix's purpose, for the Crown's Ordo all moved with a measure of autonomy someone at her tier of authority could not fathom. Even though her achievements from the Ireland Campaign had gifted her Faith on par with a Knight Lieutenant's, her limited seniority meant she laboured only for the surface layer of the Ordo's objectives. "This domain stinks of old sorcery," Sir Smallwater said. "You seeing this? What does this mean?" the Knight walked around the projection. "Six Schools of Magic? Meta-magic? Some form of indigenous sorcery? And this..." Seeing her Knights remark at the dark threads of magic, Elvia adjusted the modest collar of her Clerical outfit. "Heretical-Class Necromancy..." the Knight Chaplain whistled. "How very Wildlands." "The Centaurs do have a pet Necromancer." Smallwater reminded them. "This looks more like the work of a party." "But not Lazarus. I have his signature memorised." Hawkford walked around the projection. "His Soul Sorcery is rudimentary at best. Also, Mister Latvik is a Re-animator by trade." Elvia touched a finger to her temple. Should she offer the Inquisitor a short Chronicle of Gwen? How much of Gwen's ability was public, though? As a student in the Seminary, they rarely received news of the outside world, much less something with so much complexity. Her saving grace was what Rectrix had intimated, that her superiors had bigger fish to fry, such as the hunt for the Plaguemancers working under Spectre. "I see, but how do you explain this?" The Chaplain pointed into the admixture of mana threads, then pulled from the aether something resembling a golden spider thread, barely perceptible even to their Faith-trained eyes. "Karmic tethers?" Smallwater's eyes widened. "Here?" "A local land god?" Mathias volunteered. "The briefing did say the indigenous population worshipped the Sand Wyrms." "This sort of concentration can't be superstition." The Chaplain shook his head. "Nor is this ancestral tradition nor fear. This is unadulterated devotion. " "Mayhap the rats have found religion?" Smallwater laughed. "By our scriptures, we're in the right area for that sort of thing." "What do you make of this, Lindholm?" Her Chaplain's Faith-laced, golden irises bore into her skull. "What does St. Claire's prodigy have to say?" Elvia's hand came away from her neck, damp with cold sweat. Karmic threads? What did she know of it other than what's taught? That belief was a psychic manifestation and that when enough of it gathered, it gave birth to imperceptible and intangible Astral energies? "I am unlearned, Lord Chaplain," Elvia told the truth. She did not think that any half-truths would escape the Ordo's Eyes of the Truth Seeker. Elvia could guess as to why there were Necromantic Soul Sorcery, Shaman Blood Magic and meta-magic in the wake of Gwen's rats, but why would there be Faith? She had no answers to that. Gwen can't eat her way into Faith magic. "Sers, I don't know why there are Karmic Threads, but I know who might be responsible." Mathias, who had been inspecting their surroundings, blasted apart a pile of buried refused to reveal a mass grave of spent SPAM cans. "I know only one sorceress who uses Void and Lightning, and most importantly, carries SPAM with her at all times and dispenses it to anyone and any creature she meets, including the True Scion of a Mythic Asiatic Dragon." "Mattie, by God's Grace.…" Elvia's words clammed in her throat. Mathias' hunger for approval from his superiors rivalled only his feelings of insecurity toward Gwen. Still, with evidence like that, it was hard to refute Gwen's involvement. Her only gladness was that Gwen's smiling face wasn't plastered over the cans as they had been after the IIUC. "I see. In that case, Novitiate Lindholm." The Knight Chaplain brushed the motes of muted mana from his gauntlets. "Though Sir Smallwater and I are here for another matter entirely, you are still our little Sister. For your sake and in the Rectrix's interests, do you mind introducing us to this friend of yours?" For any other Noviciate, the politically correct answer would be, "Of course, Sir. But please note that we weren't that close." For Elvia, Gwen's booming visitations and her thunderous descents had made their dubious relationship famous across all of Battle, not to mention the reason she was the Ordo's precious "Vessel" was because of Gwen. Whatever her personal opinions, bringing Hawkford to her long-awaited meeting was no longer avoidable. With that understanding, Elvia lifted her face and delivered her most endearing, heart-piercing smile, appearing so vital and youthful that petal-pink blossoms and a butt-ugly ginseng root appeared. "Kiki!" "Sen!" The men nodded with complete satisfaction, bathed in the warmth of her presence. Turning from them, Elvia collected her Faith relic, banishing the Light of Revelation. "Whatever you've got planned, Gwennie..." Elvia prayed to high heaven. "Please, PLEASE don't be committing heresy when I arrive..."

Of all the coursework Gwen had undergone during her Magisters' training, the one topic she had never thought to put into practice was city planning. It wasn't that she was disinterested— only that she couldn't have imagined a situation where she alone had to make the educated guesses for how sanitation could be maintained while living space was maximised. When Kokochu had said the fort wasn't enough for the rats, the Centaur had a point— the existing infrastructure held two thousand rats at best, while the remaining six thousand were scattered as though she had sown seeds in a wide arc. To fit her whiskered people, what she needed was aid from the Dwarves, though the possibility of importing talent was close to zero. Curiously though, Strun had mentioned that there were entrances to the Murk hereabouts and that white-skinned fiends inhabited the gloom. Moreover, as Aberrants seldom ranged far from Dwarven settlements, she strongly suspected there should be an isolated Citadel somewhere below the low hills to the east and south of the Sawahi. If she could get the rats to build their cities underground as warrens and bunkers, it would absolve most imperilments from the Horse Lords, the Harpies, and at least three out of the four principal Elementals. Then, with basic safety absolved, the Rat-kin could engage in primary produce and commerce, both necessary to attain self-sufficiency. After that, the existing twelve Clans under her command could then take time to absorb the other tribes. According to Bekker, after the campaign, win or lose, there would be a period of equilibrium where both sides would need to recover. In that lull, she would have the Rat-kin repopulate the Eastern Steppes and treescape the landscape to halt the desertification. Assuming she was right, even the Hvítálfar could be roped into providing support, for Sanari did infer that biodiversity was central to maintaining the stability of the Prime Material. Hers was a viable, longitudinal plan, though, for the Rat-kin, it would be a challenging and blood-strewn Path for whom sacrifices would be unending, both before and after the fact. For now, all she could do was provide her rats with as many advantages as she was capable of giving. At first light, she had commanded Caliban to dive into the billabong to check its depth. Delightfully, the famed aquifer under the oasis was deep indeed, meaning there would be no shortage of fresh water for the Rat-kin, at least until she could import Elemental Water Generators and Filtration Engines to nix that particular problem in the bud. After that, so long as the rats could trade for enough HDMS to power and service the generators, they should have few issues withdrawing water for agriculture. Once the conflict stabilised, she would have to tinker with the economy in the region until profitability was reached— though that was a problem for the future. And for that— Gwen's hand wandered to the Druidic Satchel and its Llais Leaf. Unless she completely misread Sanari, the seeds should provide the food she needed to sustain her plan for the Rat-kin. Simultaneously, the concurrence that made her wary was how much the Bloom in White had foreseen, and if she was playing right into the hands of some multi-dimensional "Accord" the Hvítálfar were laying out. "Strun," she called out via her Empathic Link. As a Soul Slave, the Rat-kin heeded her command, with her will diminished only by distance. The range was significant, for her link with Gracie only waned to the point of emotional ripples after the Teleportation Circle to Eastern Europe. Whatever the case, the nefarious sorcery maintained that a Master could induce suffering regardless of distance and that if Gwen's soul were to perish, all of her Soul Slaves would suffer the backlash, heedless of time and place. "Get Garp to follow the lines Ariel marked out; keep an eye on the labourer teams. I want those aqueducts completed as soon as possible!" "YES! PRIESTESS!" came the earnest reply. "Your will be done!" Elvia Lindholm and her trio of Knights arrived at Shalkar at noon. More so than in Ireland, when she healed the Ordo's Knights in their running retreat against Balor's Wyld Hunt, her chest ached, and her head felt woozy. She had always suspected that Gwen would grow unscrupulous under the guidance of the Nobles of London. Even her Rectrix had spoken of her peers in disdain, issuing regular warnings for the members of the Ordo to remain vigilant against the temptations of wealth and power. The ORDO— her Rectrix had declared, were the POOR soldiers of the Nazarene. What power and wealth the Ordo gathered was only for its missions and not for personal profit, and should any member feel otherwise; they were free to pursue the Path of secular authority. Thankfully, Elvia and her party did not arrive at the site of a tremendous Necromantic Ritual. But that didn't mean Elvia felt any less troubled. After watching the activity in the distance, Elvia began to understand why Walken had been so anxious about what Gwen would get up to if left unchecked. "Lindholm, is that a Mandala?" Chaplain Hawkford inquired after his knowledge of Necromantic Rituals failed to satisfy his suspicions. "A Transmutation circle, perhaps, within which she could convert all life to Un-life?" "I don't believe so, Lord Chaplain." "Elvia's right. It doesn't look magical to me." Smallwater gave his two cents. "That's a lot of rats though, make them Skeletons, and this may as well be a tomb city in Asyut… Rothwell, what's your take on that thing digging the canals?" "Though I am unlearned," Mathias said his bit of nothing. "I do believe that's a Sand Wyrm, Sir." "I thought they're wild and uncontrollable?" Elvia noticed the Inquisitor watching her. That there's a tame Sand Wyrm was indeed a strange phenomenon, though one right up Gwen's ally. "Gwen often charms Magical Fauna," Elvia offered what she knew to be an unsatisfying explanation. "Magus Song had a moniker during the IIUC," Mathias suddenly reminded them of something profound. "They called her the Worm Handler, Sir." "A Wyrm Handler? What arrogance." Elvia felt her chest constrict, fighting to contain her despair over the misunderstanding. "I believe that's what they call a double entendre, Sir— during the broadcasts, Gwennie was exceptionally popular among the male members of the audience. That and her Familiar, Caliban, possessed means to penetrate its foes with its tongues, which are concurrently tentacles, with teeth." Inquisitor Hawkford's expression was that of a man demanding to know if his juniors were fucking with him. "It's true, Sir Hawkford." Mathias backed her up. "That's her flying over yonder?" "Correct, Sir," Elvia said. "And underneath, that's a Rat-kin, riding on the Sand Wyrm, steering it with what looks like ropes tied to either side of its head." "Indeed, Lord Chaplain." Elvia nodded. "I hope Wyrm husbandry isn't heretical." "Smallwater?" "It's not an Undead Wyrm, and there's nothing in the manual against taming worms." The Senior Protector shrugged, grinning. "We should probably applaud Magus Song for bringing a Sand Wyrm into the Mageocracy's fold." "What do you make of the Mandala she's drawing then?" Elvia watched her Chaplain squint. Her brain throbbed in sympathy for the Lord Commander, a man so used to solving problems with hammers that anything sticking out looked like nails. She did sympathise, however— why would an Inquisitor follow a trail of heretical sorcery only to arrive at landscaping? "I do believe, Inquisitor—" Elvia had recognised the "strange pattern" at once. For one who knew little about Superstructural Mandalas used to Conjure the Undead, it was self-apparent what Gwen intended to build. "The 'Mandala', Sir, is what folk in the secular world would call Urban Planning." The quiet that followed was thankfully interrupted by their Senior Knight Protector. "Well, Kent? Shall we meet our sorceress? I am burning with curiosity." "Indeed." "I am sure Gwen would be happy to see us." Elvia did not doubt that the moment Gwen saw her, all decorum would go out the Tower, and her friend's affections would come on as thick as molasses, especially considering she's had no one but rats to talk to for the last week. If she took advantage of Gwen's rudeness— then she could warn her of the pitfalls to come. The foursome drifted forward, picking up speed until they were close enough to be heard with a Clarion Call. "EVEEEEEEEE—" The sound of booming thunder rolled across the heavens as the meteoric acceleration of Gwen's infamously obnoxious Flight fulminated. In the next moment, the lithe-silhouetted sorceress Dimension Doored in-between them with both arms open, enveloping Elvia before she could introduce her companions. "YE GODS— THE HUMAN TOUCH—" Elvia became buried against the protrusions in Gwen's rubbery armour. The eruption of affection had come so suddenly and with such force that her cheeks flared a bright crimson. "Gwennmmgnnn— these are—" Hugging her tight, the sorceress took Elvia for a twirl before finally letting go. "— My seniors, Lord Inquisitor Kent Crawford and Sir Thomas Smallwater, both of the Ordo." Gwen greeted the two by shaking their hands. "We've heard many good things about you, Magus Song." Sir Hawkford's eyes fell upon her friend. "But first, we are here to help. Elvia says that you had requested immediate aid." "Thank you, Lord Chaplain, though I fear there is no longer a need. I have rectified most of my problems for now," Gwen said. "Though at the cost of almost two thousand lives…" "Gwennie, if those are the Demi-humans you saved, then this is an incredible feat!" Elvia butted in, just in case Gwen meant she spent two thousand lives. Having worked with refugees in Northern Ireland and helped orchestrate evacuations in two separate campaigns, she knew precisely how impossible it was to organise a successful Exodus. "And you did it alone! You're always doing the impossible." "Nothing's impossible with enough HDMs and prep." Gwen flashed a hand with no less than FOUR shimmering bands, three of which were Rings of Storage. "The ordeal's cost me a few crates, but the main thing is we made it." "Well, Mattie and I are here to help," Elvia said quickly. "Aren't we, Mathias?" "I am at your service." Mathias made a mid-air bow. "I am truly grateful for the Spellsword, Magus Song. We've also brought the supplies you requested from Magister Walken, though I fear Evee's and your armour was not ready by the time we left." Gwen handwaved Mathias' apology like a diner refusing complimentary bread. "No worries, Matt. Don't fret over a mere Spellsword— that's for you to protect Evee. If you want someone to thank, pay your respects to Nesatin Smeltshield. He decided to rush your order ahead of the ones commissioned by the Griffin Guards; I just asked." "Surely there's something we can do?" Elvia surveyed the Rat-kin below, most of whom were now gazing up at the flying five. "Have you set up a Field Hospital? A triage shelter? I can sense a great illness, Gwennie— something evil is brewing inside these Demi-humans of yours." "Ah, yes, about that—" Gwen placed a hand on either side of her hips. "Evee, I need your medical knowledge." Elvia breathed out. Even if the infected were Demi-humans, healing the sick left a good impression on the Ordo, who often contended with races outside of Humanity, and whose mission of mercy did not usually suffer from racial prejudice. Gingerly, she touched a finger to the holy icon hanging by her neck. "Anything, Gwennie, just ask." "Very well." Her friend nodded amicably at her Chaplain and Senior Protector. By now, both of her superiors had relaxed somewhat. "What do you fellers know about Blood Plagues? Or how to ferment Necromantic phages? I need a hand propagating the one I've got, and I need to make sure its virulence remains at full capacity." Inquisitor Hawkford stiffened. To Elvia's eyes, the man appeared relieved that his suspicions were right after all. Comparatively, Sir Smallwater seemed puzzled by Gwen's complete nonplus confession, for her tone was no different to a housewife wanting help with an outbreak of garden snails. "… Right." Elvia felt her insides grow weak. To think things were going SO well! "Before we take this further, Gwennie, could we get a PRIVATE moment to rest and clean up? I am all icky from flying." "Companion Lindholm," her Inquisitor interjected, likely to rebuke her audacious partisanship. "I don't believe—" "Of course!" As usual, Gwen was in no mind to refuse her requests. "This might be the Wildlands, but that doesn't mean I need to be a terrible host. You must all be tired." "We're fine." Inquisitor Hawkford once more attempted to intervene. "Can you tell us more about this—" "Don't be a stranger." Gwen laughed without guile then beckoned that they follow. Elvia ignored her superiors and Mattie's alarmed expressions, following her friend like a kitten as she parted the Rat-kin tide like mouse-Moses parting the Rat Sea, revealing a path to a glimmering portal. "Come on, I've got the Portable Habitat set up with cold drinks and fresh fruit. Help yourselves." "Em…" Before Elvia could protest, her seniors followed them into the portal, with Gwen permitting her companions' entry. Mathias hesitated but still entered the grey space with its three-bedroom bungalow, knowing that he may have to fight his superiors at her command. Inside the familiar room, Gwen directed them to the kitchen and fridge. While every strand of hair on Elvia's flaxen head threatened rebellion, her friend played the perfect hostess by showing her the spacious bathroom and retrieving for her a fresh towel. LORD NAZARENE— Elvia's inner voice cried, begging the almighty for the necessary strength to guide her through this ordeal. Just as Gwen was about to leave to charm her Chaplain and his Knight, she reached out with a trembling hand and grabbed her companion by the wrist. Gwen tugged at her arm to no avail as Elvia had applied her Draconic strength. Gwen looked down, a little surprised. "Yes, Evee?" "Let's…" Elvia gulped. She could feel her Draconic Essence reacting against the viridescent counter force flowing in Gwen's body. "Let's…" "Let us?" "Go to the bathroom together..." Gwen let loose a snort just as her cheeks took on the same beetroot colour as Elvia's. Going together to the bathroom wasn't uncommon back in high school, but since Blackwattle, the same occurrence had not happened again. Behind her, she could feel Mathia's mana go haywire while her Chaplain and Sir Smallwater both stood from their seats. Gwen's eyes flittered between the men and herself, then an understanding that could not be more mistaken dawned. "Right. Of course, Evee. I missed you dearly as well. Sorry, gents, please give us girls a moment to freshen up." Then, in mockery of her smouldering nerves and cramping insides, Gwen gave her superiors a wink, as if to challenge whatever opinions they might have on two ladies sharing a moment, then allowed Elvia to take her away. The door shut. Elvia's mind raced. Would her superiors use the Eye of Providence? Or the Word of Revelation? She knew of only one way to ensure neither Sir Crawford nor Smallwater would attempt such a thing. "Goodness!" she shouted at the door. "Gwennie! You've gotten so much more beautiful! What a figure you have." Her surprised friend grew so scarlet she could have acquired a new moniker to rival Alesia. "Evee, I know we haven't seen each other for a few days, but wasn't our agreement that we would take a more natural course? Time, you know? Like we discussed?" Elvia walked straight to the bath and turned on both the shower tap and the bath's spigot. She then turned to her friend with a look of complete seriousness. "Gwennie, we need to talk. It's about the fellers outside." Knowing that time is of the Essence, Elvia incanted the keyword to undo her magical smock. Instantly, her garments loosened, transforming from a body-hugging combat robe into a loose cloak. Then, with a simple wave, she stowed her holy vestments into her Storage Ring. "They won't look— or listen— if it isn't— chaste. Not on mere suspicion." "Right." This time, Gwen read her intentions. She unfastened several zips, then stepped out of her combat armour like she was peeling off a layer of skin. "GOOD GOD—" This time, Elvia did not need to fake her emotional outpouring for the men outside. Though her friend's body remained hale, she could see the remnants of bruises both large and small where various body-boosting contingencies had forcibly knitted otherwise dire injuries. Observing the combat armour's inside-out shell, Elvia could see that its protective membranes had been shattered and that the twisted strands of magical fibre were rusty with what could only be dried blood. There was an odour as well, something between rust and the twain that unique to Negative Mana used to empower Necromancy, that spoke plainly of what Gwen had done to survive the past few nights. "I know, I know—" Gwen escaped into the shower, then covered the door to affect some privacy. Once her other bleeding garments hung on the door, she stepped into the water, momentarily turning the tiled floor ochre. "I wanted to take a shower before you came, but it's been one thing after another." Elvia fought the repression in her chest; holding the Tri-Crown icon hanging between her bosoms, she prayed for her friend with all her heart. "Heal thy faithful, Lord, and I will be healed— Blessed Aid!" The white-tiled bathroom glowed golden for a brief moment. Gwen let loose an audible moan like she was stepping out of four-inch heels after a long day working retail. "Christ, Evee, you're getting GOOD at this Faith business. I take it the chapel at the Isle of Dog is picking up believers by the container load?" "Yeah…" Elvia herself sat on the toilet seat, confident that Mathias would duel the Inquisitor should they use Scry or Clairvoyance in a situation like this. This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. "What did you want to tell me?" Gwen's voice blossomed beside her ear. They were out of sight of one another but not out of Divination range. "Gwennie, did you employ unorthodox magic to save the Rat-kin?" Elvia chose to cut straight to the chase. "The entire way here, we've been picking up traces of Soul Sorcery and Necromancy, among other kinds of... unscrupulous magics." "Ah—" Gwen's tone, for some reason, sounded relaxed. "Yes, I've been using whatever means necessary to get my rats to Shalkar. Why? Is there a problem? The Tower has sanctioned everything." "But not sanctioned for unsupervised usage..." "Outside of London? The unspoken rule is don't ask, don't tell," Gwen's reply was atypical of the secular powers. "Are the rules of the earthly world so… flexible?" "Absolutely. It's the bloody wild west out here, Evee." Gwen made a face that imitated Dede. "Tell you the truth— I've been holding back. The Tower's opinion, which is also Brown's and Bekker's advice, was that I should use whatever I deem necessary at every opportunity. Practice makes perfect, or so the adage goes..." The feeling of repression in Elvia's chest did not change. "Oh, Gwennie, you worry me so. What did you want with the Necromantic phage?" "It's a long story, longer than a shower at least," Gwen joked at her expense. She then elaborated on the situation of her Rat-kin, victims of the Plaguemancers from Spectre. "Spectre!" Elvia felt for a moment that the steam had become ice. "That's who Sir Hawkford and Smallwater are hunting." "Damn righteous," Gwen said. "I'll talk to them. Get them to help." "But... your 'magic'… I don't know how my superiors would react." Seeing that her friend felt no fear, Elvia self-medicated with a silent jolt of Calm Emotions, soothing her frayed nerves. "They won't be a problem unless they desire to be." Her friend's eerie confidence was more worrying than her Necromancy. "Look, Evee, I know you're worried, but give me a chance to explain it in front of your peers. Trust me, the higher up they are, the more likely they'll agree with me." Elvia couldn't help but feel that maybe her friend didn't understand just how high the matter could escalate. If Inquisitor Hawkford saw something he deemed excessive— not even the Tower could contest his accusation. Of course, the powers behind her could then free her, but the procedure would be lengthy and costly. What Elvia feared then wasn't the consequence of Gwen's Necromancy-lite, but the fallout if she and her Chaplain came to blows. While Gwen's battle potential was there for all to see, Faith Magic did possess an edge over Spellcraft in the distinct manner of its manifestation, something regular IMS users could not begin to fathom. When gathered in the hands of someone at the tier of Sir Hawkford, it would take Gwen's Brother-in-craft, Gunther Shultz, to squeeze out a concession from the Fomorian-crushing Knight Commander. "Evee—" Her friend addressed her silence. "We take any longer in here, and they'll be reporting you for something else. Look— don't worry about the Ordo, alright? I got it covered. Lady Loftus gave me a very long and detailed rundown, and though I can't say too much, let's say The Order of the Bath and I are natural chums, okay? Your Knight and this Inquisitor are going to LOVE me." When her friend finally stepped from the shower, Elvia studied the synthetic orchid adorning the sink, hating the fact that she was in no mood for titillating encounters. Gwen quickly dried herself with an Incantation Cube, donned her intimates, then slipped on something entirely inappropriate for meeting with clergy. True to her word, her companion wasn't troubled. But could men like Sir Hawkford be moved so easily? Comely and charismatic her counterpart might be, Elvia did not doubt that the Inquisitor had a mind like tempered iron and was immune to glamour, both magical and otherwise. "See you outside, Evee." her companion exited with a rush of cold air. "And thanks for the heads up. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have even considered wrangling the Order of the Bath. When Shalkar gets going, you're getting credit, too." Gwen felt disappointed that the Knights did not liquor up with her Dwarven lagers, although they did help themselves to the platter of fresh fruit she had laid out. Now freed of her bloodsoaked battlesuit, Gwen was feeling very pleased indeed. Not just because she and Elvia healed a little as a result of her Senior Knights, but also because she hadn't gotten this close to Evee since Sydney, since before things had gone strange and their relationship grew more tangents than an Aberrant had limbs. The naive fluster that Evee had shown— she loved that side of Elvia, especially her good-natured innocence and her well-meaning little acts of self-sacrifice. No doubt, if this Sir Hawkford did indeed have beef with her, then Evee by now would have left little doubt in the man's mind that his doll-eyed acolyte wasn't an obedient sister but a naughty, wilful minx. For what's to come— an unexpected setup she had Elvia to thank— she wanted the Inquisitor on her side, which meant the Ordo would act as one of her Lightning Rods. If she could manage that, then another obstacle to the Rat-kin's newfound freedom would be exchanged for a support pillar. After pausing at the doorway so her audience could take a good long gander, Gwen arrived in the midst of three stiffy silent Knights whose eyes couldn't believe what they were seeing. Indeed, no Necromancer should look so vital. Gwen didn't know what Soul Flayers looked like in casual, though she suspected heavy mascara, skinny jeans, and tour shirts for Cannibal Corpse might feature. Comparatively, her chosen battle outfit was white-on-white, a demure mini dress with a square window to show off her collarbones, completed by a teasing hem hidden by sheer chiffon. With her hair just dried and trailing the scent of floral shampoo, she thanked the men, then sat on the tub chair directly facing them, thighs crossed, feet bare, her dainty toenails red as rubies. Mathias stood with his body against the tall back of the chair left empty for Elvia, his eyes finding scripture in the ceiling. Sir Smallwater sat hunched forward with an appreciative grin, ready to participate in whatever game she invited them to play. Chaplain Hawkford's gaze remained focused on her eyes. The man's expression was unflappable, though Gwen could sense his uneasiness. Taking a sip from his cup to mask the awkwardness, the Inquisitor finally allowed his gaze to wander, then sighed like a tired Pastor. "Shall we wait for Companion Lindholm?" Gwen agreed, then made small talk about London's high society. A few minutes later, Elvia emerged fully clothed in her battle smock, which is to say white tunic and pants, with the tri-crown logo of the order imprinted on either rigid shoulder. Against her bosom, a holy symbol dangled, diffusing a golden glow that matched the fairness of her flaxen hair. The Evee of now was also lovely, Gwen thought. Gone was the cluelessness of youth. Now her friend appeared efficacious and thoughtful, though a little tired. Elvia's Inquisitor-Chaplain was the first to speak. "Novitiate Lindholm, for reasons you very well know, may I request that you observe a momentary vow of silence?" Hawkford opened without diplomacy. While the man spoke, Gwen noticed his irises glowed as though haloed by the golden hour. "Magus Song, may I ask you a few sensitive questions? Know that my enquiry is for both your benefit, as well as that of our future Knight Companion." "Of course." Gwen cocked her chin, then twirled a bit of hair about her collar bones. The more unbalanced her audience became, the better the latter impact of her words. "What sorcery did you use on your Rat-kin to enable their passage from Nukus?" "Potions, Potions, Potions, and Death March," she answered without pause. "Death March?" The Inquisitor made a note with a raised brow. "Same as what the Centaurs use?" "It's a unique variant. We've replaced the Green-skin Essence Sympathy segment with scripts intended for Soul Necromancy originally pioneered during the Great War. The baseline Sigil's Glyphs parallel the original. However, the hybrid Sigil scripts are my Master's invention and are known only to myself and a few select Cambridge Faculty members. A record is available for those with the right clearance." Her candidness caught the Inquisitor by surprise, for the man had to take a few seconds to digest the fact before continuing. "We also detected another kind of Soul Sorcery, a kind that has seen questionable applications when used in the South American Wildlands. Is that also by your will?" "Soul Tap, yes," her candidness continued. "Very useful when you need the dirty truth in a hurry. I've been using this opportunity to test its elasticity and limitations. In the forefront of academia, Sir Hawkford, entire generations of Void Mages' livelihoods now hinge on my proficiency. If successfully paired with Sympathetic Life-Link— that's the other Blood Thaumaturgy you'll be accusing me of, we can stabilise the vital decay stemming from volatile Negative Awakenings. It's all very miraculous." "You do not appear at all troubled by your descent into Necromancy, Magus Song." The Inquisitor's brows knitted. "I would venture to say that you seem proud of it." "Should I not be?" Gwen looked to Elvia, smugly smiled, then looked back at the Inquisitor. "I was born in a backwater Frontier, but now I am the Devourer of Shenyang, the Liberator of Kachin, MVP of the IIUC, architect of the Tonglv Canal and the Isle of Dogs, co-Pioneer of common Void Sorcery, Ambassador to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth and fellow to the Tree of Tryfan. At present, I am here for my Magister's training, testing myself by liberating the Rat-kin and to bring a new balance to the Steppes. Did you think I achieved these accomplishments by studying Spell Books at the local library? Where would the Ordo be if its members lack the same conviction and ambition?" Gwen studied the Chaplain while her accumulative titles tightened the Inquisitor's lips little by little like a tiny ratchet. "Hubris," the Inquisitor retorted. "... is a treacherous sin even for one so young, no matter the value you may bring." "You didn't answer my question," Gwen replied with another beaming smile, shifting in her seat so that Mathias found renewed interest in the spotless ceiling. "No matter, you have answered mine." "Do I satisfy?" Gwen gestured to herself. Hawkford's brows knitted. "Tell me, Inquisitor." Gwen decided she would move on. "Who does the Ordo serve?" "The Nazarene, for us whose blessed feet were nailed to the bitter cross." "Indeed." Gwen made the sign of the cross. "For he is the way, and the truth, and the life." The Inquisitor's coolness cracked. "Magus Song, even for someone in your position, it is unwise to mock the Ordo." "Lord Commander Hawkford." She leaned forward aggressively so that a portion of her hair fell across her bare shoulders. "I meant no disrespect. Rather, I am frustrated. Did you know that almost nine days ago— yours truly happened to a group of hapless Rat-kin living as slaves without dignity or means of escaping drudgery, enslaved by pagans who worship the old ways? Touched by their suffering, I took their sick and dying and displaced them from becoming hamburger mince under the Centaur's iron hooves, then trekked across a desert filled with wolves, Harpies, Sand Wyrms, and Moses knows what else. I then fed them out of pocket and charity until we reached the promised land of their oasis, only to be shat on by the bloody Khan. As a learned Cleric of the almighty and all-merciful, are you seriously going to dismiss the parallels?" "I see it," the Inquisitor replied with ambivalence. "You have done an admirable thing, Magus Song, but—" "Inquisitor! By Him that raised me to this careful height, I have done nought that would go against my God-given conscience!" Gwen carefully raised the frustration in her voice. "Dear Chaplain, you do me shameful injury when you presume my vileness, know you not that the all-knowing watches us, even here in this Pocket Plane?" "I shall not contest that." Hawkford appeared entered by her flurry of accusations. "Magus Song, I am not here to judge your merits—" "JUDGE?! If the _temple burning Mongols_ —" Gwen parried the Knight's counter, taking a mile when gifted an inch. "— have not been smitten by Him, then why should the all-knowing damn ME, who sought to save the meek? Blessed are the _Meek_ , Chaplain! You all knew of the Rat-kin's plight! Yet no one helped them but _me_ — a meek woman who knew nothing of their suffering! Yet _lo!_ Here we are, dearest Inquisitor! Their salvation is at hand! Will you damn them? Who can say this isn't providence? YOU? Be you so mighty that you alone speak for the Lord of Lords?" Gwen watched as Mathias hung his head. Besides the Knight of St Michael, Patron Saint of the Meek, Sir Smallwater shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The Inquisitor raised both hands in protest. "Magus Song… Your tongue is as wily as the thrice-damned serpent's." Hawkford spoke after a prolonged pause. "Yet, I cannot contest that you have spoken only the truth. Yes, we have taken little care of the troubles here. However, for the sake of our world and to prevent the tragedy that is the Great War, there must be discourse and consequence. Your Path isn't the first to cross ours, Gwen— and you won't be the last." "Our path isn't crossed, Kent." Gwen fought back, her pupils aglow with supernatural confidence. "Nay, our Paths are parallel and supplementary, like the two rails of a track; one would falter without the other. For instance, Evee says that you are here for the Plaguemancers?" "That is correct." "Then you should know that the phage I am trying to preserve is the very one laid by your Plaguemancers. If you have means to track the plague, Kent, I'll give you all the aid and samples I can." "Much obliged." Hawkford's eyes softened. "But why have you not eradicated the phage?" "There was no need." Gwen moved on to the next phase of her subversion. "I need the phage to make a home for the Rat-kin and establish a haven. In the months to come, I will gather the scattered Rat-kin Clans of the Sawahi here." "Your humble Rat-kin are immune to a Plaguemancer's crafted phage?" Hawkford raised both brows. "In a manner of speaking, thanks to certain improvements on my part, most can endure the worst, with only the weakest and the lame succumbing to the fever. As for those who are newly infected, the phage often lies dormant." "I hope this isn't yet another sanctioned heretical Thaumaturgy." Hawkford's judgemental eyes gleamed. "No. Tis a virtue of Essence. Free-range and free of Necromancy," Gwen said. "As to how? That's Classified information. I urge you to petition London Tower if you wish to know more." "This might be strange, Magus Song, but I find your total honesty... disturbing." Hawkford's truth-seeking glamour flickered as the man massaged one side of his temples. "I concede the point. Your disease is useful in what way?" "It sends the Centaurs fleeing in every other direction," Gwen delivered her punchline. "I am keeping this gift from the Plaguemancers so that the Centaurs would stay away from Shalkar." "And if they don't?" This time, it was Sir Smallwater who asked the question. "Horse Lords are very, very aggressive when it comes to territory." "Then good luck to the Khan. A small force won't make a dent, not with Garp here. Conversely, a large and victorious Horde will return to Nukus laden with casualties and plague. It would be lose-lose." "Of course, your tame Sand Wyrm." The Inquisitor grew contemplative. "And you… foresaw this?" "Things happened." Gwen shrugged. "Life is full of ordeals." "Magus Song, if you don't mind me playing the Devil's Advocate. What's the value in keeping Shalkar?" Sir Smallwater raised a hand, his tone now edging on respect. "And indeed, these bottom-feeding Demi-humans?" "I plan to terraform the local area into an agricultural primary produce centre." Gwen felt relieved that she could finally draw her pie in the sky for the Ordo Knights. "Did you know that the Rat-kin were originally responsible for the spreading of crops and other plants that prevented the desertification of the Sawahi? The process is reversible, so long as we can keep the Horses away." "You aim to establish plantations?" The Knight remained unconvinced. "What will you grow?" Knowing the Knight would ask this very question, Gwen casually reached for a pouch resting on the side table, then retrieved a leaf pulsing with vitality. "Good Lord." Sir Smallwater blinked rapidly. "Kent, she's got a—" "I know." The Inquisitor motioned for Gwen to speak. "Gwen, are you party to that which cannot be named?" Knowing that she had the men now dancing in the palm of her hands, Gwen smiled with teeth. "Maybe, are you, Kent? If so, we can speak more candidly." "The Ordo is not, and never will be." The ex-Knight Commander shook his head. "Do your orders come from up on 'high'?" "I shall not verify nor deny that fact." Gwen slipped a pair of fingers into the valve-like opening of the satchel to retrieve a few seeds for all to see. "Starling Tomatoes, Jade Cucumbers, Polar Beans and Sunburst Squash— and to quote my Druid Hierophant— 'These will thrive anywhere on the Prime Material, provided there's sun, soil and water.' Once we have a prolific supply of produce, precious food exports will bring a rapid expansion of the Rat-kin's domain. I don't know if you studied Planar Theory in the seminary, but when an eco-sphere recovers, the Prime Material's fabric will increasingly disfavour Planar invaders, limiting the growth of the Fire Sea, if not outright turning the Elementals into natives. If I succeed— and succeed I shall— then Humanity, the Mageocracy, and the Rat-kin will see wins on every front. AND the Centaurs will have abundant food to sustain their war against the Elementals." To finish, Gwen willed a juicy apple to float from the fruit basket. Holding the fruit in the palm of her hand, she implored the Inquisitor by taking a bite out of the crisp flesh. "Thereby, Sir Hawkford. Will you nip this sinner in the bud, or will you aid the meek, and in the process, bring long-lasting peace, prosperity and mercy to the Steppes?" Opposite Gwen, Elvia's trio of Knights stared as though the Devourer in a short dress had suddenly sprouted horns and a tail. "Oh, just one more thing." She had wanted to save her Ace-in-the-hole for a rainy day, but with Elvia here, she felt that the time was ripe for teaching her Evee just how tenable her position in the Ordo had become. "I say this with the utmost respect, Sir Hawkford, but after your victorious return to London, you should check in with your secular scribes as to why the Ordo's budget has been so generous." Inquisitor Hawkford's eyes grew suddenly alarmed. "Ah— I see you had a hand in the audit duties as well." Gwen passed the bitten apple to her off-hand. "To alleviate your suspicions, I shall confirm your worries. Battle's budget has indeed been generous of late, not only because the Lady of Ely had donated doubly handsomely, but because the Isle of Dogs also contributed. I shall say it here and now, Inquisitor Hawkford— I promise you, in my capacity as the Isle's CFO, that if the salvation of the Sawahi goes well, the Ordo's budget will _increase_ to a degree equating the degree of our success." "Ye Gods! May the Almighty have mercy on our souls..." Sir Smallwater made the sign of the cross with his Holy Symbol while facing her. "Damned succubus, tempt us not! Kent, what say you?" "As always, we will do what's right." Inquisitor Hawkford disabled the Faith sorcery empowering his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose with a defeated sigh. "Magus Song speaks the truth— We are mere ministers of His grace, Thomas. Aiding the Meek remains a core duty of us Poor Soldiers." Gwen happily stood from the couch, shook hands with her new conspirators, then sat beside Elvia with her arm around the Cleric's neck. "What? How?" Her precious Evee appeared to be in pain after holding her promised silence. "If you could... Why did I even... _ARRRGH—_ " "Never mind that, Evee." Gwen rested her cheek on Elvia's head as she massaged the young woman's trembling shoulders. "Isn't it nice that God works in _mysterious_ ways?" Hyrcania. The Western Steppes. A mere hundred kilometres from the Fire Sea, the desert air burned even at dusk thanks to the planar tear, its breach of the Prime Material so violent as to be visibly distorting the landscape. Dini Saran, Chief Shaman, Speaker for the Nayzağay Qani and its numberless Şöpter servants, sought shelter from the heat under the Glyphs laid down by the Human Mages aiding the Horde. "Şöpters, leave me," she gave the command. Her followers obeyed without question, filing out of the cool tent and into the burning exterior to suffer the heat. Saran touched a finger to her temple, allowing her consciousness to rang out, affirming that her Khan, Khudu, his other Orkoks and their allied Arcanists were resting from the midday victory against the Dao's Clay Golems. Thus far, the campaign had progressed at an alarming pace— so exceedingly well that more than once, Saran had asked her Khan to halt his pursuit of the retreating Dao and Djinn for fear of needlessly losing their men to ambushes. The Khan had given chase heedless of her advice— and against all expectation, emerged victorious with the help of the Human Meister Angela Bekker, besting the ambushes at every turn. It was incredible, but Hyrcania, the old bastion of the Centaurs under Seljuk Khan some millennia ago, was once more theirs. Through the loss of only an Orkok's worth of Free Riders, they had pushed as far as it was physically possible to do so, leaving only the outer perimeter to cleanse and secure. Now, Saran felt a horrible disquiet. The Khitani Horde had bested the mirage-wielding Marids. Beaten back the deceitful Djinns and even pushed back the magma-hearted Dao. But where were the Efreeti Clan? The Fire Sea— so-called because of the reigning authority of the prideful Princeling Zodiam, Son of Flames, that wanton, gluttonous bear of an Elemental, ancient bringer of firestorms and desolation, had amounted its defence sans its strongest soldiery— the infamous Brass Legion. Their absence, Saran was sure, was the only reason for which Temir, so young and fearless in his courage, could penetrate this deep into the heart of the Fire Sea, a place where Elemental Fire ruled like a fierce tyrant over all other Elements. Yet, in this promised of land flame and brimstone, where had its sulfur-breathing champions gone? Again, Saran assured her privacy, then produced from her herb pouch a desiccated leaf. Promptly, she conjured mana and distilled Essence to the hand holding the leaf. The fibres hungrily absorbed what Saran made available, growing vibrant and plump as her figure appeared to wane in the aftermath like a wilted flower, her youthful face growing instantly old before beginning a slow recovery. Saran had not wanted to use the Llias Leaf, certainly not because of an unexpectedly decisive victory. Holding the leaf with both hands, she transmuted her thoughts and fears into the sympathetic fibres of the living leaf, calling upon one who had guided her since the time of Temir's grandsire. "… Saran?" a thought came, borne on the hot winds blowing from the portal. "… O Eternal Bloom." Saran infused her thoughts with the leaf. "I require your boundless wisdom." "… An unexpected request from one so capable, but we will oblige. What ails you, child? Have the Elementals proven more powerful than the Council anticipated?" "The opposite, your worshipfulness. We are at Hyrcania, our losses are acceptable, and morale remains high. We have pushed the Elementals far, but there has been no sight of Prince Zodiam, nor his brass-bound molten legions." "… Most peculiar. How many Free Riders did you lose? Who did you face?" "We have slain a little over a thousand of the Elemental Folk, including six Primarches of Earth, Water and Air. Our losses number just over ten thousand, though we will lose more to the Blood Fever when we return. I am sorry to report that the Elementals have allied with Human Necromancers to spread disease and famine." "Famine?" "Without other nations to raid, the Sawahi struggles to sustain the Horde's appetites, O Eternal Bloom. After the war, there will be many winters of long attrition. Though we have many Elemental Cores to trade, I know as well as your sagely self that the Mageocracy will not make good on its promises." "… Saran." To Saran's shock-horror, the all-knowing voice of her ageless sage sounded hesitant. "Has a visitor not appeared, bearing a Druidic seed-satchel by her side?" "I…" Saran's thoughts flashed over the entourage of Human Mages. She had worked hand-in-hand with every Mage for the last ten days and recalled seeing no one with a Druidic satchel. "… I do not know, O Eternal Bloom. Please instruct this ignorant one." "… Have you not seen a Void-wielding sorceress?" the voice grew solemn. "I have, though the sorceress is far from the field, in Shalkar. We had expected to call upon her Creature— though now it would appear there is no need." "… Why is she not with her companions? With the Khan? She has a way with words..." "… The girl wished to spare several Clans of diseased Tasmüyiz. When her senior sorcerers humoured her wilfulness, the Khan thought it harmless to send her away and to teach her a lesson in futility so that we are in a better position to negotiate with the Mageocracy after the campaign." The silence that followed was like whispering silk. "O Eternal One." Despite the coolness of her yurt's interior, Saran's furry skin broke out in a terrific outbreak of oozy sweat, making the sheer fabric of her robes adhere like a second skin. "Has this one erred?" "For our ultimate purpose…" the voice that came through possessed an uncanny tone Saran could not read. "You may have achieved a better outcome than any other member of the Accord had achieved in years." "I thank thee, O—" "… Though for your people," the voice continued. "Who may know?" "Eternal Bloom?" Saran's fingers shook. "Should this one retrieve the Void sorceress from Shalkar?" "I shall leave matters to you," the voice in her head said. "Fret not, Saran. While change itself may be unpleasant, that which endures must be endured, else boon will turn to bane, and the Khitani will join their ancestors in history." "Please teach your fool." Saran prostrated while holding the leaf, the golden bell of her horns lowering until they touched the carpeted floor. "Guide this one as you always have..." Saran prayed to the tree in the north. She prayed to her ancestors, then prayed to the spirit of Great Gengis. Unfortunately, no further elucidation came to Dini Saran, Chief Shaman of the Khitani Nayzağay Qani. In the Llias Leaf's silence of thought, there blew only the scalding winds from the Fire Sea, driving the dunes eastward, eternally expanding the Sawahi.

When Gwen and Elvia's retinue of Knights materialised in the world outside, Golos had returned, and she had redressed in safari khakis more suitable for sun and sand. "Father's Vessel has arrived?" her Wyvern's first act, after dropped off a pair of bloodied bodies, was to remark on the bewildered figure of Elvia. Even now, her friend was reeling from Gwen's conversion of her Ordo's Inquisitors. When the majestic Wyvern's elongated snout reached the Inquisitor and his Senior Knight, the Wyvern's usual arrogant Draconic gave way to English. "Greetings, Daoshi of the West." "We hail thee, Scion of the Yinglong." The Inquisitor bowed his head while Gwen introduced them, evidently impressed by so noble a creature. Her Wyvern appeared to struggle in placing the duo within his internal hierarchy of being. "Calamity, be these allies or foes?" "We're all friends here," Gwen assured her Wyvern, then directed their attention to the two bleeding, mangled piles under Golos. "I assume those are not our friends." "Ha! That's the Chief of the Qasqir and his child." Only now did Gwen notice her Wyvern's entire lower half was covered in wet, as opposed to desiccated gore. From the looks of the carnage, Gogo must have had a lot of fun raiding the camp of the Sawahi's hapless, terrestrial Demi-humans. "I thought they might be useful." "They certainly are!" Gwen patted her Wyvern on the snout. "Well done, Gogo! Your brother would be proud!" The Wyvern snorted with evident pleasure, then haughtily reared back a head that was as violent as it was handsome. "That said—" Gwen stepped in front of Elvia almost unconsciously, then felt embarrassed after realising her friend was probably more resilient to Gogo's carelessness than she was. "— are they still alive?" Her Wyvern shrugged its shoulders, an act so human that both Elvia's Seniors remarked at the Thunder Wyvern's affability. "I'll check," Elvia offered, conjuring forth Sen-sen without apparent need for an invocation. The bipedal Ginseng took a wide path around Gwen, then grew out its tendrils to nestle the potential wolf-kin corpses onto makeshift field beds formed of interwoven roots. The Knight Companion's eyes took on the dim glow of Clerical Divination; after a quick inspection, she raised her Holy Symbol and proclaimed the all-compassing "Aid" of the Nazarene. Miraculously, Sen-sen took on the same illumination as conjured by her Prayer Cantrip, bolstering Elvia's spell with its unique constitution. It took several minutes for the Aid to run its course. As the spell's gentle suffusion took place, Rat-kin from all over the dig site came to see what their Lord Golos had brought and what their Priestess' companion was capable of performing. Perhaps hoping that their death should have been the end of it, Gwen's prisoners opened their despairing eyes. Interestingly, Elvia had only partially restored the Wolf-kin, a testament to how well she had read the situation. "Your names?" Gwen stood beside the scoundrels. If the wolves were to attack, they would instantly discover just how potent a Ginseng could be when reinforced with the Essence of a True Dragon. In front of the four humans, a Wyvern, an endless ring of rats, and two disorientated Wolf-kin raised their subdued eyes at their captors. Both Wolf-kin had seen better days, but there was still a savage majesty about the pair that made Gwen think of documentaries she had seen about the Wolves of Yellowstone. In the cold, sandstone pupils of these creatures, she saw cunning, malice, and the deep-set ego of alpha predators. "Kinsur of Qasqir," the larger of the two replied. "This is Tatatunga. I am chief of the Qasqır." Gwen looked to her Wyvern. "If they're lying." Golos grinned cruelly, revealing teeth that the Rat-kin could use for daggers. "I'll raze their village and every other wolf settlement within an hour's flight." "Thank you, Gogo. Wolf-kin of Qasqır. Why did you attack my Rat-kin?" Gwen asked a loaded question, one she would use to gauge how the Wolves would pay. "… Nourishment," the wolf calling himself Skinkur spat blood as he answered. "And orders." "From?" She activated her Desolation Aura. "From Temir Khan's Eagle-kin." The wolf moaned with every stuttering word, struggling to deliver his rationale. "There's no crime in it. We live on the Steppes. Strength is how things are. They're welcome to raid us back if they're able." "I see. Though I would be careful what you wish for." Gwen studied her mangy, mangled foe, then turned to Elvia. "Nourishment, you say? Evee, can you use Detect Disease on our guests?" "Of course." Elvia turned her diagnostic vision toward the Wolf-kin. Incanting a few words, she sent forth a ripple of Positive Energy that travelled through Sen-sen's tendrils to pulse through the creatures' bodies. A few seconds later, Gwen had her answer. "It's a minute manifestation, but it's there. They're sick with the same Blood Fever that's carried by your Rat-kin." Gwen's lips formed a red line of mockery. "Ah— karma can be a cruel mistress. Tell me, Kinsur, did you two know that the Rat-kin you're attacking are the plague-ridden Tasmüyiz I rescued from under the Khan's hooves?" The two shook their heads. "Nay. Dini Saran's advice was that these were fleeing the war." Dini Saran? Gwen scanned her recent memories, and a smiling Şöpter Shaman's face flashed across her mind's eye, the very one who told her to chill out over Strun's mother. If Saran had planned to "reward" the Qasqır by offering them diseased rats, then the fathoms of the Dini's twisted mind was depthless. In one act, the Shaman would have shamed her, killed the rats, then infected the Qasqir, the Centaur's natural competitors. "I know of this Saran," Inquisitor Hawkford volunteered. "She has served as the 'nurse' of three generations of Khans thus far, an exceedingly unusual prospect for a Şöpter Shaman." Briefly, Gwen described her encounter with Saran to Elvia and her companions, then elaborated that these two and their Clan of hunters were responsible for the life of some eight hundred refugees. "Nonetheless, I would hope that your 'mercy' is just." Inquisitor Hawkford appeared to have read her mind. "And without unnecessary Soul Sorcery." "I'll give them the mercy they deserve," Gwen informed the Inquisitor, then stepped into the air to address her circle of rats. "Prefects! Your Priestess requires your presence!" A few of her Prefects were already close, while the few that had duties further afield delegated responsibilities to their fellow Centurions, then scampering to the fore. “Priestess—“ “Dear Priestess!” “We are here, Priestess—“ The title was enough to raise the brows of her companions. "It's what they've taken to call me." Gwen laughed off their concern, sensing that her new companions had taken on odd expressions in the rats' presence. "It wasn't easy getting this many folks you've met for a few days to work together without adequate theatrics." Hawkford gave Elvia a questioning look while her friend once more took on a consternated expression of guilt and concern. "Trust me, there's nothing to it—" Gwen turned to her rats. "This is Strun, a Centurion and grand scion of Stian. Beside him is the rat himself, Elder of Clan Jildam and a Prefect. Tell them, Stian, what am I the Priestess of, exactly?" "The Afaa al-Halak! Sovereigns of the Sawahi!" Stian replied at once. "And You are the tamer of the Wyrm, the Rat-kin's salvation, O Priestess." "See?" She rewarded the Prefect by patting the rat on the head. "Evee, Mattie, you'll be working with Strun in the coming days, together with Garp— that's the Sand Wyrm over yonder. Strun is my Wyrm Rider and Champion among the rats. If there are any problems, Strun will solve them for you." "Hello, Strun." Elvia waved at the rat. The Knights nodded, unconvinced of the authority bestowed upon so unassuming a Demi-human. "Welcome, Prefects," Gwen addressed her newly gathered audience. "Over there are the leaders responsible for that night of terror— their Elder and his heir." The rats' eyes informed Gwen and her fellow sorcerers that they had only one thing on their minds. "From the fact that they're sick with the Blood Fever," Gwen continued. "I take it that they ATE your kin. Raw." The murderous aura grew thick enough to slice. Opposite Gwen, Elvia and her Knights silently waited for the carnage to come. "In their eyes, what they did was not a crime." Gwen eased the atmosphere of simmering rage by merely raising a hand. "Fortunately for our Qasqır neighbours, I am not one to judge. THEREFORE, what I shall do is encourage the fruits of their labour— Golos will take these two diseased murderers back to their Clan. There, they will inform their kin, or not, that the Khan has gifted them a Necromantic phage that would desolate their stronghold. That will be the karmic outcome of their choice to attack us like jackals in the night." Gwen waited for rats to digest her judgement. "Does that satisfy? If any should object, come forth now." Her Prefects were quick to prostrate themselves. "None, noble Priestess, your wisdom is faultless." "Inquisitor?" Gwen turned to Hawkford. "Can I get a professional opinion?" "Unorthodox, but apt." Inquisitor Hawkford nodded with solemnity. "As you said, the Qasqır shall eat the fruit of their sins. Tis an admirable summation, Magus Song." "Thanks, Kent." Gwen gave the man nod. "Mathias, you said you brought supplies?" "A hundred Cure Disease Potions, and twenty Restoration Potions." Mathias made to remove one of his Storage Rings. Gwen tossed the ring to Stian, knowing that the rat could use simple items, then turned once more to their cowering prisoners. "I have given these potions of Cure Disease to the Rat-kin," Gwen informed the pair. "They are free to gift them to you if your people are sincere enough. If so, the penitent may be spared to perpetuate the Clan." "HA!" Golos snorted, understanding as well as she did that having the Wolf-kin beg at the Rat-kin would break their spines. "Calamity! Ruxin would be proud." "I know," Gwen stated the obvious. "Now, would you mind delivering these two back home?" "I shall do it at once!" The Wyvern's innate sadism overflowed from the expression of pure pleasure. "You two! Hold still lest I crush you like Ryxi's carp!" The Wolf-kin dared only to protest in silence, though they were gone in an instant, disappearing along with Golos' gleeful laughter amid the flapping of great wings. Knowing her Wyvern, he would not only deliver the Wolf-kin's leaders but inform their Clan and the Clans around them of the disease, then stay to watch the shit show like a kid poking at anthills. "An excellent finishing touch." Inquisitor Hawkford was the first to speak in the aftermath of her judgement, offering an opinion that juxtaposed Elvia's consternation. "Mercy and judgement in equal degree— but not without cost or consequence. Elvia, Mathias, you have much to learn from your friend here." "Yes, Inquisitor," both Juniors of their irrespective Ordo hailed the Inquisitor's advice. "So, what will you have us do?" Hawkford indicated to himself and his Senior Protector. "Sir Smallwater and I can spare you a day at best. Companion Lindholm and Sir Rothwell will stay, of course, as per their original designs." "Please do as you will." Gwen turned to her Prefects. "Ix, Jarl, Bith, can you take these Masters to see Centurion Kuka? They're interested in studying the illness. Give them whatever they need. Scour the mischief for the newly sick if you must." "YES! Priestess!" To her companions, she explained that Kuka was the old Shaman of Clan Jildam tasked with helping those suffering from the direst symptoms of the Blood Fever. In those victims, the mature phage and the phage seeds should gift the Inquisitor the means to trace the mana signature of Spectre's Plaguemancer. "If there are enough samples and Miss Lindholm's aid, we shouldn't need more than a few hours," Hawkford assured her. "Gwennie, I brought a field clinic with me," Elvia showed off two rings on her off-hand, by which Gwen took to mean she brought tents, supplies and medical necessities for surgeries. If so, then the thousand or so injured rats relying on soiled bandages and splints would be thankful indeed. "Where can I set it up?" "Skaz," Gwen called on another familiar rat-face. "After they visit Kuka, show our friends where we're situating the town centre, west of the oasis. If Evee needs more space, gather the men to clear out whatever she needs." "Yes, Priestess! I'll inform the Contuberniums working the site!" The Rat-kin scurried away. "I'll be back soon." Elvia and herself exchanged a hug, then left to perform her volunteered duty. While the rest of the rats returned to work, she called over Stian to continue what had been interrupted when Elvia and the Ordo had descended from the heavens. "Sorry about that unexpected detour, Stian. How are the fields looking?" "We completed the canals by hand after Lord Garp liquified the stubborn sediments," the Elder explained, gesturing with his clawed hands. "There was also clay which Lord Garp transported, that our artisans had used to fashion aqueducts for your Worshipfulness' magical spigots. Likewise, the planting teams have done their best to enrich the sandy soil with Lord Garp's blessed excrements. If you wish it, Priestess, the Rat-kin can begin seeding immediately." Gwen felt thoroughly impressed. Her Rat-kin's protestant work ethic was downright admirable. Not even under the reward of bonuses, pay rise, and living quarter incentives had the collective workforce of the Isle of Dogs demonstrated remotely as much efficacy. In a way, the Rat-kin reminded her of the Dwarves, for they never stayed still and always seemed to be engaged with one thing or another. Was it because their natural life-spans were shorter? She wondered, or that Shalkar was now their home? Whatever the case, Gwen produced the Druidic pouch hanging from her belt. Just as she was about to hand over the seeds, a stray and daring thought suddenly struck. Almudj. Kiki and Sen-sen. Garp's waste. And Golos' poop, from which she would need to retrieve additional spoils anyway. Assuming her seeds were already soaked in the Essence of Tryfan's Tree, what would happen if they were to receive additional boosts from Elvia's plant Sprites and Draconic modifications? What "GM crops" could her "Ratsanto" then produce? What if the Rat-kin, who were natural experts, could build a shining farm on the hill producing quasi-magical crops for trading to the Mageocracy? Gwen's Crystal senses chimed like a church bell. As a lass growing up eating "normal" food in the Frontier, she knew exactly how rare and costly "Wildland" produce could be. Now, she imagined a farm ploughed by innate Earthen talent from a Sand Wyrm, fertilised by refuse from a True Dragon's Scion, and planted with seeds blessed by Tryfan, the Yinglong and Almudj— Hell's bells, what would grow? The beanstalk of legend? She had always maintained that Jack was an idiot to cut the stalk down when he could have become the Soy King of England. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. "Jesus Lord Almighty…" Here was an opportunity, and she was the only one with the means and the "technology" to seize it. If indeed she could produce results from her little experiment, then in a month, she would have indisputable results to convince Meister Bekker and Magister Frank Taylor, assuming the Southern Campaign ended in their favour. "Priestess?" Stian carefully stood to one side, alarmed by the strange aura emanating from his cackling Priestess. "We'll reconvene once the others return," Gwen rescinded her order. "For now, continue with the waterworks and the sand enrichment. There's grain and SPAM in that ring as well, so inform the others, for tonight, we feast in celebration of a better, brighter tomorrow!" "Yes, Priestess!" Stian received his orders with a bow, nodded at Strun, then left to supervise the field. "What shall I do?" Strun was the last of the rats' leadership left by her side. "You're with me," Gwen said. "Do you remember when I asked about the Murk?" "Yes, Priestess," Strun answered eagerly. "There are entrances all over the Eastern Sawahi, especially in the Badlands." "Are there any near here?" "There is." Strun gestured toward the horizon. "At Muruntau, where the rocks pierce the sand to point at the heavens." "And that's where you saw the white-fleshed fiends?" Strun nodded. "Have you seen any Dwarves? They're kind of like humans, but stout, drinks a lot, relishes smithing, drives those—" She pointed to the two Golem Suits she had brought. Unfortunately, she didn't have time to teach the Rat-kin how to use the complex machines, though she could probably import human instructors in the future. With educated rodents, even sans Dwarves, it shouldn't be impossible to create a warren-City underneath Shalkar. "I am ashamed for my lack of knowledge, Priestess." Strun hung his head. "That's okay." Gwen rather enjoyed patting the Rat-kin's head, Strun's soft tufts of fur there, and the rat's pink-fleshed ears were soothing on the soul and were on par with Ariel or Evee. "We'll find out in time. For now, go to Garp. We'll put together an expedition once Gogo returns. If Garp is coming, we'll need another guard dog to look after our home." Shalkar. The oasis. It wasn't until the evening that Elvia and her companions finally returned to the camp for supper. Golos returned at nightfall, giddily reporting that the Wolf-kin had murdered their ex-leader and his son, only to grow wide-eyed when Golos announced that they're all sick and that the Rat-kin had the only cure— and that a tiny obstacle lay between them and the Cure Disease potions— Garp. The Familiars were out in full force as well, with Ariel, Caliban, Kiki and Sen-sen all running amok among the Rat-kin, whose pups played with the Sprites, unaware that a single one of them could wipe out a hamlet without so much as needing mana from their Master. Over scattered laughter and steaming plats of Afaa al-Halak both underdone and overcooked on Maxwell's Convenient Camping Kits, the Human Mages shared food with the Rat-kin Prefects. Once again, Gwen re-introduced her officers one by one, sharing the origins of their Clans and the Rat-kin's stories as the Tasmüyiz. Of the numberless atrocities that gave birth to the Rat-kin's current plight, it was Strun's mother that triggered the Inquisitor, whose eyes grew dark with malice as she described the Centaurs playing carcass Quidditch with a living "Snitch". The Inquisitor, in turn, shared accounts of the Fomorians, whose cruelty was more deliberate than the Centaur's casual holocaust of whatever civilisation they happened across. "They have a ritual," Hawkford spoke while drawing a vague figure of a wicker man in the sand. "The captured slaves are carefully selected, with a preference for the young and virginal, then herded into this contraption. In a bad year, some constructs could hold a thousand people; often, there are multitudes of constructs..." Their audience listened with horrified fascination. "… at the climax of the Ritual, Balor himself has the honour of igniting the Wicker Man with his cyclopean eye, slow-roasting the victims over hours with his Faerie Fire." Gwen glanced at the delicious block of fatty Afaa al-Halak meat, slightly charred but sizzling famously as one of the rat-cooks re-applied the lard to retain in the moisture. "Their victims are not for eating." Hawkford caught her hesitation. "The Fomorians feed on the psychic energy of horror, pain and suffering. That's what our Seminary Scholars proposed— the more we fear them, the stronger they grow." "That's one of the reasons why we had to move everyone we could when the Wyld Hunt broke through the Prime Material," Elvia added to her experience. "If a person is left behind or couldn't be evacuated, suicide was infinitely more preferable." "Mages have a worse fate if captured," Hawkford said. "They can be made into Changelings who would murder their family, friends and loved ones. The Fomorians take great delight in that sort of thing because it foments even more belief in their capabilities." The camp quietly listened to the sizzling of fat on Wyrm meat. Gwen sat beside Elvia, hugging her knees in contemplation of why they started trading atrocities in the first place and why a happy dinner had degenerated into a "my atrocity is worse than yours" competition. "Magus Song." Hawkford broke the silence. "Your companion and I would like to verify a peculiar fact, if that is alright with you, pertaining a matter of Faith." "Faith?" "Do you know of it?" Hawkford asked. "Evee's kept me updated, sort of," Gwen said. "Faith is a powerful and supplementary focus for IMS Spells, correct?" "Yes." The Inquisitor nodded. "Though that is an oversimplified analogy reserved for casters rooted in secular society. I speak of Faith, Gwen, because we detected significant manifestations while searching for the origins of the Plaguemancer's phage. It's something we verified again while working with the sick. Suffice it to say; your rats have put their 'Faith' in you." "I see." Gwen had suspected that the Inquisitor had a few more citations up his sleeve. Though now that she'd wrangled the man onto the same venture, she was way past the foot-in-door needed to gain his sympathy. "It's fine. It won't be the first time I am treated like a specimen." "We would request that you perform a simple ritual." Hawkford motioned to Elvia, who produced what looked like a broach with a tri-crown logo. "This is a Holy Symbol, an unblessed one. Though it cannot gather Faith, the Glyph array within will reveal the presence of Karmic Tethers— or what those studying the secular system denote as Faith Threads." Gwen took the Holy Symbol from Elvia. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" "The Inquisitor has the best of intentions," Elvia explained with complete earnestness. "If you're a candidate, Gwennie, it's better that your phenomenon is kept on record. If a judicatory Peer of the Ordo can vouch for your credibility, it will save you no ends of trouble." "That would be my suggestion as well." The Inquisitor nodded. "If you wish to raise the meek Rat-kin to rival the Centaurs and return Elemental balance to the Prime Material, then you cannot afford to leave glaring vulnerabilities for others to exploit." "Vulnerability?" Gwen cocked her head. "Folks having 'Faith' in my ability to improve their lives can get me in trouble?" "You did exact a very peculiar narrative to bring them this far," Hawkford reminded Gwen of their conversation in the Habitat. "Whatever the outcome, I can send a report to the Ordo, and our Rectrix may inform your Patrons to be ready against subversions from the Factions." Gwen considered the Inquisitor's gift of erudition. The man spoke true. Although Hawkford had no idea what she had planned between Golos' poop, Sen-sen, Almudj juice and Garp soil— she knew exactly how attractive Shalkar might shortly become to the Grey or Militant Factions. A food-producing region with a race of pliant ex-slaves smack in the middle of a potential trade route between Eastern Europe and the Indian subcontinent? Could a better place exist to plant a Tower and chase off the locals? Surely Humans in Golem Suits could do just as good a job as the Rat-kin, given the same resources? If Hawkford was willing to vouch for her— not only could she leverage the Ordo to push Bekker and Taylor to her side, anyone challenging her for Shalkar in a legal sense would also have to measure their mettle before making an ancient Knight Order eat their words. Affirming her willing participation, Gwen carefully examined the Holy Symbol with its three crowns. The item was not complexly imbued— albeit her Enchantment knowledge told her it was made from a composite of gold, Orichalcum and Mithril, making its material value well in the hundreds of HDMs. "I suspect there will be a fair volume of Faith Threads, assuming that's how it works," Gwen said after a pause. "Is that going to be a problem?" "You've led these rats for just over a week, Magus Song," Sir Hawkford gently rebuked her pride. "Even if they're fanatics, there's less than ten thousand of them." "What's a significant amount?" Gwen asked out of interest. "Evee, how many threads do you have?" "It's not a number, Gwen. Mine is enough to rival senior members of the Ordo, all thanks to you." Elvia laid a proverbial wreath at her feet. "I can empower intermediate-tier Faith Prayers several times a day and supplementary-tier Prayers hundreds of times." Gwen looked to the Inquisitor for a better metric. "Us Knights walk a different path." The man raised a gloved hand. "Our icons must be nurtured through prayer, and its psychic energies are expended and restored much in the manner of a wand. Tis a limitation put in place for those who wield the Prayers of Judgement." "He who judge others are judged in turn," Gwen spoke from experience. "Well said, Magus Song." The Inquisitor nodded approvingly. "So sayeth the Scripture." "Hold the Holy Symbol like so," Elvia instructed her to keep the icon just above her forehead. "Now, close your eyes. I will invoke the Mandala in the Tri-Crown icon, and it will verify if there are Faith Threads directed toward you or an idol in your likeness." "You'll find no idolatry here." Gwen gestured to herself. "Alright, Evee, light 'em up!" Gwen closed her eyes and turned her mind inward, observing her Astral Body, which appeared no different to its usual garish self. If she could tap a few strands of Faith, maybe she could also learn a few tricks to bolster some of her spells, or perhaps even dig through her Master's collection to see if Henry had toyed with "Prayer Magic". But to whom would she direct her prayers? Gwen stifled a snort, cringing from the thought. Beside her, Elvia's sweet voice began with a benediction, then moved into the main verse. "O Lord, Him who reveals deep and secret things; Him who knows what lurks in the darkness, let it be known that light dwells with Him." True to Elvia's words, there was no impact on her Astral Body, nor did she feel any different. However, the world around her grew suddenly very quiet, and then without warning, a tremendous commotion stirred among her Rat-kin, growing into a deafening clamour. She opened her eyes. A solid pillar of light resembling that of a light sabre with her as the catalyst crystal blasted the heaven like an upside-down rocket, lighting up the oasis and causing her rats to hiss and howl. "IS THIS NORMAL?" Gwen shouted over the sound of the rats scampering away from the retina-searing brightness, every nerve in her body howling that this wasn't normal. "EVEE, TURN IT OFF!" Elvia quickly withdrew her mana, disempowering the Glyph array in the holy icon. The light dimmed, fading until only the dull fireflies of Maxwell's Camp Heaters remained around the stunned observers. "That was…" Inquisitor Hawkford appeared lost for words. "Excessive?" Sir Smallwater aided his Inquisitor. "Impossible." Mathias' tone sounded like he had just seen her raise a man from the grave. "It can't be right. Something's wrong with the icon." "The icon is without fault," Sir Hawkford silenced the panicking Knight of St Michael with a rebuke. "Gwen, tell me true— have you ever engaged in cultivations of cults, parishes or denominations in your likeness?" Gwen felt her heart shudder even as she forced herself to appear entirely in control. "Not to my knowledge. Was that Faith Threads?" "More like a Maximised Faith Strike..." Smallwater scratched his beard. "Lass, if you're the Archdeacon of Canterbury, you should let us know. The Ordo and the Church, we are natural allies." "Calamity, what's the catastrophe this time?" Even Golos thought it fit to give his input. "Should I tell Brother?" "Gogo, go away," she hissed at her Wyvern. The dread engendering in her chest grew direr the longer the Knights remained perplexed. As a student of British history, she knew better than anyone just how hot a stake could burn if a girl were to head-butt a state religion. Everything she had accomplished could vanish in an instant, like ash borne on the wind. "Look, there's got to be a better reason for this," she denied any form of apostasy with complete, categorical vehemence. "I am not even baptised, certainly not to my knowledge. I've never received benedictions in a church unless it happened when Helena got married while I was unconscious because, you know, sex out of wedlock. Oh— My father's a Godless Communist womaniser." "But your good deeds..." the Inquisitor appeared unconvinced. "Maybe it's the IIUC?" Elvia appeared to have recovered enough of her wits to come to her defence. "Gwen saved Kachin from a Naga, and they're very religious over there. She's also the IIUC's MVP, which means she was on plenty of advertisement billboards for a year in China— there are lots of NoMs in China and no religion— maybe they're sending her thoughts and prayers?" While Elvia tested the possibilities, Gwen refuted her hypothesis. Was Faith that easy? One "like" equalled one "thread"? A million "likes" for sainthood? Her mind raced at a mile a minute. Could it be the Mermen? But that was even more absurd! Considering the food piracy the fish performed, who the hell would start a religion around looted cans of SPAM? Or maybe it was Almudj; Gwen felt her scalp crawl. If she's Al's Vessel, and there's some prominent tribe in Australia worshipping the Rainbow Serpent, would the Faith rub off? Or Mayuree— Buddha above, would Mia go as far as to put her face on a Pagoda? Surely not. That would step on Ruxin's tail, and besides, putting Ruxin's mug on the Pagodas was far more likely to curry favour with their real boss. "... so I don't know, truly." She reinforced her expression of earnestness. It was an act, but not of deception, for she honestly had no idea. "I see." Sir Hawkford indicated to his Knight Companion. "Elvia, try it again." Gwen quickly held the icon aloft. Elvia spoke the words with a trembling voice, When the spotlight once more struck, the Rat-kin raised their hands in worship. "Priestess! Priestess of the Pale Light!" "SHAA— SHAA—" Caliban joined the chorus of worship. "EE—EE!" Ariel flew into the spontaneous stadium lighting because there wasn't enough chaos. "Kiki!" The Alarune danced, sashaying from tendril to tendril. "Sen!" Sen-sen hid, as Ginseng roots disliked strong sources of light. "Ha! A new malady for the Calamity!" Golos was never one to miss a party. "Who is trying to murder her this time?" "SKAAARRRWWWAARRRGH—" Somewhere outside the oasis, Garp burst into whale song. She tossed the icon back to Elvia like a hot potato. Though the light faded, her face remained as pale as the ivory nimbus. What had manifested wasn't a Faith Thread but more of a fucking Faith "Pillar" the size of Temir's prized Totems. Unbidden, her thoughts turned to her earlier haughtiness. Those who judge others are judged in turn! Karma is a harsh mistress! To think she had sent off the Wolves no more than eight hours ago! "Inquisitor." She could feel the cold sweat soaking through her safari outfit. "While I am happy to cooperate with an investigation. I am afraid this isn't the best time for me to return to London." Hawkford appeared to study her once more. In truth, the Inquisitor's coolness was as strange as the light shooting from her wherever. In her mind, Sir Smallwater should be readying the pillory and bonfire. "Magus Song, please do not overreact." Hawkford's following words affirmed her suspicions. "Rather, I bring fair tidings— for I may now affirm that you're not a part of the pact that must not be named, which places you in a more trustworthy position." "Chaplain..." Elvia attempted to speak, only to be halted by her superior. "Give me a moment to gather my thoughts on the matter," Hawkford interrupted their interjections, then appeared to mumble a silent prayer for guidance. While waiting, Gwen delivered her most endearing simper. Untouched by her feminine wiles, Hawkford met her gaze head-on, then grinned lopsidedly. "Gwen, do you believe in providence?" "No?" Gwen stuck to the truth. Earlier, that had served her well. "I do, and I believe our meeting is no accident. But, let us return to my earlier claim, did you know that to those holier-than-thou symbionts of the World's Pillars, Faith is anathema? The guardians of the Planar fabric hold great apprehension for little birds that cannot be controlled and which they cannot cage in their menagerie." Gwen mulled over the man's words, but her uncertainty remained. "Then why would the Bloom in White feed me a satchel of seeds?" "Because you are a powerful adherent of the IMS, Magus Song, a prized Songbird, in a sense." Inquisitor Hawkford's expression grew to encompass both benevolence and admiration. "But if you've garnered Faith— no matter the means, that changes things. Those who dwell above are deeply suspicious of powers so uniquely mortal. For them, Faith is as unnatural as Necromancy." It took several more seconds for the Inquisitor's cryptic speech to unknot itself in her head. "… So, what you're saying is that you believe me when I say that this Faith ordeal is a coincidence?" "That is correct." "And although I've been recruited to work with Tryfan, you deduce that I can't be working with Tryfan because apparently, I have the potential to access Faith as a resource?" "Also correct." She turned to Elvia. "Evee. Does any of this make sense to you?" Besides her, Elvia had wrung a length of Sen-sen's root so hard that green juices were leaking down between her strength-enhanced fingers. Not far, Sen-sen bore the torture, its old sage's mien hiding the pain. Her Evee nodded, then shook her head. "All I know is that if that many people think of you fondly, Gwen, then it must mean you've helped them change their lives for the better. That's something which the Ordos will respect." "To garner Faith, your actions, your 'tale' must consistently occupy their thoughts as well." Sir Smallwater gave his opinion. "I do agree with the lass. You must have aided many a folk, Magus Song. It's a commendable demonstration of how you've impacted our world, whatever your methods." "Faith" sounds eerily utilitarian. Gwen cautioned herself against taking credit lest a future outcome was counted against her favour. "From the concentration of those Tethers, you've helped far more people than me." Elvia's eyes sparkled with affirmation and support as she caught her hand. "I am so proud of you, Gwennie. I bet all those people who got jobs and livelihoods at the Isle of Dogs and Greenwich think of you every day." "Thanks, Evee." Gwen squeezed the Healer's fingers back. "I did it for my benefit, though..." Her gaze swept over her worshipful Rat-kin, then pointed a finger toward the heavens. "Sir Hawkford. To be clear, I have no intent on cutting into the Church's share of its resources. My ambitions are and will forever be secular. Whatever the Ordo is offering, I wash my hands like the Pilate." "You're very astute, Magus Song. And I agree," Inquisitor Hawkford said. "For now, my advice is to keep this between yourself, the Ordo, and those you trust in the Mageocracy. Of course, those invested in you should be notified lest they're caught up in a future fallout. As for us, Companion Lindholm will not divulge your secrets, and Sir Smallwater, as well as Sir Rothwell, are well-sworn to secrecy. Likewise, your Rat-kin likely can't communicate the details even if questioned. Whatever the case, I shall present the findings in the best light." Gwen felt her brain throb. "I agree. I'll need some time to digest this. Where can I know more about Faith Magic?" "I do believe NOT knowing is in your interest," the Knight chuckled. "As matters stand, ignorance is truly bliss." "Now you're the one tempting me," Gwen groaned, then sat beside Elvia to sort her newly acquired information into its respective mental categories. What Hawkford had stated about The Accord being allergic to Faith Magic was very interesting indeed. Considering the uncensored history she had managed to pick up from the Dragons, Elves, Dwarves and her Magisterial studies, she could feel a vague hypothesis taking place like a deep-diving Leviathan rising to the surface. Now that Sir Hawkford gave his word, the Mages stepped lightly around the topic for the duration of their dinner, choosing instead to unassuming banter about Shalkar's future; around them, the rats eventually returned to their arduous labours in building their new home. "Gwen?" Elvia's head rested against her shoulder. "Are you feeling alright?" "I still feel as lost as ever," Gwen confessed. "BUT— Sir Hawkford is right. I've got work to do here, and I am far too committed in Shalkar to run off and deal with this. I mean, it is not like I'll give up the rats or the Isle of Dogs as a result. Whatever comes will come; there is providence even in the fall of a sparrow— the readiness is all." "That's from the Book of Matthew, isn't it?" Elvia exhaled with relish. "Have you been studying the Good Book, Gwennie?" "Goodness isn't found in a book, Evee." Gwen plagiarised a line from The Bard for the benefit of leaving a final good impression for their Inquisitor. "If a person can open their hearts a little bit, they shall see that there are tongues in trees, books in the brooks, sermons in stones and goodness in everything. That's all the teaching a devotee needs." "WONDERFUL!" Sir Smallwater slapped his thighs. "Well said, Magus Song, now's that's a quote for the Seminary!" Inquisitor Hawkford nodded with recognition, his conviction in her goodness once more affirmed. Elvia squeezed her guilty fingers to communicate her support, her delicate face aglow with adoration. Gwen gave herself a mental slap, then warned herself to refrain from furthermore misleading her Samaritan companions. However, what she had said was true, for she did feel like a sparrow caught in the guiding hand of some greater power. Faith? Who the hell could foresee that bringing economic prosperity could send her careening into the realm of theocracy? And what did Hawkford intimate? _Providence?_ No. Fuck that second-rate Divination. She was no rat in a plague pit. A world where the NoMs lived in Districts and the Tasmüyiz subsisted on grassroots could not co-exist with a good and all-knowing God. In this life, only herself, her companions, her family, her Crystals, her Sorcery, and the connections she forged mattered, the sum of which pointed to a single, cardinal truth— that whatever winds directed her sails, she alone held the steerage of her course.

After a night of sleepless inaction coupled with the guilt of having put Good Samaritans to task, Gwen decided to face her moral infirmity by engaging in the sweet escapism of regimented labour. At daybreak, she invited Elvia and the Knights, post first prayer, to watch her and the rats ready the seeds gifted by her "Elf in the High Castle" for enrichment. The Druidic Satchel itself was a miraculous Magical Item, for it possessed the means to sort the seeds that were otherwise unpackaged and scattered in individual piles. After Gwen made the mistake of extracting more than one type, she returned the mixed-seed cereal to the bag, then grew awed when the bag re-sorted the mixed seeds through nought but a silent, mental command. Once she emptied the Druidic Satchel into mounds, Stian and a circle of ratty Elders learned in agriculture gathered around Solana's gifts to scrutinise the spoils. Thus far, the land cleared of vegetation and mixed with waste from Garp amounted to some mid-forty acres, an area Gwen mentally tallied to equate just over a dozen football fields. It was a feat made possible only with thousands of Rat-kin and Garp, who not only consumed sediment but flora as a part of its daily intake, plus excreted soft, soil-like silica that, in Stian's words, "brought spice to the Sawahi." As for the volume of seeds in the pouch, Gwen's uninformed city girl eyes could only deduce that there was a "shitload". According to Stain, seeds meant for growing in the desert required soaking to activate rapid germination and growth, a phenomenon that only occurred during the rainy season. To simulate this process, the Rat-kin used clay tubs filled with water, within which they would rinse the seeds in a lime solution supplemented with what Gwen suspected were anti-fungal and bacterial herbs and minerals. Taking on knowledge learned from her old world, Gwen elected a Control Group of un-blessed seeds, then created two more groups, one solely blessed by her mixing Almudj's juice into the solution, and another that was saturated in both Almudj's and Sen-sen's vital secretions. For the experiment, she modestly chose an acre for each, which Stian further split into rows of Starling Tomatoes sitting adjacent to Polar Beans. Every second field favoured cucumber vines beside and beneath which housed the Sunburst Squash. The unanticipated problem was that Shalkar lacked the lumber necessary to create the lattices that would hold the cucumbers, beans and tomatoes. As a result, Gwen recruited Mathias, who had been taught to pilot military Golems, to deploy the construction suits she bought from London, taking advantage of the utility Spellblade within the manipulator-arms to transmute temporary iron-wire lattices. Finally, when the time came for sowing, Elvia demonstrated why she was the undisputed queen of flowers and root vegetables by commanding her nature Sprites to do the work of a thousand rats, rapidly seeding each pit dug by the numberless, whiskery farmers. Once completed, stone slabs from the mud-hewn aqueducts were lifted, allowing the rats ease of access to the water needed to moisten the soil and encourage growth. Finally, to take advantage of Golos, whose excretions had contributed to Sen-sen's wellbeing, the Rat-kin dug out a fertiliser pit especially for collecting the Wyvern's enormous dung piles, from which they first extracted Gwen's Creature Cores, then fermented the rest with cut grass. The residual Essence-Ginseng solution from soaking the seeds was then recycled in the septic pit with Garp's gut-enriched "spice". In the future, Stian noted, if they could get livestock such as sheep owned by the Centaurs, then more fertiliser pits could be built. From morning to afternoon, Gwen chaperoned the Rat-kin, learning from the Elders even as she taught them modern urban planning. When she was finally done, the time had come for Inquisitor Hawkford and Sir Smallwater to leave in their quest to corral the Spectre agents working in the Elementals' domain. "Fare thee well, 'Priestess of the Pale Light'. I shall inform the Ordo within the next few days of your present predicament." "Thank you." Gwen shook the man's hand even as she whole-heartedly cringed at the jovial jab at her Faith collection. "Please keep the matter otherwise discreet." "Indeed," Hawkford agreed. "My part will be informing the Rectrix. She shall possess the better judgement of how you may leverage your newly founded resources." "I think what you mean," Gwen said. "Is how NOT to touch it with a ten-foot pole." The Inquisitor laughed, as did Sir Smallwater, who bid her venture profit and success, thereby restoring stability to the region in a myriad of ways. "Companion Lindholm, Protector Rothwell." The Inquisitor lastly turned to Elvia and Mathias. "You must keep our Saviour of the Rat-kin hale and out of harm's way." "I shall, Chaplain." Elvia supplicated in the usual manner of the Ordo's junior clergy to its senior leadership. "On my honour, Sirs," Mathias' response addressed Sir Smallwater, a curious act which Gwen took as an insight into how the Ordo functioned. From what she could see, Elvia's position would grow to encompass Hawkford's lineage, while Mathias' growth paralleled that of the Senior Protector. Once nods and bows were exchanged, the Knights lifted into the air, then thundered off into the distance without so much as a sentimental glance, leaving Gwen and her two companions levitating lonesomely above the just-finished farm. "Okay, let's break for afternoon tea." Gwen mopped a smidgen of dust from her brow. "Afterward, Strun, Garp and I are going to check out the Murk to see if we can find some local Dwarves. "We're coming as well," Elvia informed her. "You're not ditching us a minute after we swore to keep you safe, are you?" Gwen had hoped that she could vent her pent-up frustrations in the Murk, which meant initially, at least, she had not planned on showing Elvia that particular facet of her current self. "Er… of course not." She smiled at her companion. "Mathias?" "Where Elvia goes, I follow," Mathias concurred. "Whatever a Black Zone or the Murk." "Don't be so melodramatic," Gwen snorted at the Knight. "It's the Murk. Nothing too bad lives there. Just brain-eating squids the Library Citadel of Helzink dubbed the 'Sinneslukare', leading hoards of white-fleshed Aberrant fiends created by unknown Masters from the Far Planes between dimensions, and poisonous fungi that walk by eating you from inside-out, that sort of thing." "Should I wear full plate armour?" Mathias said with complete seriousness, having heard the tales she told to Elvia. "Would that prevent the er… brain squids?" "… Yes," Gwen replied with complete seriousness. "Fair warning, to achieve the same protection, I'll be wreathed in the unholy boon of Sanctioned Necromancy, so don't be startled when we dive." Both Mathias and Elvia chuckled uncomfortably. "I am super serious," Gwen warned the pair again. "Well, you'll see— let's do a gear check. Potions! Wands! Armour! Spell Reagents! Food and Supplies!" As a part of their inventory, Gwen packed the master-crafted Construction Golem suits, both as proof of her closeness with Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth and as a means to shape the earth while in the Murk. While she could ask Garp to clear the way mouth-first, Gwen suspected the inhabitants of the region she was about to visit would be displeased with a tunnel-borer creating six-meter wide passages where ever it ventured. "Gogo, you're the Head of Security while I am gone." She chose the Wyvern to be her delegate. If anything, she could trust the drake to be territorial. "Have fun, Calamity." Golos' sleepy voice returned from somewhere in the sky. As a Thunder Wyvern, Gogo feared no flora nor fauna in the region. Together with her ninety-strong Centurions armed with Afaa al-Halak derived weapons, even a Mingat's raid would prove no threat. Gwen motioned for Strun. "Are you ready to depart?" "Yes. Priestess." "Call me Mistress from now onward, or Miss." "Yes, O worshipful Mistress." Gwen regarded the rat. "Are you acting cheeky with me, Strun?" The Rat-kin's intelligent eyes gleamed. "Not at all, venerated Miss. You may change your title, O tamer of the Sawahi, but in the hearts of the Rat-kin, you will always be our Priestess of the Pale Light." "Right, though for the sake of my sanity," Gwen sternly addressed to the cheeky rat. "Spread the word of my decision. I'll finish up here and see you on the eastern border in thirty minutes." Once the rats scattered, Elvia and Mathias closed in. "Gwennie?" Elvia's imploring blue irises possessed such powers of purity that her heart grew sore. "Are you renouncing the Faith given to you by those you've saved? That's not like you at all." "Is it? I didn't... desire this," Gwen answered with ambivalence. She had never done her deeds out of a sense of responsibility to another. Instead, her quest for power and its resulting freedom was derived from a jaw-clenching appetite for personal agency. If so, how could she expend the Faith of those who looked up to her? Though now they were in a honeymoon period, what if she and her worshipper's goals grew dissonant? If she must act out of goodness due to an unowed duty, then to her, Faith was no better than the golden wires of a birdcage. "I am sorry to disappoint, Evee, but I am… not as good, principled or strong as you think." "You'd done right so far." Elvia appeared adamant in her infectious positivity. "I trust you." "Bloody oath, Evee." Gwen hugged her flaxen-haired Cleric about the shoulders, unsure of what to say, hoping that when the time came to disappoint Evee, the experience would not be beyond salvation. "What did I do to deserve you?" Gwen marvelled at Strun as the rat pulled on the leather lashes leashing either side of Garp's eyeless head. With a start, the Elemental powers inherent to Garp's divine flesh began to vibrate his lower scales, allowing the Sand Wyrm unimpeded transit through the Sawahi in a manner no different from Golos' command of Elemental Air. "Are we the first Humans to do this?" Mathias looked like the lead singer of a boy band with the wind blowing through his hair. "Riding a Sand Wyrm, I mean. It's incredible." "I don't know if we're the first in history," Gwen said. "But we're probably the first in the Mageocracy's records. Strun's folks were the first to try it in the past." "I am truly honoured." The Knight's face showed genuine thankfulness. Gwen figured the Knight Proctor might feel this way, for the everyday work of a Proctor meant boredom was a constant companion, and excitement was something a bodyguard should never desire. "There'll be plenty of the world to see, Mathias," Gwen promised the Knight. "Evee and I will be going places, I assure you." Elvia herself was more interested in how Gwen's Omni-directional Orb functioned, seeing that they had set out from Shalkar with no map and no indication of a specific objective. When Gwen told her that the Dragon-gifted Orb would find the Dwarves for her, the Cleric grew strangely mute. "Don't worry, I've used it plenty of times," Gwen explained after a while. "What are you worried about?" "Gwennie, can 'Brother' Ruxin access the Orb and control to what or where it acts as a guide?" her Cleric asked. "Its ability seems too nebulous." "It hasn't failed me so far, not even when I wanted authentic braised pork belly." "Y-you used a True Dragon's condensed gift of divining to find Chinese food?" The Vessel of the Yinglong appeared to swoon. "That thing should be in a museum!" "Look," Gwen raised an excellent point for her companion. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find authentic Chinese food in the heart of the Mageocracy? It's a miracle that the Orb not only located Chinese food but authentic Sichuan cuisine. If that isn't a testament to its ability to act in my interest, then what is? You think Ruxin or the Yinglong is so bored as to scour London for al dente pork belly in garlic and chilli oil?" "Oh, Gwennie." Elvia puffed out her cheeks. "Please be careful." "I don't use it when I am in the company of a party," she assured her friend. "It's mostly for when I am lost." While Elvia looked away, likely wondering when Gwen wasn't directionally challenged, Gwen squinted at her elfin companion. Wasn't Elvia a bit hypocritical for choosing the Yinglong as her patron, then turning around to harp on about Ruxin's business partner, a woman the Dragon has trusted with the Dragon's share of his jade and crystal lodes? But it wasn't Evee's fault that she could only see the surface, for the girl was herself a recluse in the higher world of the Ordo's abbey, where its merry band of Samaritans gave up nobility to live as the Poor Soldiers of Christ. Travelling coach on Garp, Gwen enjoyed the sight of the Sawahi's many walks of life fleeing in every direction as they sailed from one territory to another. When they stopped by what looked like a Rat-kin village, Strun leapt from Garp and delivered a sermon of promise and prosperity, directed the Rat-kin toward Shalkar, then majestically sailed "Garp" into the setting sun. From Shalkar to their new destination, the journey took just over four hours. "Mistress, we're here." Strun gestured toward a collection of jutting igneous spires thrown up by some violent, seismic significance into the above-ground world. While Elvia and Mathias buffed up, Gwen lifted into the air to inspect the curious-looking stones. "Does this look natural to you guys?" she asked her companions as Sen-sen's blessed vitality saturated her skin with a nimbus of protective light. With the battlesuit she brought in tatters, Gwen had resolved to dress for comfort and rely on her Necromancy. "I would venture to say that it looks more like the manifestation of a Seismic Disjunction," Mathias drew from memory a spell candidate. "We should be careful, Gwen. There may be Dao about." "Garp, Strun, keep an eye out," Gwen commanded the others, simultaneously producing the Creature Core and blood vial necessary for her life-preserving Armour and Mantle. Now possessed of an abundance of mid-tier Afaa al-Halak Cores, she opted for the Sand Wyrm's exoskeleton, all the while marvelling at the mitigating effect of Elvia's "Guardian Spirit" in offsetting Necromancy's vital drain. Stolen novel; please report. "I know, I know." She hand waved away their suppressed consternation. "Save the lecture for when I get better Spells. Evee, Sir Hawkford mentioned you had a thing for revealing mana threads? Care for a show and tell?" "The Prayer's full name is the Exalted Light of Holy Revelation." Elvia released her Holy Symbol into the air, where its gentle radiance suffused a region of dozen meters in diameter. "The more Faith we suffuse into the Tri-Crown, the more radiant its glow and thus, the greater the revelation." "Is it mobile?" Gwen floated around the levitating icon. "It can be," Elvia concurred, then walked the final fifty meters to the sunken entrance on foot while willing the Holy Symbol to hover like Gwen's Omni Orb. "Gwennie, don't use your spells— you'll disturb the mana residue." Under Elvia's wide-area Detect Magic, their surroundings glowed a bright ochre and orange. Nearer the "entrance" to the caverns of the Murk was supposed to be, the residual mana burned as though the front row of a pyrotechnical concert. Further away, where the light fell near Garp, motes of freshly churning Elemental Earth formed a solid, opaque wall. "Is that all Elemental Fire?" Gwen's lips made an O. "From the entrance, I mean. It's A LOT of Elemental Fire. What's the darker stuff?" "Magma, I think. Ash as well, and yes, it is thickest coming from underground," Mathias observed. "But if you look at the trail, it goes all the way into the desert." Gwen's followed the orange glow until it faded in a direction she could not discern. "Alright." She chewed her lips in dismay. "You're telling me something went IN, as opposed to something came OUT. You know, Elemental Fire HDMs can be used to fuel Golem Suits." Just as she delivered a hypothesis, her Rat-kin wandered through the hazy, phantasmagorical light. "There are many tracks here, Mistress. Large, heavy creatures with claws and enormous feet." "That doesn't sound Dwarven," Mathias said. "Nor Aberrant," Gwen confessed. "Else, there would be Elemental Ooze." "Elementals?" Elvia asked. "But we're a week on foot from the Fire Sea..." "Well, whatever this is, I guess we'll find out." Gwen indicated to her Omni Orb's downward trajectory. "Pack it up, Evee. Let's bring out the Familiars and the spell fodder." As with her previous forays into the Murk, Gwen's veritable army of Hounds, led by Ariel and Caliban, was ready to diminish the dangers of the unknown. Unfortunately, while their party had readied themselves for an action-packed delve into the dark, the passages that Strun had explored were discovered to be collapsed by some cataclysmic force, making progress all but impossible without a Dwarven Fabricator Engine. "It's Garp time." Gwen resolved to straight away bring out her living tunnelling engine. As a natural sovereign of the upper Murk, the Shingleback Sand Wyrm could eat into the destroyed passage while also using its limitless earth-shaping stamina to strengthen the tunnels it left behind. Compared to Caliban's costly mimicry, Garp literally fed itself while it dug downwards through the earth, gaining mana even as it spent it. It was this prodigious ability that lay at the heart of Gwen's hopes for an underground warren city for her rats, at least until certified Dwarven engineers could install utilities, power, plumbing, sanitation and public transport. At her mental behest, the Sand Wyrm was happy to oblige, for the igneous rocks here were more "yummy" for its constitution than the silica of the middle badlands. As the tunnel made by the enormous living engine grew in length and depth, Gwen and her party remarked on how boring it was when an all-consuming mouth led the way of an underground adventure. Whatever encounters they had to fight were either avoided or swallowed with the swirling debris into Garp's crushing, stone-dissolving interior. In this way, other than semi-precious sediment veins and the occasional geological curio, Garp left no prey nor monster in its wake, which was a tunnel some six meters across at chest height, and just over four meters from toe to crown. Now and then, rich deposits of sand and silica in rich, loamy sprays she chose to rename "Spice" ejected from what could only be Garp's exhaust module, proving to Gwen once and for all why Stian had called the Afaa al-Halak the lifeblood of the desert's ecology. Dodging the meter-long mud-turds of Elemental Earth, their company strode downward into the Murk with the ease of a guided tram tour. Gwen led the way through means of a great swarm of Dancing Lights, spellshaping globes of long-lasting Evocation to light the path behind. "Gwen, how long have we been walking?" Mathias flexed his fingers as he switched sword-hands. As she had advised the man show up in his best armour, the Knight had obliged by wearing tessellated plating complete with greaves, gauntlets and pauldrons inscribed with the Shield of St Michael. With his shiny Spellsword drawn, their personal Sir Gwain had expected to fight tooth and nail against a sea of bile-blooded Aberrants and their squid-brained masters. Instead, his only job had been diverting Elvia from walking in Wyrm turd. Strun continued to steer Garp via the leashes tied to Garp's broad, fleshy tail. Even now, the Rat-kin observed Gwen's Omni Orb while micromanaging Garp, filling the cavern with the vibration of the Shingleback's digestive tracts at work. "I hope you won't dig into their city," Elvia said after a while. "And fall through the ceiling." "Garp has amazing tremor sense," Gwen offhandedly explained her strange connection to the Wyrm with a chunk of soul that now resides within her Astral Body. "Besides, Strun's still steering Garp even now. They'll know when to stop if there's a large cavern or a settlement. By then, we'll figure something out." "Mistress." Strun chose this precise moment to leap off the wagging, fleshy tail of Garp. "We're about to hit a great cavern. Garp says the earth ahead is harder to swim through." "Leave a safe distance and get Garp to run parallel with the cavern." Gwen tried to picture the earthen cavity in her head. For someone who struggled with two-dimensional maps, three-dimensional orienteering was a feat performed solely by her Orb. "Are we on top, bottom or alongside?" "I do not know, Mistress." Strun's ears laid flat against his head. "In the future, I shall endeavour to learn Lord Garp's communications better." "Take your time." Gwen gave the rat a satisfying pat, squishing Strun's floppy years with her fingers while Elvia looked on with a look of longing. With a swipe of her hand, she summoned the two Golem Suits, each about twice the height of a man. "Garp will take us close. After that, we'll dig our way through— politely." "Yes, Ma'am." Elvia's Knight obediently crammed himself into the driver's seat, with the articulation of his armour coming as a surprise to Gwen, whose Bone Armour and Sanguine Mantle possessed no obstructions until triggered. Using only the bare minimum number of buttons and levellers made available to a skilled operator, she switched on the earth-shaping function of the Spellsword, then carved away at the smoothly bored rock wall left by Garp, rendering the igneous strata into silica. Behind her, Mathias reorganised the debris by creating ugly-looking ribs of pillars against the walls, more so clearing the space than forming meaningful supports. About twenty meters in, Gwen's Spellsword struck something solid and resistant to area-transmutation. Clearing more of the surface revealed runic inscriptions of what could only be a Dwarf-made tunnel wall. "I hope this isn't critical infrastructure," Gwen warned the others before clearing another space, simultaneously broadcasting a broad-spectrum repeater signal used by the Dwarves in working in tunnels. According to the instructions that came with the rotund Construction Golem, any other Golem Engine would be alerted to their presence within a sizeable vicinity. When no response came, Gwen gathered the others to make heads and tails of the runic markings, finding no luck between herself, the Vessel, and Evee's Knight Protector. "I guess we'll cut through and see," she told the others. "Wouldn't our hosts be upset?" Elvia asked. "Sure, but I brought a lot of HDMs, just in case," Gwen replied, refraining from stating that she also bought Maotai and Sen-sen, both far more valuable in befriending the Dwarves. In the worst-case scenario, the Ginseng Sprite would have to sacrifice its body to pleasure an entire host of hairy men. Setting the Spellsword's setting to Sonic Cutter, she fiddled with the armament until it began to slice away sheets of crumbling stone from the inscribed wall. "Those runes do not look to be empowered," Mathias remarked. "If this is indeed the shell of a tunnel, there's no possibility we can cut through it so easily." "That's good." Gwen persisted in hewing away portions of the wall. "Anything that's turned off can't be critical." Between her and Mathias, it took the better part of twenty minutes to create an opening large enough for the two of them to crawl through, a testament to the stoutness of Dwarven construction. "Buck, Astro," Gwen indicated to her dogs as she switched to Link Sight. "Cali, Ariel, go!" Her Hounds squeezed through the gap, willing their pack to follow. "Okay…" Gwen spoke as she stared into the middle distance. "Looks like… a tunnel. My God, the inside is enormous. The surface looks damaged, erm— there's debris all over. Hmm— I think it should be safe for us to pass. Oh wow— there's a lot of damage. I'll use Dimension Door to take us through. I wouldn't want to damage this section any further." Once the party was displaced across the wall and into the hollow interior, their surroundings grew clearer with Gwen's dispersion of Dancing Lights. It was now clear that all around them lay what could only be the aftermath of some incredible battle, for the walls were cracked and burned, and here and there, under blocks of collapsed granite, she could see the remains of scorched Golem Suits. The air remained fresh enough to breathe, a clue to support Gwen's guess that the battle had occurred weeks or months ago. "There's nothing… alive at all," Gwen reported after a few minutes of her Void Hounds scouring the surrounding area. "From the way the Dwarves have fallen back, there's a larger cavern with something akin to a Citadel, I hope, up ahead." "What manner of Elementals you think they were fighting?" Mathias asked. "Evee?" Gwen turned to the only member of their party in possession of mid-tier Divination. "Can you shed some light on the matter?" Elvia presented her Holy Symbol once more, illuminating the path ahead and behind. Instantly, the Light of Revelation turned the colour of rust, blood and wine, so thick that it was impossible to see through the man-made miasma of residual mana. "Magma, Fire and Ash!" the Cleric yelped. "Goodness, Gwennie. It's so dense!" Gwen could hardly see her companions over the swirling mana motes colourised by Elvia's Divination. "Okay— this isn't helping. Shut it down for now." Elvia obliged, and the trio, together with Strun, paced beside a stone spire upon which a Golem Suit was skewered. "Holy fucksticks, look at this." Gwen touched a finger to the rusted interior of the suit, where the corrosive coolants had eaten away at the gears and oils. "Evee, can you lift this thing?" "Sen-sen!" Elvia did not use her Draconic strength but relied on Sen-sen to break down the spire and retrieve the suit. Once on the floor, Sen-sen then tore away the hinged panels that gave the battle armour their airtight seal. Inside, the charred skeleton of a Dwarf with all of his facial hair burnt to cinders strongly indicated how the man had died— first injured by trauma and then cooked alive. "Strewth," Gwen swore. "I don't think this is the work of Aberrants. Ariel, Cali, help the dogs scout." "Kiki, Sen-sen, establish a defensive perimeter," Mathias commanded Elvia's creatures. "I'll lead— Gwen, stay with Elvia." "Right," Gwen concurred. "We're not too far from the Citadel, according to Buck. You know what I am worried about?" "What power could so demolish the Dwarven defences?" Mathias poked at another Golem Suit. "Not as such. I could do this if I wished, so can Sen-sen, given the right conditions." Gwen regarded their Knight, wondering if Mathias could fight a mechanised Golem platoon by himself. "Have you noticed, Mattie, that there are no enemyremains?" Mathias' expression grew suddenly grim. "Yeah." Gwen pointed to the carnage that was growing more gruesome with every step toward the Citadel. "We haven't seen a single foe, bud. That means either whoever is hammering the Dwarves don't leave behind remains, or the Dwarves weren't able to kill a single besieger." Mathias gripped his sword a little tighter while Strun straightaway disappeared into the shadows, moving only through fleeting flickers of darkness barely visible even to Gwen's enhanced vision. After Gwen's unpleasant foreshadowing, the path ahead proved more gruesome than the scattered scenes of ultraviolence that came before her self-fulfilling prophecy. The group grimly advanced until finally, the Dwarven Kjangtoth came into view. Beneath its gates, the three quaking Human Mages and one shivering rat inhaled breaths of stale air stinking of old fuel, scarred metal and sulphur. The obliteration of the Citadel's gate was total and complete. Unlike the gates of human castles, Dwarven construction utilised the weight of the earth itself to create impenetrable drop-barriers that could not be brute-forced, no matter the numbers or the size of the Beast Tide. Yet, the gate that lay in front of Gwen now was melted to slag, with its Rune-bound, composite surface reduced to shinning, crystallised shards, like the remains of an enormous dashed mirror. Inside, the carnage finally took a turn from the refuse of war to the grotesque. "Christ," Gwen couldn't stop swearing, despite her rare and precious company. "Did Garp take us to Hell or Hades?" Elvia mimed the sign of the cross while Mathias incanted a spell of cleansing to ease the burden on their olfactory senses. "Mistress…" Strun emerged from the shadows, his ratty eyes bloodshot with shellshock. "What madness is this?" Gwen had no answers for her Rat-kin, for the horror threatening the sanity of her mind was conceivable only to one who had seen the aftermath of Pompeii. Dwarves, thousands of Dwarves and more, lay in postures of unspeakable agony, clawing at their faces and throats. Some knelt, still clad in their mechanised battle armour. Others had the look of civilians; their charred bodies burned clean of clothes and flesh, reduced to ash-preserved statues of their former selves. Deeper into the avenue, with every step leading up the path toward the Guild Hall at the Citadel's centre, hunks of molten metal bespoke of ex-Golems of various shapes and sizes deformed by heat and blunt trauma. From Gwen's knowledge of the machines, in the final, desperate hours of the battle, the Dwarves had even brought out their construction Engines, for she could see the enormous husks of what could only be Fabricators littering the final rise into the grand spire that served as the heart of a homestead Citadel. "Don't touch anything," she delivered a command to her creatures, Familiars and her companions. Whatever happened here, other Dwarves would want to know, and their vengeance would bear a grudge unfathomable to the mind of man. "There's nought left of them!" Elvia was in tears, her pale face marred with horror and sympathy for the final moments of the stout Demi-humans. "Not a soul! Not a sliver of their being! Even their Cores are reduced to cinders! Whoever did this is monstrous, Gwen! Monstrous! We— we need to inform the Inquisitor! The Ordo has to get to the bottom of this!" Gwen's Void Hounds, as well as Caliban, returned an equally disheartening report. Not only was there no "life", there lacked even motes of vitality to support luminescent fungi. However far her Hounds ranged, they couldn't even locate a fucking Murk vole or abandoned star-nosed moles, which the Dwarves bred like underground porcine by the tens of thousands. "The Murk isn't the Ordo's domain, nor are Dwarven grudges." Mathias gently touched Elvia's arm. Raising his Spellsword into the air, the Radiant Knight sent forth a Day Light globe that dispelled the darkness in the distance, revealing more horrors even as he banished the uncertainty of the echoing dark. "Gwen, are you… you're shaking—" Gwen grunted, unable to find the mental strength for more than a guttural acknowledgement. "Mistress, we… should not be in any danger." Strun scampered from the rooftop of a building, emerging from the shadows cast by the Knight's light. "Everything's covered in ash and char. It's been some time since anything or anyone was here." Gwen looked up at the spire, within which sat the Guild Hall. The etched windows, railings, and the thousands of master-crafted adornments that made the building both resplendent and sophisticated was all melted so that they drooled down the side of the basalt monolith like blackened teardrops of a weeping wax sculpture. "Yeah-Nah, fuck that," Gwen said to her companions after Ariel took a gander through one of the multi-storey windows. The Linked Sight was enough to set her guts to gag and turn her Essence to boiling. "Christ, half the town was probably hiding in the Spire, hoping that their defenders could repel the invaders." "Hoping…" Elvia's sobs grew more pronounced. "Oh, Gwennie, I- I am so upset! Is this the work of monsters?" "Yes. Elementals," Gwen spoke with a note of bitter vehemence, reframing from asking Elvia if her God cared at all for Dwarven lives. "Who else could have this much firepower? I fought with the Dwarves of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. I stood in line with their Fire Teams, and I've individually confirmed how well their Balefire Guardians fight. Whatever happened here isn't something the Mageocracy is capable of doing without moving a Tower. It also isn't anything any local power is capable of performing except for those fucking Elementals from the Fire Sea." "But why?" Mathias pointed to the utter desolation of the forge, the industrial Craft Hall, and the thoroughgoing demolition of the residential spire. The only remaining structure was the Citadel's ley-line foci, the central spire, the node through which a fully functioning Citadel maintained its connection to Deepholm and Dyar Morkk. Nothing was taken, and from the look of it, no one had bothered taking prisoners. "I don't know," Gwen said to no one in particular. Summoning Ariel to her side, she sought sanity and solace by gripping Ariel's soft fur and kneading the Kirin's pliant flesh. The party once more fell into silence. Once her Hounds reconvened at the Citadel's central square, the three humans and a rat stood in stoic silence, unable to summon the courage to think about their next course of action. "Let's go back," Gwen spoke for all of them after a few minutes of repressive pacing, uncovering yet more horrors of the ashen holocaust. "I don't think we can handle this, whatever this is. We need to inform folk with the means and the manpower to do something more concrete than disturb the evidence." "Agreed." Mathias inclined his chin in agreement, looking to Elvia with sympathy and worry. "My head's a buzz. Not even the prayers are helping." Gwen looked to her Evee as well. Unfortunately, Kiki's wilted stem, Sen-sen's floppy tendrils and Elvia's swollen eyes spoke explicitly of the Cleric's sensitive state of mind. Absent-mindedly, she summoned the Omni-Orb to her fingertips, then stowed her cursed tour guide. Earlier, she had will it to find the Dwarves. To her chagrin, Ruxin's Orb did not disappoint. If the Elementals were to do this to her Rat-kin— Gwen briefly contemplated the cost of bringing Shoggy to bear near the Fire Sea. The terrible things she could do to the perpetrators of this atrocity could likely make Elvia lose her religion. "Okay," she said quickly, willing Garp to wake up and make a loop so that they could follow the Shingleback Wyrm back up the tunnel by riding on its broad, flat tail. "Back we go. And when we get up there, I need someone to go and report our findings to Meister Bekker." "I'll go." Mathias volunteered. "Thank you." Gwen understood just how reluctant the Knight was to leave Elvia. Still, the fact remained that she could not leave her rats, and Elvia was a poor candidate to travel alone through the Sawahi. "This is within my Code as well," the Knight said. "Someone has to know." "Yes." Gwen took one last glance at the grand spire with its blown-out windows and melted mountings. Even one more minute in this museum of horrors was eroding the sanity of her soul. Unbidden, she found her hand resting against the satchel with the Llais Leaf. "Someone has to know."

The Llias Leaf vibrated like an eco-friendly Nokia 3310. Gwen couldn't speak for the device's ergonomic usability, but its "signal" was certainly without fault, for even in the depth of the Murk, travelling in a tunnel dug by a Shingleback Wyrm, it worked. "Vessel of the Old Ones." Solana's voice, or more accurately, The Bloom in White's thoughts, invaded her mind via some intangible form of Elven witchcraft. "How may Tryfan be of aid?" "I have something to report," Gwen said. "Something so terrible I am going to struggle to put it into words, so you'll have to bear with me." "Ah—" Solana's patience, transmitted as a mote of vitality from the Llias Leaf in conjunction with her words, felt both warm and infinite. "We have received word on the troubling winds blowing your way, Magus Song. Know that Tryfan's generosity not only extends to you but to those you wish to speak for as well. If I may ask, how fares the Rat-kin of the Steppes?" "The Rat-kin?" Gwen furrowed her brows. To care about the rats now sounded a bit hypocritical, for when had the Elves in the High Tower ever cared about the Tasmüyizs' long-drawn suffering? "Are they fed? Have our seeds bloomed yet? The Essence of the Great Tree that has blessed our life-giving grain ensure that for several cycles, that which germinates will provide sustenance for the mortal races." _There it is!_ Gwen welcomed the relieving hit of endorphins. If she weren't in such a dour mood, she would have punched the air for guessing the objective of The Bloom in White's creeping tendrils. The Elves must have known that she would need food for the Steppes— if so, were the Rat-kin a part of their plan? "Oh, er… I haven't checked on the seeds yet." On the other hand, Gwen felt a stress-inducing suspicion that when she would returns to Shalkar in the evening of the new day, there might be some plus-sized and unanticipated surprises waiting for her. Hopefully, the beans would not have overgrown to the point where they're eating her rats, rather than the other way around. "That said, Solana, I am not here to talk about the Rat-kin." There was a pause and a feeling of curiosity. "I see. What else can Tryfan do for the student of Kilroy?" "For now, you can listen." Gwen took a deep breath, then began to transmit her latent emotions. "To build the rats a home, I thought I would go and find some Dwarves. One of my scouts reported witnessing Aberrant activity in the Murk nearby, so I took my Sand Wyrm—" "Your Sand Wyrm? Do you mean Caliban?" Solana's transmission grew in intensity. "Naw, Garp's new. He's one of those Afaa al-Halak. Look, that's not important. I rode the Wyrm—" "You rode a primal—" "—AND we dug our way through the Murk until we hit a Dwarven tunnel of some kind. It was covered in runic scripts, though I think the Runes were dormant. The interior was enormous, taller and wider than any of the tunnels I saw in Eth Rjoth Kjangoth." There was a pause. "How fortunate. You have likely found a section of what the Dökkálfar call the Dyar Morkk, the Low-ways," Solana sounded impressed. "Disconnected they have been for thirty season-cycles at least, but sections of it still function under the great land masses unbroken by the Elemental of Mud and Water." So THAT's the Dyar Morkk? Gwen made a mental note. Isn't that what London's trying to unearth in their alliance with Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth? Before she left, Ravenport and the Grey Faction were all gung ho for trying to find new ways of moving cargo and troops throughout England and the greater Commonwealth of her majesty's "Ex-Colonies". "Right, so we found indications of combat, what looks like Fire, Magma and Ash Elementals fighting against Hammer Guards of the Golem Legions. From the appearances of the burned-out corpses, the retreating defences stretched for about a kilometre, probably longer since we breached it near the middle— after which we were in there for an hour at least. When we got to the Citadel, it was a total shit show..." The Llias Leaf, as a miraculous device Gwen wished to emulate for her future Legion project, transmitted not only thoughts but empathy as well. While Solana appeared capable of controlling what she projected, Gwen possessed no such option. Consequently, she poured her horror into the leaf without reserve, closing her eyes to best picture the holocaust of the Dwarven Citadel. When she finally finished her descriptions and her suspicions of who might be responsible, the leaf-line on the other side of her box-and-cosmic-string magical telephone grew deathly silent. "This is grave news—" the Bloom in White paused. The floral Hvítálfar's voice was calm, and through the leaf, Gwen perceived nought to suggest the Elf was shocked by what she saw. Nonetheless, the absence of all emotion was itself a glaring clue that Gwen took to mean the High Priestess of the Hvítálfar was thoroughly rattled. In the interim, Solana fell so silent that Gwen began to wonder if their signal had dropped. When she finally spoke, it was with a tone of finality. "We thank you for the news, dearest student of Master Kilroy. Do keep the leaf against your skin. I shall contact you once I've made the enquiries." The pulse of life and Essence from Tryfan abruptly ceased. The artisanally inscribed Llias Leaf was once more a piece of mundane vegetation. "So that's the Llias Leaf in action." Elvia's eyes landed on the emerald foliage. "Gwennie, I am confused. Inquisitor Hawkford said the leaves are only given to the Hvítálfar's prized agents, whose goal is to maintain the World Tree's hold on the Prime Material. But he also said you couldn't be a part of the Hvítálfar's ploys." "Yeah-Nah." Gwen shook her head. "I am no Elven agent; we're just using each other, that's all. Not unlike me and Dickie." "Richard?" Elvia looked relieved to change the subject from their earlier journey through the ashen hell. "He's such a dear, and he's so loyal to you." "I mean Ravenport," Gwen remarked offhandedly, too distracted to change her thoughts and words. "The one with the Tower Ravens." "To the secular world, Magus Song, he is Lord Mycroft Ravenport, Marshall of the Kingdom, Protector of Albion," Mathias corrected her. "The seminary teaches us that if one wishes to be respected, they should always speak of others with respect, even in private." The Knight remained shaken from the sights in the Citadel, so Gwen forgave the young man's stiffness, likely equally anxious that he had to leave Elva for a few days to report on their findings to the expeditionary force in the south-west. Now and then, herself included, she found it hard to believe that they were only a few years out of Sydney. Juxtaposed against every other atrocity in her Path of Violent Reckoning, she had to remind herself that even folk like Mathias, who had seen war plenty, had no immunity against PTSD and not yet enough weathered to become completely jaded. "Noted." Gwen patted Garp on its deck-sized bum, then scratched Strun about the ears to release the rats' pent up tension. "Will you be travelling forthwith, Mathias? Can you navigate in the dark?" "I'll make a stop at Nukus, then follow the supply stations southward," the Knight proclaimed, a feat Gwen could not begin to manage without her Omni-orb. "Please keep Elvia safe." "I will," Gwen promised. "Nothing will come close to harming her, I promise." "Mattie, our quest was to help and protect Gwennie." Elvia slid an arm around Gwen's elbow to show her affirmation. "Besides, I've got Sen-sen and Kiki as well, and whatever happens, I can always heal myself." Feeling a little peculiar about Elvia's superior physical prowesses, Gwen acknowledged the Cleric's confidence. How strange it was that if her sweet little Evee assaulted her and Mathias with any seriousness, she could likely concave their chest and shatter their bones. Nodding, Mathias lifted into the air. "Stay safe, Mathias." Gwen gave her benediction. "Tell Bekker the occurrent here, no more, no less." "Come back soon!" Elvia did not appear particularly stricken with the idea of her companion of two years going for a stroll through a Black Zone. The girls watched as the Knight in the polished armour glowed like a miniature sun, then blasted off into the distance as a Radiance-infused aurora. "Well then." Gwen struck out a hand to invite her healer. "Shall we? Strun will drive Garp home. Meanwhile, we need to check on Stian and the fields." "You've only just planted the seeds a day ago." Elvia pointed out an obvious fact. "Even with Sen-sen and your Essence, I don't think they'll be growing that fast." "Yeah, er…" Gwen felt strangely thrilled now that their third wheel was gone, a welcome distraction to the horrors below. "I received some news that these were the giant beanstalk kind… and that er… they came imbued with swift-growth." Elvia understood her meaning at once. "Oh dear, we better get back." "Agreed. Ariel!" Gwen conjured her Kirin, then placed Elvia atop the purring Lightning Familiar. "Hold on, Evee. We're going to go fast!" Mycroft Ravenport, Eighteenth Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Arundel and Surry, Lord Earl Marshall of England, just had a good day, a terrible occurrence for a man in his position. "It's a rather quiet and relaxing evening, isn't it, Morrigan?" Mycroft couldn't help but tempt fate. Morrigan, Ravenport's Keeper of the Kingdom's secrets, cocked her avian head with a "Caw!" "Truly," the Duke said. "It's worrying." "Caw!" At noon, Morrigan had laid out the reports for his review. Foremost of the post-new-year news was that revenue was up on all accounts, both for the London Metropolitan region and the Grey Market under Morrigan's watchful obsidian eyes. The bulk of the city's unusual income stemmed from the stamp duty offerings from the properties sold within the metropolis, almost a quarter of which took place on the Isle of Dogs. From the number of digits in a single accounting line Morrigan had pecked out, the volume of HDMs flowing through that once rural node of London not under the control of either three Factions both made Ravenport exhilarated and made him anxious for the lost benefits to him and his allies. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Apart from the passive property taxes and sky rocking land prices, infrastructure expansion and thus overall employment of the city was also at an all-time high. For this boon, he had the Dwarves to thank, who, after a long negotiation and a longitudinal trade arrangement for barley, hop, fresh fruit and Mage Flights, offered two Fabricator Engines and its crew on lease. The Royal Arsenal Commission's Enchanters, as well, had taken the opportunity to section out vast swaths of Woolwich for the creation of joint-race Dwarven arms Manufactoriums. Another source of unanticipated income was the booming construction north of the Isle of Dogs. There, the Barlow Group's full-throttled investment into Canary Wharf aimed to contest the development across the water, resulting in the rapid gentrification of Deptford. Consequently, unemployment for NoMs and low-tier Mages in the region neared one per cent as both sides scrambled to acquire labourers. Naturally, there were conflicts aplenty as a result, mostly involving arm-wrestling between the LoD Redevelopment Project and the Barlow Group's attempt at cashing into the real estate surge. The girl's cousin, an amicable young man with a brilliant, pragmatic mind Ravenport had his eyes on, was leading the crusade against the thuggish, underhanded work of the Militant Faction. It was a shame that the gifted one was the girl and not her cousin, for the young man had a mindset that meshed well with Mycrofts' expectations of competence. The Grey Faction, thanks to the young man's tipoffs and Morigan's efforts, had amassed enough evidence on the Militants' ham-fisted greed to demote a half-dozen Marquises into Earls and Viscounts to commoners. While he wouldn't want to constrict the collar of the Mageocracy's hunting hounds directly, he and the Crown's mutual offices agreed that a stern reprimand, followed by a stark and hateful penalty, was best practice— one that additionally allowed him to repay the girl's favour. For now, he allowed the boy to borrow the tiger's terror, hilariously wielding the Dwarves' presence like a hammer whenever the Barlow group sought to usurp a portion of the yet-undeveloped property by taking advantage of the ongoing political honeymoon period. Whenever the Redevelopment Project's construction met with sabotage, an angry Dwarven foreman would lead a team of Golems next door to protest with extreme prejudice, delaying the Barlow's construction by weeks. Within the last month, London's Metropolitan Arbitrators had been summoned so often to the Isle of Dogs that the Commissioner seriously began considering Magister Walken's proposal of discounted office space for a new HQ. And on a Dwarven note, Morigan's reports showed that investigations by The Shard into the Dyar Morkk were progressing well. Together with the Dwarve's Golem Legions, the Tower's elite Mage Flights had bulldozed Aberrant nests by the dozens, reclaiming one inactive node after another. Negotiations with the central continent, particularly with the German Councillor and the Bavarian Thanes, had also been catalysed by the hope of linking long-lost Citadels for the denizens below with the promise of practical transportation of troops and goods for the citizens above. Thinking of further negotiations to come, a voice in Mycroft's head in the form of Morrigan's "Caw!" reminded the Duke that there was a green-eyed Calamity who was responsible for all of the above. As a self-caution, the Duke reminded himself to remind the girl that she was merely a catalyst, while the men and women of London did the heavy lifting. On another fortuitous report, Dublin had indicated that the Wyld Hunt was officially spent and gone for ten months and would no longer harry the war budget. The Sixth Cabal's report on the insurrection in the Niger Delta was comparatively ambivalent— though that was a problem for the Militant Faction, whose greedy push via the Barlow Group was precisely for the recouping of lost revenue in the heart of Africa. Finally, the open-ended issue with the Fire Sea's expansion appeared to be contained by Meister Bekker, at least on the surface. Worryingly, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office's plans for the Steppes, involving the pruning of the Centaur's potential and the containment of the Elemental incursion, had met with such a low body count that he felt confounded by its resolution. Likewise, that the girl wasn't a part of the campaign and therefore did not take up precious moments of his limited attention was as relaxing as worrying, for he was confident the Shoggoth should have been necessary to distract the Brass Legion. On his home front, there was good news as well. Charlene would soon graduate Summa cumme laude from Cavendish in the fall semester and join the Foreign Office. Quinn, his oldest, should soon return from his Ambassadorial Office in Pretoria now that the new year had come and gone and the ides of January was upon them. His second wife, the lovely and air-headed Everleigh Eden of Avon, was also busy tending to her peer-gathering projects, which spared him the effort of facing her doubts. Thanks to the damned Sun's baseless accusations of infidelity, both his wife and daughter had entertained the idea of meeting the girl responsible for his idiot son's death— Everleigh for baser reasons, and Charlene out of curiosity for a brother she'd rarely seen. Though Ravenport had explained that Edmund had effectively killed himself by working with Spectre, an instinctual part of him felt curiously keen to witness that meeting. Nonetheless, while Maxine's darling hellion was away and out of Morigan's feathers, life was quiet, and therefore good, and therefore had only one direction to go. "Caw! Caw!" Morigan chimed in. "Ah—" Ravenport relaxed, exhaling his pent-up, formless anxiety. "Bad news? Excellent." "Milord, you're going to love this." The Raven switched to common speech as it landed, transforming itself into the bloodless mien of a pale beauty with crow-black hair that reached her waist. In the woman's hands, she held an emerald leaf glistening with the arrogant Essence of Tryfan's Great Tree. "… that bad, eh?" Ravenport received the Llias Leaf, took a deep breath, then allowed the Essence to infuse his mind. He was a man that believed in balance, for there was pleasantness in moderation. "Eternal Bloom." He willed away the innate empathic link built into the Llias Leaf. "How may my humble Office aid Tryfan?" "Our Dear Duke of the Accord," came the effortless and ageless voice of the High Priestess. Curiously, Mycroft felt that he had detected a certain breathlessness. "I do apologise for being the harbinger of very dire news. A situation has arisen involving our _Outcasts_ and your Rogue Mages." _Outcasts..._ Mycroft Ravenport unconsciously sat a little straighter. Elves cast out from the Eden of their Great Trees. Mortal— but no less masterful than their ageless cousins. Refocusing his mind, Mycroft banished the girl, the Isle and the budget from his mind. "Dire, you say?" the Duke of Norfolk waited on the clarification. "To what degree?" "Uncertain as of yet, though the source is quite reliable," Solana said. "I received direct, empathic confirmation first-hand from your favourite. Are you surprised?" The girl's smug face, in the most unwelcome sense, once more invaded Mycroft's mind. Feeling a tender throb in his kidneys, Mycroft touched two fingers to his temple, scratched his brow, then sighed. "I am not surprised at all— not at all." "We should thank the girl,' Solana continued. "For if we mobilise now, we may yet discover the true intent behind their senseless act." "Right." Mycroft forcibly banished all stray thoughts. "Tell me what you're willing to divulge, immortal Solana, then we'll see how London may hold up its side of the Accord." As the Elder of Clan Jildam, Stian was no stranger to the quasi-magical flora of the Sawahi. For years, sometimes even decades, the seeds of drought-resistant flora in the desert would lay dormant, surviving even in the intestines of the Afaa al-Halak to await the coming of the wet season, soaking up the meagre mana in the sand. When the wet finally arrived, week-long torrential downpours would penetrate deep into the dry bedrock of the desert, refilling its deep aquifers and reshaping the dunes into momentary valleys with rivers of raging quicksand. The result of such a natural endeavour would tease forth the dormant energies stowed within the seed pods. Overnight, in a matter of hours, wildflowers of every kind would emerge in every corner. Fragrant zones of jade foliage, together with roving masses of suddenly appearing bees and other insects, would then assail the Sawahi to pollinate and procreate in an orgiastic explosion of life. That, in Stian's long memory, was supposed to be the way of the world. Ever since the Tide and the emergence of the Fire Sea, however, the rain season had barely touched the desert. Even when it did fall, downpours reduced to sprinkles, and what water his Clan in its halcyon days could collect was insufficient in sustaining their pastoral wonders. In a matter of months, the moisture farms had failed. The crops withered. Stian recalled that the underground aquifers and their ownership became a matter of survival, turning Rat-kin on Rat-kin, Clan against Clan. The resulting wars in the days of Stian's youth were as epic as they were senseless, accomplishing nothing other than feeding the ever-larger Afaa al-Halak with the bodies of millions of fallen Rat-kin, a sign that the land mother was reclaiming what it had once given. Later, as the Elder of the Tasmüyiz living under Tamir Khan's careless tyranny, he came to know that this was not the land mother's displeasure with the Rat-kin, but the result of extra-planar conflicts far greater than what ratty farmers in a desolate part of the world could begin to fathom. Now, Stian once more saw a sight he had not seen since childhood. Of the fields, his Priestess— or Mistress, as she now demanded to be called— the smallest acreage was already blooming with vines a handspan in length, with hundreds of the saplings already flowering after a generous sprinkling of water. That was a miracle. And then there were the seeds blessed by the Priestess of the Pale light's lifeblood— the hallmark of a TRUE miracle. Foremost of the rapidly maturing plants were the beans and tomatoes. A variety the Priestess was said to have received from Demi-god protectors' of a tree that held up the world's fabric like a giant yurt-totem. Together with the beans, the thousand or so seeds planted by the Rat-kin with the help of a "Kiki" and a "Sen-sen" were already taller than the Priestess. All were now arm-thick and groaning as their length and girth visibly extended with every passing minute. The cucumbers, comparatively, required far too much water to properly propagate. They would have to be relocated closer to the oasis, or until the Priestess' "Elemental Water Generators" could be brought from her homeland. Most impressive of the foursome gift of seeds was the pumpkin, which she had called the "Sunset Squash." These seemed most adaptable to the poor soil of the Sawahi and appeared to thrive in the "Spice" gifted by Lord Garp. In the fields where the "Spiced Pumpkins" had been planted, not only did they have to relocate crowded plants into the newly prepared areas, the hundred-odd remaining vines had already inundated the original plantation with a sea of broad green leaves each larger than a Rat-kin. By dusk, the field was exploding with fragrant bursts of yellow flowers, and Stian was considering getting his Rat-kin to pollinate the plants to speed the germination of fruit. By that speed and scale, Stian shivered; just how many pumpkins would they harvest? More importantly, at yield time, just how much fodder could they produce from the leaves, which were itself edible and delicious to the Rat-kin? With clean water, Stian thought, and hale produce whose tonnage brought hope by equal measure, just how much of the life Stian recalled could be restored, nay, exceeded? Yet, even as Stian's heart filled with gladness and joy, he simultaneous shivered, fearful of the coveted bounty in front of him. Would Temir Khan come for their boon? Would the Horse-lords demand all their produce for "protection" once more? Would the Priestess' Mageocracy honestly care, as she had proposed, for mere rats? Stian was wise and old enough to know that just as they could not trust Temir Khan in protecting the Rat-kin, their faith in the Priestess should remain one of spiritual gratitude instead of pragmatic reliance. If indeed the Priestess could provide them with water and food, then he and the Prefects must hurry to enact the next stage of the Clan's restoration. They must make profits, as their prophet had foretold, acquire funds so that their walls could be built high and the warrens deep. The Rat-kin under the Priestess were twelve Clans, many with mixed blood, split among a hundred Centurions with transformed constitutions. If they could gather the scattered tribes who fled from the war, their numbers should swell close to two hundred thousand. And as many hands performed lighter work, they could then develop Shalkar in every direction, not just the east. As for the phage— Stian had come to acknowledge their Priestess' commandment that the disease was a blessing for the Rat-kin. However, in place of her boundless benevolence, he and the Prefects all agreed that the disease conjured by the Necromancers was lethal only to the infirm, frail, and starved Rat-kin. Even if a thousand died— a million might live a decade from now— that was a price acceptable to any slave. For they who lived under the Horse-lord's hooves, they who were playthings slain out of boredom, or be sent out and worked until their death, any opportunity, at any cost of giving their scions a better life, was welcomed. AND, as the Elder of his tribe and a grandfather, Stian needed to remind Strun that as the Priestess' foremost representative and the first Wyrm Rider in an incalculable number of generations, it was his role to procreate as often and produce as many scions as possible in the hope that many would inherit his traits. Garp, too, if they could capture a female Wyrm, would provide the Clans with a hopeful future. Many Rat-kin would die in the endeavour, but it would be worthwhile. Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow, that was the Rat-kin's meagre lot— to seek salvation at any cost, that was the dirge song of the meek.

"Fuck." Gwen saw her emerald co-op farm from across the horizon. The sight was so conspicuous that anyone from any elevation would immediately recognise the unsheltered food source suddenly blooming in the desert. "Oh, Gwennie…" Her affected Evee reassured her from the back of a mewing Kirin. "I am sure the plants are safe. Look, there's no fighting, and everyone looks to be busy around the fields." But the girl had misread her woe. In her anticipations, Gwen HAD desired that the seeds sprout like Jack's beans, and that's why she had bestowed them with the primal blessing of Almudj, whose will could turn the iron-dusted earth of central Australia pink with blushing lotuses in the wet season. "Golos!" she called for her guardian beast of the Rat-kin. With a splintering, wincing crash, the Wyvern emerged from among the pumpkin fields, expressing the power of a brutal body build for violence. The creature took a running leap, then joined the girls hovering above the foliage lake, worshipped by the fervent eyes of Gwen's ratty citizens below. "This happened overnight?" Gwen stated the obvious. "Any trouble?" "I ate a few stickybeaks." The Wyvern grinned. "That and your slave-kin haven't slept since you left. They've been moving the vines and saplings to new fields, working like Ryxi on his herb field. Speaking of which, how about we breed some carp? I'll borrow a dozen from Ryxi's pond, hee hee— watching the snake protest to Ruxin should be fun." "Oi, no S-words in my house." Gwen protested even as she considered the potential of having Draconic Carp in the freshwater oasis. Indeed, it would make for a fantastic venture since Ryxi's carp were predominantly herbivorous, and Shalkar looked to have an excess of greenery. "And yes, that's an amazing idea if you can transport the things." "Ryxi's Water Spheres should do it," Golos promised. "A few may perish though... in transit, hee hee hee..." "Gwennie. I think you should consult Stian," Elvia advised. "What if the Dragon Carp find Rat-kin to be the perfect fodder?" "True that." Gwen banished the idea for later. Nonetheless, she was reminded that there was such a thing as aquaculture in her old world. The combination was said to be ideal for conserving nutrients and water in a moisture-poor environment. "Let's go down and have a look. It's impressive, eh? I expect we should have food soon." "You have food now." Golos led the way, pointing a claw at the leaves. "Not even Ryxi's herbs can grow at the same pace. That's why they worship you. The delicious Eels in my domain showed no less worship than your furry ones." Gwen somehow doubted the Unagi-don living in Golos' fiefdom of food honestly thought of the Wyvern that way. As the threesome landed, Gwen could see the potential her monstrous vital forces had allowed. Her plus-sized quasi-magical flora was positively Brobdingnagian because of Sen-sen's aid, Garp's poop, and Golos' obscene excretions. The pumpkin patches, in particular, were so thick with leaves the size of umbrellas that the Rat-kin were already harvesting cartloads of the stuff as fodder to prevent future fruits from missing out on the sun's blessing. Thankfully, her labourers were doing shifts, and her dumb Wyvern merely couldn't tell them apart. While a group of rats worked, the others rested— simultaneously performing what looked like acts of vegetation veneration. Gwen groaned. Beside her, the "Druidess" Elvia released Kiki and Sen-sen, who must have felt some kindred bond to the plants and thus fled into the field. As for why, Gwen assumed these Dryad-like Sprites probably liked to hug the trees or something, at least before they had to face the axe. "Mistress." Stian emerged from the thicket of deep green plants. Everywhere, she could near the droning moan of the vines' growth, making the otherwise verdant Eden sound like it was haunted. "You have returned. How fare the Stout-kin's lands?" "Massacred by Elementals," Gwen said. To Stian, at least, she felt no need for further elaboration. The Elder, out of all the surviving Elders of her rat-pack, had more than her share of Elementals razing rat-villages from the Eastern Sawahi to the Northern Steppes in his three decades of Exodus. "My… condolences." The Rat-kin hung his head. "Mistress Elvia tells me you were close to the Stout-kin." "Not these." Gwen inhaled in the verdant scent of squash leaves to improve her mood. "But yes, my friends in the north will be beyond distraught. I do suspect we will get visitors soon. A fallen Citadel is a major incident." "Shall I ask the Centurions to prepare the guests' burrows?" Gwen thought about the roughly hewn hovels the Rat-kin used for shelter. To house the future Mage or Dwarven delegation in hovels smelling of sand and wet fur with no windows and only holes for ventilation sounded like a recipe for catastrophe. "Any chance for huts?" Stian turned his head to regard the enormous vine plants. "After harvest, Mistress. We can cure the vine-wood, extract oil from their bark and excess seeds, then use that as material. For now, I fear we can only shape the earth." "Gwennie, I would think any higher-ups who show up would likely carry Portable Habitats," Elvia reminded her. "When do you suppose we can expect guests?" Gwen considered her conversation with the Bloom in White. "A week, likely two? I have no idea how the southern campaign is going though. Someone from the Shard would take a few days at least, assuming the Elves tell the Shard— or we wait for Mathias, I would guess at least six days for a scouting party. There's no Divination Towers to anchor Teleportation points that I know of, and Magister Taylor said the Fire Sea makes Teleportation outside of ley-lines extremely inexact." "What do we do now?" Elvia had an expression that said the last thing she wanted to do was sit around and do nothing while waiting for the plants to grow. "Evee, you keep working on stabilising the phage— remember, we want a Remove Disease that reduces virulence but unimpedes infection rates for the Rat-kin. The best-case scenario is that any Centaurs will think twice about invading without crippling themselves in the aftermath." "Gwennie." Elvia leaned in closer and lowered her voice. "If we suceed. What if the Rat-kin want to invade the Centaur's lands?" "It's going to take major changes for even a chance of that to happen," Gwen stated the obvious. "Stian, even when the rat fellers dominated the eastern grasslands of the Sawahi, did you invade anyone?" The Elder shook his head. "We are not a war-like people, Mistress. Conflict isn't in our nature. With the lives and the effort lost taking what belongs to others, we could cultivate more fields and restore more of the desert." Gwen considered her earnest Elder rat, who in his worn robes, greying piebald fur and hunched form appeared the very picture of a church mouse. As a student of history, though, she felt sceptical of Stian's wisdom. That "our folk" weren't naturally war-like was to her merely an excuse for weakness. Peaceful they may be, fight they must to the last tuft of fur. Would the forces that had aided the Rat-kin ever allow rats to live in their private Eden while war and death raged all around them? Even if she were to shepherd the Rat-kin to a new Renaissance of food security and sustainable development, wouldn't they just become targets for every other foe lacking food, water and shelter? If so, what use were Stian's hope they would remain Ratmaritan farmers? "Well said. Tend the plants well," Gwen answered Stain's claim with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Though let me say this. We, Stian, may not go forth and find war. But war... War will find us." Gwen found herself unable to sleep for the three days of lulling peace that passed without incident, suffering the calm like the oppressive heat before a storm. By day, she patrolled the emerging Rat-kin dens, visited Elvia and walked with Stian and the other Prefects, talking of matters to come. By night, she and Elvia spoke long and soundly about the past, about Sydney, about Evee's experiences in the Ordo and Faith Magic and her feelings for Gwen's Master's thrifted, Demi-human Necromancy. For a while, Gwen almost felt as if she and Elvia had returned to a simpler time. In the Wildlands, there were no beeping Messages from Divination Towers and no subordinates needing her help on reports or Magisters studying her body for projects. Just her, Evee, the cool interior of the Portable Habitat, and life on the farm. It was an "escape to the country" experience Gwen had not anticipated, and as the days wore on, she realised just how desperately she had needed a wind-down of the pace she had set for herself. In the meantime, her farmhands expanded exponentially to almost six thousand able-bodied rats rolling up their desert smocks to heap "spice" into new fields even as the newly-returned Garp carved out channels in the desert. Of the labours at hand, it was Kiki, the floral Sprite that again wowed them all by using its innate powers to gather, then pollinate the flowering fields in the absence of insects, who would take weeks to arrive and to breed into sufficient numbers. On the morning of the fourth day, after breakfast made by Evee, there came a knock on the Alarm spell left outside the Portal Habitat. After the girls washed and dressed, Stian met them on the threshold. There was a problem. The "Control" field, with its mundane miracle of unimpressive growth, the rat explained, was developing in a suspicious direction. "Mistress, it's trying to form a vine gate of some kind." Stian pointed to the beans. "We don't know if something is controlling it or otherwise, so we kept cutting it down." The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Gwen first took stock that no rats were harmed, then she turned her attention to the unusual phenomenon. True to the Rat-kin's words, she could see that two of the Centurions had teeth-axes in hand and were hewing away at what appeared to be fast-growing tendrils of prehensile vines attempting to form a structure of sorts. Feeling a deep suspicion, she produced the Llias Leaf once more, having chosen NOT to keep the thing against her skin while she and Elvia shared their private moments. Sure enough, her Llias 3310 was vibrating. "Hello, Gwen here," she answered the leaf by holding it against her face out of habit, drawing a quizzical look from Elvia. "Magus Song," the voice that spoke, much to Gwen's surprise, wasn't her demure and flawlessly beautiful friend, the Bloom in White, but the beetle-black Arch-Warden Eldrin. "Stop cutting down our gate." Gwen blinked at the field and its heap of hewn vines. "Your gate? What gate?" "The Trellis Portal." Eldrin did not nearly possess the patience of his counterpart. "What you have discovered is a matter of great significance, and we wish to send a representative to witness the fact first-hand. Without direct confirmation of the Elementals methods, Tryfan's cooperation with the Mageocracy and the Dökkálfar will suffer." It took Gwen another few seconds to realise that Eldrin spoke of the beanstalks her Centurions were happily collecting for building materials. "Let me get this straight." Her mind grew instantly displeased as the realisation struck. "You gave me plants for food, and the bloody food can grow PORTALS for your goons to hop through?" "Correct." Eldrin sounded utterly unabashed by the fact. "Allow the gate to form, Magus Song." _The bastard!_ Gwen felt an acerbic ire rise in her chest. The logical part of her knew already that the Hvítálfar gave nothing for free and that there would be a cost to receiving their help and aid. What she had not anticipated was that the food came with the means to enable an invasion. "No way, not without answers." she refuted at once. "What are your true intentions, Eldrin? What does our dearest Bloom want for Shalkar?" "What's good for all." Eldrin's voice made her think of a swinging, scything blade. "Food for your slaves, stability for the Prime Material, woe for our Planar usurpers." "They're free folk!" Gwen snapped back, transmitting her annoyance. Why do all of these uppity existences speak so unabashed of the Rat-kin's meekness like it's some crime of nature? "You know nothing, Eldrin." "Do you think they'll be free merely because of your assistance? Who do you think you are?" Eldrin's arrogance was growing on her nerves. "Will they survive the Centaur's iron-shod hooves without our aid?" "Our? No, I'll deal with the horses," Gwen growled into the leaf, transmitting her displeasure. "Will you be their Queen and sovereign then? A human woman, the Devourer Queen of the Vermin! That would be a first even in your sordid history books!" Eldrin appeared unfazed by her confidence. "And for how many decades? Will your Mageocracy allow that liberty. Could our Bloom be humoured by such an act? Or—" The Arch-Warden paused as if struck by epiphanic enlightenment. "I see now. You wish to exercise that which is the natural talent of your phage-like race— you could prune the Centaurs from existence. Eradicate them once and for all— a feat not even your mid-land ancestors could achieve seven centuries ago. Over their bones, with your mastery over the Sand Wyrms, the Steppes could be tamed and transformed into your personal property. Better yet, you could use your filthy Svartálfar sorcery to subsume their souls, empower your magic, and force them into servitude. Is that what you wish, Devourer Song?" Absorbing the abuse like a sponge, Gwen turned to her Rats. If The Bloom in White had asked and asked nicely, with a promise of giving her some secrets of the Llias Leaf, then she would have being satisfied with building infrastructure for the Hvítálfar. Eldrin, on the other hand, could eat a big black Caliban. Now that she knew what was going on, what's interesting was that only the "Control" field appeared to be sprouting a Trellis Portal. At the same time, the seeds affected by her and the Yinglong's Essence seemed to be unmoved by the trans-Planar command from Tryfan, which, when she thought about it, made a mystical but logical sense. If so, her accidental foresight to garner produce was doing her far more favours than just making food. That and Evee's Inquisitor was right. Fucking Elves and their agendas. "Stian, uproot the Control field. Gogo. Burn all of it," she gave the command to send in the men and women with their teeth-tools. "Magus Song, you would show such insolence?" the voice from the Llias Leaf rose in volume and hostility. "Caliban! Ariel! Help out!" "Shaa!" "Ee—EE!" Her creatures stood at the ready to return the plants to their senders. The Llias Leaf grew uncomfortably silent. After a dozen seconds, likely to see if she was tearing the vines apart, of which she was, another voice sounded on the Llias phone. "Magus Song?" It was her masseuse, Sanari. "Hierophant Sanari," she answered the pleasant, female voice. "How can I help?" "Allow me to apologise for Arch-Warden Eldrin." The Druid's diplomacy was far more to her liking. "Matters have grown somewhat urgent, even for those of us for whom time does not flow. Although I fear we cannot bestow undue details without inviting you to join our communion of like-minded forces, I do beg for your patience and generosity. Tryfan requires access to the Steppes, and you are our closest Essence root to the source of our troubles." Gwen's anger subsided at the apology. "I don't particularly mind delivering this favour as repayment for the seeds," she said. "I should thank you for the food and the foresight. That said, I don't like being surprised." "Again, we did not mean to be so abrupt. Warden Eldrin has been shocked, as we all have, by recent developments." "I'll buy that," Gwen concurred. "So, what happens after you send an army? What happens to my rats?" "An army? Magus?" "That's Eldrin's job, isn't it? Pruning folk like stems from a Bonzai? What's going to happen to my freed rats?" "Nothing," Sanari explained. "They are yours, Magus Song. Tryfan merely wishes passage for its allies, nothing more. By the Bloom's wisdom, I shall personally attend in place of Arch-Warden Eldrin. For now, please recognise the urgency of the matter." "Who are these allies?" "Common friends of circumstance," Sanari replied. "I promise that we shall minimally utilise the gate. In any case, its energies remain precious and limited." "Fine. That's a promise then." Gwen did indeed recognise the urgency of the horror below despite the interval that must have passed since its inception. "Also, Eldrin mentioned that the Bloom could be convinced to be a patron of the operation I've established here?" "We shall be amicable to discussing your needs if it so pleases you." "… good." Gwen accepted that a verbal agreement was as much as she could coax before things took a turn for the sour. Unlike Eldrin, she had no desire to slap the smiling Sanari, and The Bloom had been pretty good to her, and supposedly— she was mates with her Master. And at worst, once she repaid the favour, she could pollute these plants from Tryfan with her and the Yinglong's Essence, preventing further surprises. "Stian, tell the men to fall back," she commanded. "Let's see what miracles our friends from the north can use to offset the impediments of space and time." "Okay, that's a miracle, alright." It took the better part of a day for the vines to grow into a Trellis Portal four meters in height, wrought of intricate Elven Sigils and interwoven sorcerous structures hidden from view. Meanwhile, Gwen set about readying storage solutions for the rats' future Sunset Squash harvest. While she planned out ways to maximise space and economy, Stian gave lectures teaching the others that pumpkins could be stored for close to six months if kept in cool and dry places, flipped upside down to divert seedy ambitions. When she returned to the field of interwoven beans and tomato vines, the Portal was in full bloom, likely because of the energies Tryfan was pouring into the structure from some unseen ley in the world. The sight, Gwen had to admit, was to her a worthy spectacle. The Trellis Portal was a four-meter, self-constructed arch in the middle of a field, under the ultramarine sky of the Sawahi, in a Black Zone. On its exterior, emerald foliage swayed with the wind as yellow, carmine, lilac and white blooms erupted in spontaneous bouquets. A poor man's Star Gate? Gwen mused to herself. Just what was the limitation of distance on these things? At the promised hour, the space between the frame came alive with the unique magic of Druidic Tree Striding, something the Hvítálfar had not been shy to demonstrate during her visit. A white hand appeared, thin and elegant, elfin and a little alien as it pierced the veil of space. Sanari, Hierophant of Tryfan, strode through the gate, followed by a second elf in beetle-black plate mail, with a scimitar the thinness of insect wings hanging from one thigh. The planar membrane behind them swelled like a bubble, then popped as its latent energies fled. The thousand or so armed Rat-kin watching the entry turned their eyes from their Demi-divine visitors to their Priestess of the Pale Light. At her word, she could see, they would swarm the Elves with tooth and nail. "Welcome." Gwen extended a hand to shake the two-meter woman with the guise of a humanoid praying mantis. Sanari's golden eyes, pearlescent like that of a jewelled scarab's shell, swept across her rats, then lowered to regard her hosts— first to Gwen, then to Elvia. "Thank you for your generosity." Sanari tilted her head, sending a lock of flaxen hair sliding past her ear. "I am among august presences, I see— not one, but two Vessels of old ones. I now understand why you did not fear Eldrin's ire, Magus Song. Thank you for receiving us. My companion is Elder-Warden Thiel, my instructor during my Cycle as a Warden." The Elf in armour gave them a curt nod. Gwen nodded back, choosing to refrain from formality. "To save time, I can show you where we found the Dwarves. Shall we?" "We shall await our allies," Sanari surprised her by rejecting her offer. "They should be arriving very soon to assess the extent of the threat." "The threat?" Gwen silently remarked that she had better not be the threat. "From who?" "Outsiders, outcasts from the Great Trees." Sanari remained as cryptic as ever. "The details, I cannot relate. However, I may inform you that our common foe, that cabal dubbed by your Mages as Spectre, is likewise working with the Elementals and that their designs extend far beyond a mere, Dwarven outpost." "Can you clarify?" Gwen asked. "Clarity is what we're trying to discern," Sanari said. "Our Divinations thus far have been... impeded." "Right." Gwen considered the situation at hand. Her curiosity demanded answers, but she had far too much on her plate already. "Can you tell me who has been informed and who I should expect?" "I can." The softly spoken Elf considered her request. "To my knowledge, the Bloom has informed your Kingdoms' Duke of War, who has promised to invite the Thane-King of the Dwarves under Red Peak. News will undoubtedly travel fast to the Middle Kingdoms of Humanity in what you call Central Europe and the Commonwealth of the Mageocracy. The forces you have fielded in this part of the world will soon return as well, your Mages and the Horse Lord's horde. They shall soon convene where you've made the Rat-kin a home." "... That's way too fucking soon." Gwen swore, then immediately regretted her reflexive vulgarity. "Sorry— what I meant was that's hardly good news for what I've got here. Any idea who will be the first to arrive?" "The Dökkálfar would have been the first, consideing their grudge— but their low-ways have since been sundered, so they must now travel by borrowing the rudimentary sorcery of your Mageocracy. Thereby, assuming your young Knight Protector finds your southern expedition without fail, we should be expecting Meister Bekker first and foremost. The Khan's representative shall arrive shortly after, though for a different reason than the others." Gwen noted the unconscious "rudimentary" slipped into the Elf's words. Of the incoming folk, she could imagine the Dwarves doing their grim business, after which she might ask for a few favours to help her build the rat's city. Bekker as well, once she saw the merits of Shalkar, should be taking the Rat-kin's side. As for the Khan's representative, who could that be? Saran? Or one of his generals? A scouting party lead by a Tumen could possess anywhere between a thousand and ten thousand horses— enough to give Garp a fatal injury and overrun the rats. "Sanari." She considered the implications should the Centaurs prove less than diplomatic. "Can I trust you and the Bloom to support what's been built here?" "We will always do what's best for the Prime Material's wellbeing," Sanari replied without commitment. "That is the design of the Great Tree and the purpose of our being." "Does the propagation of life back into the Sawahi serve that purpose?" Gwen changed her phrasing. "Does restoring the biodome of the eastern grasslands aid Tryfan's cause?" "It does." "Would the destruction of Shalkar, its fields, and the eradication of Rat-kin move against The Bloom's will and expectations?" Sanari paused as if listening to a voice borne on the wind. "It does." "Good," Gwen affirmed their common goal, understanding that so long as their mutual benefit exceeded what the Horse Lords could offer, her position remained unassailable. "In that case, stand behind me when I make my case to Meister Bekker and Ambassador Taylor. Together, Accord or otherwise, we'll bring some stability back into the Sawahi!"

Listening intently to Sanari's guileless saleswomanship of the Trellis Portal, Gwen began to recognise why the Mageocracy sent out its scroll-smart pupils into the Wildlands. Where in Cambridge, even with all its Magisters and libraries, would a Magus get such a hands-on, in-person practicum other than in Black Zones via serendipitous solutions to unfolding crises? For instance, who in Cambridge could or would instruct her in the sorcery of the space-time magic of the immortal races? "… The Tellis' constraints, therefore, are meaningful for both ourselves and our allies. First, only a true servant of Tryfan, imbued with the Essence of the Great Tree, or as a vessel of Lord Tyfanevius, may utilise the leys that deliver its power across the Prime Material." Tyfanevius, Gwen recalled, being the Wyrm in the World Tree's roots. A Snake. A Tree. A Woman. That was the triplicate Solana had decreed. What interested Gwen was the symbolic iconography— that a phallocentric reptile was the Guardian of a life-bringing tree and that both were linked to a womb-bearer. If this were her old world, she would have written the matter off with a smile and a nod to Nordic-Grecian-Biblical mythoi. In this world— she wouldn't be so dismissive, as one never knew what lurked beneath the extra-Planar roots of the Axis Mundi and its network of pillars. As for the Trellis Gate, she was sorry to say there was no possibility of commercial viability. First, only Tryfan or another Elven commune could grow the gates through the powers of its Druids. Second, only those born of Tryfan and imbued with its blessing or are a Vessel to its Guardian may pass through the leys. While human agents could use the gates to travel around the world, utilising Storage Rings as transportation modules, these very agents would effectively be defectors whose very lives were held in the Hvítálfar's unseen web. Thereby, the Dwarven low-ways remained the preferable option. Expensive and complex it may be, the Dyar Morkk was a tool, and tools could be lent, imitated, or usurped. Whatever the case, her guest offered her services, and as the Hvítálfar went about her business, Gwen studied Sanari's interactions with the others. Golos, for one, appeared in awe of the Elf's svelte figure. According to the Wyvern, there was something inside the Druid that was older than even the Yinglong. In conversing with the Hierophant, Gwen had never seen her Thunder Wyvern so polite in all their years of association, going so far as to use his humanoid form and wear pants. It was as though, she observed, her creature was secretly afraid of Sanari, much like how the Elf avoided Caliban, only Gogo seemed unable to discern why he felt so anxious beside the sunny Elf. Comparatively, her Rat-kin loved the Druidic Demi-goddess in pale gossamer and gold, so tall and lithe that most of her stooping rats reached her thighs, and even Strun only touched her shoulder with both ears erect. In the three torturous days that they then spent waiting for the arrival of the Rat-kin's future fate, Gwen watched Stian take advice from the Druid and made a note of the Hierophant's generosity in teaching her minions. To Elvia, whose mastery over her Familiars was self-taught, Sanari similarly withheld nothing about instructing Kiki and Sen-sen on their innate powers. Watching her peers reap the benefits, Gwen sincerely shared the temptation her Master had felt at Tryfan. The romanticism of Druidism! A proper Life Bringer! When Sanari saw the Rat-kin puzzle their heads over the notion of shelter, the Druid had walked among her ratfolk, a true goddess of the Prime Material, then coaxed vines from the fields so that they formed sturdy homes and abodes, plumbing-inclusive. The process was equally terrific and awe-inspiring for Gwen. In Sanari's mastery, the Magus from Cambridge understood that in addition to magic, there was also quasi-magical engineering and sylvan architecture at play— a synthesis achievable only by a very long life. Where Gwen and her council of twenty had been convening under the blue yonder like tribals, Sanari willed into place entwined vine-totems that met as a dome, then extended outwards like an umbrella twenty meters in height and thirty in diameter, forming a newly transmuted species of yurt-tree. A vine-wrought baobab! Gwen recognised the familiar shape at once. With patience, Sanari explained to the dazed Rat-kin that the interior would be a sheltered space for the Rat-kin to rest and hide from sun and sand. Outside, shade provided by the exterior foliage would cool their bodies and collect the morning moisture, storing water for emergencies. Watching her companions follow the Elf like curious kittens, Gwen could only marvel as the Druid made her rounds around Shalkar, encouraging aquatic plants to stifle evaporation from the open oasis and commanding deep-tapping hedges to form windbreaks around the various fields. At first, Gwen had half a mind to tell Sanari to cease her actions to prevent unnatural ambitions from Eldrin. Once she saw the literal improvement in quality of life, however, she changed her thinking to include Sanari as a part of her bargaining with Bekker and company— for very quickly, Shalkar's non-existent architecture was being transformed into a proper township. As for Sanari's companion Warden, the male Elf appeared and disappeared, seemingly at will, speaking nothing and answering nothing, and so Gwen chose to banish Sanari's shadow from her mind. By the fourth morning since Sanari's arrival, three trees stood on the flat horizon, utterly changing the aerial vista of Shalkar. Gwen pondered her evolving perspective as she watched furry and naked rat-pups scamper up and down the tree with effortless ease. Could she have been wrong, and that true calling for Strun's people was as arboreal species? Could it be that her plans for an underground city were unfounded after all? The disadvantage for both was that the Rat-kin were incapable of mimicking either architecture. However, the possibility of rats learning to use Golem Suits remained, while there was no hope for Druidic Rat-kins. It was a shame, for tree homes offered food, natural shelter and served The Bloom in White's notion of stabilising the Planar fabric of the Prime Material. As for how well the trees would hold up to Centaur or Elemental assault in a desert— she guessed only time would tell. For now, the practical thing to do was to take advantage of Garp in creating safety tunnels in every direction away from Shalkar. Her schedule proved short, for that same afternoon, Mathias returned with Meister Bekker's entourage. Looking at the nervous Void Mage, Gwen found herself once more surprised by Jean-Paul's Master. "Master says so long as your plans put the Mageocracy first, we'll support it," Jean-Paul blabbed his orders like a man clearing a severe case of constipation. "We're almost done in the south— but Master says it was too easy and therefore deeply suspect and that if you've got something better suited for the incoming peace, then you may count on her support." "Magister Taylor has received directions to remain impartial," a second voice, Jean-Paul's superior, notified Gwen with a gaze of ambivalence. Together with her Void Sorcerer, the Mage flight had arrived with the party's Transportation Specialist, Eli Hill. "Thereby, you have command and responsibility for what's to come. Should matters sour, I will transport us to somewhere safe." "Thank you, Magister Hill." Gwen bowed. "I'll not disappoint the Ambassador." Gwen quickly introduced the party to her companions at Shalkar. Jean-Paul scratched his head, his complexion growing pink as he eyed Elvia, Mathias, the mountainous humanoid Wyvern, the giant rats, and the golden Elf among them. The Void Mage's eyes fell upon their Elven Hierophant. "G-greetings, m-may your bloom be eternal!" Jean-Paul stammered forth fragmented phrases recalled from his lessons. "Glory to the er… tree." "Relax." Gwen guided her comrade in Consume to shake the Elf's hand. Sanari withdrew her digits, visibly fighting to ward away the stink of Void Mana oozing from Jean-Paul like sweat. Jean-Paul instantly mistook the gesture and visibly grew shrunken and dejected, appearing the very picture of pity. Magister Hill rescued the moment by taking the Elf aside and delivering a long-winded greeting in what Gwen suspected was perfect Elven. "Evee, Mattie, can you take Lady Sanari and the Magisters to the conference room?" Gwen gestured proudly to the largest of the baobab trees, the interior of which she had persuaded Sanari to populate with a circular table in the manner of Arthur's and his knights of yore. "I'll finish up here and meet you in half an hour." "Of course, Gwennie." "Don't spare the Sen-sen Maotai." "Okay!" Somewhere in the green thicket, a Ginseng shuddered. Evee led the Mage Flight and Magister Hill away, trailed by a serene Sanari. "So, how goes the war?" Gwen asked Jean-Paul once the others were away. "Speak candidly, JP. If Meister Bekker's happy to give me a hand here, then I am happy to look out for both our interests." "The campaign was successful, if unexpectedly so." Jean-Paul visibly relaxed without the company of the High Elf, Elvia, and the judgemental eyes of Hill and his compatriots. "The opening volley between the Elementals and the Horde were as one would expect— a flesh grinder. Shapeshifted Dao, the size of hills rose from the sand as cyclopean golems to crush the Khan and his troops, aided by laughing Djinns willing the air into sandstorms that could strip the tissues from your bones." "Jesus Christ." Gwen tried to picture the war. "How did you deal with that?" "Master and the others took care of the elemental assault." Jean-Paul's chest swelled with pride. "With prepared Mandalas, Master and the others disrupted the Planar ley used by the Elementals, transmuting the Dao's bodies so that they couldn't maintain their shapes or regenerate. Our Hunter Killer Flights then sought out the Djinns re-forming above and sealed their Cores while dog-fighting their conjured Sprites. At the same time, our supporting teams below buffed and maintained the Centaurs' momentum. The seesaw went on for many days until, at the threshold to the Fire Sea, the Dao General, Shebeed The Silent, met Tamir Khan head-on, resulting in a titanic duel as he tried to halt the Horse Lords advance." "Can you describe the Dao General?" Gwen asked. "Was he humanoid or monstrous?" If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "Like an enormous fanged Dwarf with no lower body, armoured in sandstorms." Jean-Paul used both hands to illustrate the fact. "Holding a war hammer the size of a building, smashing at the ground to disrupt the Horde's spearhead." "Holy shit!" Gwen exclaimed, awed by her imagination in place of Jean-Paul's literary paucity. "And then?" "The Khan summoned the strength of his Horde to attack the giant's weak spots," Jean-Paul replied with wonder. "He disarmed the Dao General with pilums to the fingers, then pressed on with the assault before the Dao could regenerate his limbs and retrieve the fallen mallet. Thankfully, the Dao never had the chance, for Khudu, Cherbi of the Khan's elite Khesig, lead his Orkok to harass the Dao's priests in the rear, breaking their sorcerous support, thereby allowing Master to divert the flow of Earthen mana." "Then the Elementals fell back?" Jean-Paul shook his head. "There was no retreat. We fought a war of extermination, Gwen. Our strategy was to prevent the Elementals from synthesising the Prime Material through sealing or dismissing their higher ranks back into their Planes. If we could achieve this without losing our ability to fight, then we've won." "Losing the ability to fight?" Gwen cocked her head. "Like OoM?" "It means having enough bodies remaining to halt the Elementals' greater manifestations," Jean-Paul said without any particular emotion of note. "Higher Elementals can't be destroyed but can be banished. The lower ones merely return to the primordial in their native elements. For both the Centaurs and the Mageocracy, if we survive with excess troops for the next conflict, the balance would tip, thereby we've succeeded." And so it is with a world where old men plot and young men die. Gwen shuddered, suddenly reminded of an adage of war. "So…" She felt deeply uncomfortable knowing her next question. "Did we win at a discounted cost?" "Exceedingly so." Jean-Paul exhaled with relief. "Our losses are just over twenty-thousand horses and about thirty Senior Mages and Maguses, including one Magister from London Imperial, despite his Contingency Ring. We nearly displaced Magister Hill as well, which is why he's here to take a breather— but thankfully, Major Kott was there to hold the line against the Efreeti Flame Dervishes." "T-TWENTY THOUSAND?" Gwen choked on her companion's ironic relief. She had lost two thousand rats and thought it the end of the world. Twenty thousand? How high was the corpse pile? Lazarus, the Khan's Necromancer, must be dancing on the mass graves. "What the fuck? That's like, one in ten of every Free Rider we saw at Nukus!" _Christ._ Gwen cursed. To think she had cursed those young stallions playing rat-Quidditch, and now, many of them had given up their lives for a cause from which she would benefit. "It isn't as bad for the Centaurs as it is for us," Jean-Paul parroted something his Master must have said. "A combat mage takes ten to twenty years to train. The Centaurs are born warriors in a culture of physical supremacy. Almost all male members of the tribe can fight, meaning they'll replenish those numbers in four-five years, likely less." "I get it, but still—" Even having seen the scale of destruction at Shenyang, Gwen still felt horrified by the prospect of commanding two hundred thousand men to charge toward the enemy, knowing that anywhere between one-tenth and half would not return. How can a living-breathing warm-blooded being gain enough hardiness? Gwen felt her skin crawl, knowing that she might need to make such a call. Even in victory, what would she even say to their families? To twenty-thousand familiar faces living in the same city? "Now, all eyes are on you. After the campaign comes the matter of recovery, which means food the Mageocracy owes the Horde." Jean-Paul looked to the verdant horizon, products of her labour. "Beware, Gwen. Considering the miracle here, the Khan should be coming for Shalkar. They were preparing even as we left..." The Centaurs arrived two days later. Gwen had toyed with the idea of delaying their meeting via Garp, who could cover every approach to Shalkar with walls and pitfalls but decided against using a tactic that would only incense the Horse Lords. Curiously, as the Horde emerged on the horizon, making an ominous silhouette from one hilltop to another, Gwen could not spot Temir but saw Khudu, Cherbi of the Khesig Guard, the Khan's second. She was just about to comment on the fact when Sanari, who had joined her as she and the Mages exited the baobab trees, pointed to the richly dressed figure of a painted Shaman. It was Dini Saran— the Khan's Şöpter advisor. Was Saran then the Khan's nominated mouthpiece? Meaning, therefore, Khudu must the spear? But then again, the Khan's absence made sense, for "Gwen Song" was merely a Magus of the Mageocracy, an administrator with land and slaves given to her by the Khan himself. To have the ruler of the Steppes personally address the matter would be akin to Ravenport personally confronting the head of a local labour union. Then again, Gwen considered the spontaneous Eden behind her— having now seen what was at stake, would the Cherbi send for his Khan? Or would the General and the Dini seek to resolve matters as the Khan's proxies? "While you and the Khan's representative make your terms, I shall privately convene with the Faun," Sanari explained without elaboration, which Gwen read to infer that the suspiciously ageless Saran was likely a thrall of The Bloom, similar to their designs for herself. "I should remind you, Magus Song, so long as the Prime Material is maintained, Tryfan does not intervene in worldly affairs regarding resource or governance." "Of course," Gwen did not challenge whatever private "Accord" Sanari had planned. Either way, she would wield the Druid and Tryfan as her bargaining chip. If the Horse Lords did not do due diligence, that was their problem. Thereby, against the overwhelming might of Khudu's Horde, Gwen brimmed with confidence. Even now, behind the vine-line, Strun and Garp's Empathic Links informed her that her preparations were complete. In a total diplomatic breakdown, her rats would escape through a tunnel her Shingleback had dug under Shalkar. And in the case of a worse catastrophe, Strun had even plotted routes for the Rat-kin to escape to the destroyed Dwarven Citadel. With her worries gone, Gwen could now focus on dissuading the horses from war. First, there was the threat of contracting Blood Fever; then, she would intimate the danger of the Mageocracy refusing to provide food. As an addition, she would inference the hypothetical disapproval of the Demi-god Hvítálfar. And if the Centaurs would disregard all threats to wean themselves from relying on Shalkar for fodder and forcibly take the oasis— then she would scorch the place with her Void Swarm and leave not even a slice of squash for the fuckers. Mutually Assured Destruction— that would be her ace-in-the-hole. It was a madcap threat, but she suspected even Temir Khan should fold under such a circumstance, assuming the Horse Lord's pride could stomach the fact. An hour later, likely proffering time for the victims to stew over their fate, the Horse Lords sent their representative— a long-maned stallion who had been one of Gwen's drinking companions. Compared to his pampered visage at the feast, the armoured youth was visibly scarred by rough healing, though he seemed hale and happy for having proved himself the better of their Elemental foes. At a hundred paces from the gates, the horse stopped. She recognised the bloke as Besutei, one of the Khan's princelings. "Magus Song!" Besutei called out. "Our Cherbi seeks a meeting on the hill, away from the diseased Tasmüyiz!" "Good! I shall attend the Cherbi!" Gwen shouted back via Clarion Call. "Likewise, send your Dini Saran. I have a guest here that wishes to commune with her in private. She should know who it is." She pointed to the shining Elf on the oasis' edge, so out of place with her golden hair and ivory robes that it was impossible not to notice. The stallion seemed taken back by the fact that Gwen would request such an essential personage in their entourage attend to Shalkar but galloped back to return the message. Gwen turned to her companions. "Gogo, you're with me. Evee, take Sen-sen and Kiki and make sure the horses don't try anything funny. Mathias, stay with Evee, but we might need you to command the retreat if they start charging down the Hill. Use Strun and Garp as best as you can. Sanari?" "I shall meet Saran there, in full view." Sanari pointed to the forest-like fields of squash. "At that distance, we'll have shelter and privacy." "Right." Gwen took to the air, having ensorceled herself with the necessary protections preemptively. If there was one aspect about the warding spells she loved, it was the subtlety of her alter-Bone Armour and Sanguine Mantle pre-manifestation. "Stian, I leave the city to you. Don't bother defending the crops as there's plenty more Sanari can provide if these get destroyed. Prioritise the lives of our folk and get them ready for evacuation." "We can fight, Mistress." Stian's face was grim but determined; his ears erect with rage. "We'll infect them all. Even a scratch or bite will do. Their wives and children will pay the cost of their arrogance in pus and boils." "For Shalkar!" "For pumpkins!" "For our Pale Priestess!" Her rats' eyes glowed green. "Don't fight for me, but home and hearth." Gwen applauded the Elder by parrying their fervour. "As always, fighting to the death is a terrible strategy. Trust me. The Horse Lords won't persist, not like the way you imagine. If anything, get ready for peace— a very-very expensive one." The Rat-kin and her Prefects nodded, understanding but not understanding. Golos arrived at her side in his human guise. A brute with a rough-hewn face just under three meters tall, with arms and legs the size of tree trunks, with teeth protruding from scaly, purple lips. "Let's go," the Thunder Wyvern urged her. "I yearn to see you bring forth calamity." Midway, Gwen met Saran and her escort of elite Horse Lords and exchanged words on the southern campaign's outcome. There, the Dini stared at her with such a complex expression that Gwen could cut the tension with a Void blade. If she had to guess, the matter likely involved her hijacking of the Tasmüyiz from the Khan's hooves and her undermining a foundation block from Temir's unchallenged pyramid of power. That said, Gwen felt no guilt, given that Saran had presented her a task to fail. Either way, an understanding passed between the two women as they left— hers cold and aloof, and Saran looking like she would use Consume if she could. "Magus Song, our troops at Shalkar. What have you done to them?" As soon as she landed on the Hill, the Khan's Cherbi cut straight to business with an accusation, so rude as to not even offer a nod of respect. "Where is my cousin, Kokochu?" "Scattered like seeds to the wind," Gwen replied with complete seriousness. "I fear that Shalkar was empty of honourable Horse-folk when we arrived. Nary a shred of integrity remained." The Cherbi snorted, intimidating her with a battle-honed body that was to her more so eye candy. When she glared back sardonically, the Centaur's eyes grew hard like peach pits. Below, she could see his steel-capped hooves, each the size of dinner plates, pawing the soft sand. The Cherbi had come with all the men the Khan could spare, in so far as she could see. If she discounted the potential of hidden reserves, there was at minimum two thousand riders at a glance, each with javelin quivers bulging with honed steel. "You test us, Magus Song. Those were our kin. Kokochu was my blood-kin." "You're welcome to visit and investigate." Gwen pointed to Shalkar. "We have no gates, no fences even. You're my guest, Lord Cherbi— please make yourselves comfortable while your investigators seek out where your folk had fled. Walk among the rat falk, speak to them about the pumpkin spice, if you fear no fever..." Khudu stepped forward. "That's close enough." Golos raised a massive hand, an enormous fang poking out from his twisted lips. "Shit if you must, mortal, or leave this place." "This 'place'." Khudu disregarded Golos' warning, much to her Wyvern's delight. "Belongs to Temir Khan." Gwen tsked. She had consulted with Hill prior and had anticipated the Cherbi's naive claim to ownership. Shaking her sagacious head, she wagged a finger at the Cherbi like an offended kindergarten teacher. "Let's not delve into legalities, Lord Cherbi. The Steppes is a freehold administered by Temir Khan's government. Your folk have signed no agreements with your neighbouring nations in any direction, nor do you respect their sovereignty when you do. If I were you, I wouldn't embarrass the Khan with such trivialities, least of all by claiming a system of laws you have no desire to recognise. Besides, I was given Shalkar to house the Rat-kin by your Khan. Has he since rescinded that order? Does Lord Temir do backsies?" "The Khan did not give the order..." The Cherbi appeared taken back by her legalise, though that didn't prevent him from pointing to the food. "… for you to do that—" "What?" Gwen cocked her head with a sly, foxy smirk. "Is it illegal to bring prosperity to the Steppes? Is it a sin to grow food and shelter? What's the punishment? Where is this law written or spoken? Point to the totem of convention in the Golden Pavillion, Khudu, and I'll hand over Shalkar on a platinum platter." With her repeated goading, the Cherbi's passion rose, along with the latent power of his overstrung body. Would the Cherbi be like this if Saran was here? Gwen wondered. Was Sanari thereby doing her a solid? Golos rebuffed what he saw was a mere warrior-class peon, drawing vis-a-vis with the giant horse. "Try me, lunch. Your kin was delicious." Heeding the ping from the Divination Sigil, Gwen stepped back and raised a Mage shield. Khudu and Golos moved at once, the Horse Lord swinging from the right while Golos lead with the same, both aiming at each other's faces. For she who stood front row to the first Wildland World Boxing Championships, the meeting was no different to the collision of two meteoric objects. The clamour of fist meeting jaw, bone meeting meat fulminated. What was taking place between the Cherbi and Golos was the confluence of the Centaur's Shaman magic against the Yinglong's Essence in a Thunder Wyvern's perfect body. The sand below the two exploded as their bodies swayed to either side, erupting as an impromptu flower of silica as the impact reverberated as a thunderclap. Golos was down on one knee when the sand settled, his head twisted in a fatal position. Comparatively, the Cherbi had skidded down the dune, using the slide to absorb the impact, and so appeared uninjured despite his shameful retreat from their contest of strength. If Golos had been a Human Transmuter specialist, he would have died. In that outcome, whatever loss of honour that might be perceived would have been buried by the death of Khudu's opponent. Instead, her Wyvern cracked his neck back into place, stretched out his ligaments and muscles, spat out teeth, then mocked the retreating Horse Lord with a snarl. "I should have evaporated the slave with my breath," the Wyvern explained to her in case she thought he'd lost. Through their Empathic Link, she could tell the Wyvern was hurt— though his rapid regeneration would resolve the matter in minutes. "I still can..." Patting the Wyvern on the arm, Gwen strode past her champion. With all the awed horses watching from below and with the Cherbi looking grim, she sensed the moment was ripe to hammer out an iron-bound guarantee. "I hope that's worked out any kinks in your system, Lord Cherbi," she once more addressed the Horse Lord, more respectfully this time to save the horse his long face. "As Temir Khan and I are both busy people, I need you to speak up. Listen well, Old Master of the Steppes— a new order has dawned, only this time, there's bread for all willing to sit at the table."

Above his troops, Khudu, the Khan's Spear and Shield, stood proud and erect as an unyielding lance. Beneath the Centaur's leather armour, Gwen could see the welted scars glowing like little red ley-lines, channelling the vitality that fuelled the "Pilum of the People", the Centaur's speciality. As the leader of up to ten thousand Free Riders, the Cherbi could utilise the Khan's skill, which made him a dangerous presence even for one imbued with the foul sorcery of Bone Armour and Sanguine Mantle. "Fingers crossed," Gwen mumbled while maintaining an expression of self-importance, watching the stubborn body of the horse resist her Aura of Desolation without furrowing a brow. Taking a deep breath, she decided she should nip Khudu's belligerence before rebellion could blossom. "Honoured Cherbi!" She called out with Clarion Call. "There is no shame in humility! The steel that bends is the steel that endures— while the unyielding metal is that which shatters!" Informing Golos to tackle her from the air if the Cherbi should try his luck with a democratic assault, she continued her speech. Once again, she longed for Gunther's Radiant aura, simultaneously pondering if Faith Magic and its myriad of empowered glamours would make convincing folk like Khudu less complicated. Though she had previously urged the Cherbi to speak, she could read from his tensing body that her responder wasn't a man of words but action. Therefore, in his sullen defeat by Golos, she hoped that another round of demoralisation would thereby smooth the dying pillow over the Horse Lords' opposition. "Look about you, Cherbi!" She swept her arm in a grand gesture. "I've turned Shalkar into a paradise of food and produce! Would you destroy it for pride and let the Sawahi starve? Do you think the Rat-kin who worked these fields, whose hearts are now filled with hope and their bellies full for the first time in generations, would return to slavery and deprivation at the behest of your crushing hooves? They're ill with the phage, Horse Lord, but their hearts are now hale! To move them would wound the Golden Pavillion beyond repair, yet achieving nothing in return." She pointed to the three trees imprinted upon the low sky. "See there! Elf-made tree homes! Gifts from Sanari, Demi-goddess from Tryfan's World Pillar and its immortal Wyrm! Would you raze it, Khudu? Would the Khan make so many enemies so readily? How many horses has he to spare? How far does he wish to stray from his dream of an all-conquering Golden Horde?" She could see the veins of Khudu's scalp pulsing like pink caterpillars. To hammer the final nails on the coffin, she sent a command for Garp to make a show. The ground trembled, causing the line of Centaurs to pace restlessly. Khudu steadied himself, more so for the sake of his mental health than from being staggered by the shifting sand-scape. Just as the Cherbi howled for the nervous stallions to halt, the ground some hundred meters behind Gwen shifted, with the sand rapidly swirling into the teeth-lined interior of a sinkhole, exposing the immense form of Garp behind the Priestess of the Afaa al-Halak. The Centaurs fell into chaos, some absurdly with laughter and relief, perhaps thinking Gwen was ambushed. Others, more observant, knew that no Sand Wyrm that size would breach without striking its prey in an explosive eruption, and that combined with her earlier words, this was a demonstration of their worst fears. Slowly, Garp sailed closer to the dune while Gwen drifted toward her Shingleback until its cobra-like head was close enough to touch. Towering above the Centaurs and their bloodshot eyes, she patted the Wyrm on the snout— Then she shielded up as a blast of affectionate sand ejaculated from its tip to rain down on the Chebi and his bodyguards. "GARP!" The Sand Wyrm burped. "Cheeky whelp!" Golos remarked, amused by the Horse Lords' dismay as his wind-wrapped scales dispersed the sand blast. "You're a Worm Tamer?" Khudu's expression grew hard enough to whet blades. "If so, why did you not appeal to the Khan personally? Were you hiding your powers, and if so, why? You could reign over entire regions of the Sawahi with our support and the Khan's blessing." "You speak as if taming the Sand Wyrm was a convenience." Gwen shook her head as Garp slithered away, retreating into the safety of its underground burrow. "Whatever the case, you know what the Khan had chosen for my Rat-kin in Shalkar. That's a kindness I hope to repay, Khudu." "The Khan is too honourable for that," the Cherbi protested at once, his tanned face growing darker. "It was the deceitful Saran, a scheming woman and a Şöpter slave whose sweet whispers clouded his judgement!" “That Şöpter SLAVE is your Dini!” Gwen snapped back, feeling a sudden annoyance. "Horse shit, Khudu! How dare you shift the blame onto—" Gwen paused. She was about to say "woman". It was typical that a woman would be a scapegoat for a patrilineal Horse Clan dealing with a Faun, but that wasn't right either. They weren't blaming their Dini for her sex, but rather for the unusual position she had wrought for herself— that of a female Major-domo and therefore, like Lady Macbeth, the Khan's Thanes felt both slighted and jealous of the "Şöpter slave" who had young Temir's ears. If things had gone well, the Free Riders and the Generals would remain silent— but if their fate were to sour, then clearly the slave woman had disturbed the great Chain of Being and needed to be punished. In that regard, Gwen did feel for Saran— though for now, their mutual positions did not allow for sisterly camaraderie. "Strewth— for the love of the Khan, take some Gengis-damn responsibility, Khudu," she sighed with theatrical exasperation. "It's not hard. Your Khan's honour is better preserved by coming out with food security for the next decade or two, time to train your warriors and restore what you can of your livestock herds. During that time, I'll tell the Rat-kin to give you whatever aid you require in exchange for protection and alliances, AND the Mageocracy won't undermine your restoration of the Khanate, certainly not if the Demi-gods from Tryfan had anything to say. If all parties can uphold their dues and be RESPONSIBLE adults, then together, we'll create a paradise out of the Sawahi." "Responsibility…" the Cherbi masticated the word as a cow over green fodder. "I shall not refute that you have put us between two precipices, Magus Song. You are wily for one so tender." Gwen felt the gallstone that's been catching in her throat drop. "I am glad we agree. Have you thought of the terms yet? I have prepared plans that should be amicable to Temir Khan and your people. The Hvítálfar Demi-goddess with your Dini also has a hand in overseeing its fairness. That said, can you be responsible for this negotiation? Or does that fall to your Shaman?" "As the Khan's close-kin and his general, my decision holds weight." The Cherbi came closer as she spoke, drawing another snarl from Golos. "And you are right, Magus Song. We all have to take responsibility for our actions." "We live and learn, now then—" Khudu halted her before she could deliver the offers she had in mind. "But I am the Khan's honour." Gwen fell silent at the nonsensical interjection, wondering if Golos had punched Khudu too hard in the head. "I am the Khan's Cherbi." "So you are." "Then I shall take responsibility for our Dini and Temir's tarnished faith." Gwen furrowed her brow at the Cherbi's verbal Sodoku, feeling an unpleasant premonition. The Cherbi's back grew suddenly straight. "Challenge me, Magus Song. We will negotiate through trial by combat. Win or lose— the Golden Pavillion shall accept your suggestions— though if you refrain from honouring our traditions, then you shall rally only the survivors of the Nayzağay Qani' to fight the Elemental Sea. You said we must all take responsibility, correct? To challenge you is my duty to Temir. I am an Orkok, Magus Song— I was a fool to rely on words when the strength of my arm and legs would suffice." It took Gwen a few seconds to realise what Khudu was asking. Fuck. Gwen silently cursed her earlier grandstanding, realising her well-groomed high horse was now mounted by a bucking stallion. From the sound of Khudu's words, there was no rescinding his demand to a honourable duel. The act did make sense, for the Horse Lord was trying to find martial logic in a rapidly emerging world that rejected the high romance of valour. Still— to fight Khudu, even in an exhibition match, it was a bother. "Khudu." Gwen stepped back from the Centaur. "You imply that we fight for supremacy, correct? Not life or death?" "All duels of honour are a matter of life and death—" Khudu's expression remained solemn. "I need to feel your earnestness, Priestess of the Afaa al-Halak. Are you not toying with the lives of my kin? To put your life on the line is the least you can do." I already fought a fucking Sand Wyrm. Gwen wanted to protest but duly acknowledged that Khudu would retort by pointing out that he was freshly returned from charging a crack cabal of Dao Warlocks. She had no idea if Khudu was trying to kill her— for without the "Pale Priestess", who would steer the Rat-kin? That said, the possibility certainly existed, and Taylor or Bekker could replace her if push came to shove. On the other finger— did the Centaurs know of Contingency Rings? Did the Cherbi know that killing a Mage like her required complete and near-utter obliteration of her vital components? Was their duel merely the final, prideful harrumph of antiquated tradition? Still, she had no desire for her capitalist endeavours to be bludgeoned by the Pilum of the People. Could she use some Void-driven means to absorb the Centaur's premier assault? Or perhaps, end the matter with Garp? No. She needed Khudu on her side to explain his surrender to the Khan and his Generals. "Very well," she replied quickly to demonstrate respect for the local custom. "Now?" "Yes." Khudu inclined his head at her Wyvern and the trench where Garp rested. "I will fight alone." "Then so shall I." Relieved, Gwen decided against bringing Dragons to a horse fight. Drawing on her prior experiences, she then decided on a strategy of high mobility and submission by a thousand Void-cuts. That and she knew precisely where to fight. "Gogo, don't interfere." "Hehehe," her Wyvern snickered with sadistic wickedness, revelling its sadistic nature. "Whatever you wish, Calamity. Just promise to tell Brother not to blame me if your body's broken in two." Saran, Dini of the Nayzağay Qani, listened quietly as the holy Hierophant of Tryfan relayed the wishes of the ageless Queen, pondering the choices of her past and where she had misstepped, if at all. Though she was a mere Şöpter, her life had been infinitely richer than most, for the ordeals that came with Cataclysms can be wildly inconsistent. Some thirty cycles ago, when the Fire Sea rent the landscape asunder, she had been a nameless Şöpter Shaman serving the Pavilion, then ruled by Temir's Grandfather, Kazahr Khan. Even before the great burning of the plains and the drought that followed, the lives of Şöpter slaves were gruesome existences. When young, the Pavillion raised them beside the stallions and mares to breed loyalty and servitude, each assigned to a promising future Nokud, or if they were lucky, one of the Khan's many children as playthings. As they matured, the Şöpter slaves would learn very quickly that the will of their master was absolute and that their sole existence was in service to their lords or ladies. Their Elders taught them that they should apply every intrigue, act, and every mote of their being for the Horse Lords' benefit— else death may very well be preferable. If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. Often, it wasn't even the Horse Lords, who were seldom malicious, but often cruel in neglectful ways, that made a Şöpter's life impossible, but their fellow servants, who saw their kin only as competitors for the favour of a Jagun or Mingat. Saran's mother, a pretty Faun, had been traded so often that it wasn't until her expiration that the bruised woman recognised her child. Saran was luckier. Her burgeoning talent with the sorcery of the Clan's Shamans was enough to elevate Saran from the rat pit of Şöpter cannibalism. She did not starve, though frequent beatings, unwanted advances and neglectful injuries common to her kind remained plentiful. Then the cataclysm happened, and the hierarchy of things since the inception of the old empire under Gengis grew strange. Raiders returned from their grassland forays, but empty-handed, saying that the Rat-kin slaves of the east had gone to war with one another, resulting in fallow fields and a cessation to the trading of fodder for prisoners of war. To the east, the suddenly boiling sea brought strange new beasts wreathed in the lands' Elements, indiscriminately razing tribe after tribe, driving boars, wolves, jackals, Kobolds and Greenskins westward to harass the Horse Lords' vast domain. Likewise, the Humans with whom the Khanate always held an ambivalent relationship all but ceased contact as their cities burned and their empires shrank. For Saran, it was in a burning yurt, beside Kazahr Khan's scorched body, that the nameless Şöpter girl, a favourite of the Khan of Khans, met an ageless Hvítálfar for the first time. Crushed by the Brass Legion, the rest of the Clan had fled, abandoning their leader in a great rout. Saran could not leave because she was chained to the Khan's golden throne, like a trapped Kobold. The Khan's visitor was a beetle-black death God— that was her recollection of the grim-faced, mantis-like Eldrin. The Elf proclaimed to have been in partnership with the Khan in what she would later know as the "Accord", and he asked the Khan if he had the strength to continue the fight against the Elementals. The Khan replied that he was spent— and that he had seen the truth— the Hvítálfar's disregard for his people— that generations upon generations of their kind had been the Hvítálfar's tool, first against the appearing Human empires, now the Elementals. He was tired, the Khan said. He no longer cared for longevity. The Hvítálfar appeared perplexed. "You will give up the gift of Tryfan then?" he said. "You and your descendants." "I return everything." The Khan's wound wasn't mortal, but the scorched and bleeding mass that spoke must have been in exquisite agony. "I know now the curse of your kindred upon mine. Let me die, Warden. For my half-century of service—" "The Bloom would be very disappointed," the beetle said. "DAMN THE BLOOM— Give me peace!" Saran recalled that the Khan's smouldering flesh had smelled like grilled Şöpter, the ones they murdered for fodder in winter. "Long-earred God— if the Khan doesn't want it, I'll do it!" Saran recalled the choice she had made that day, an act so bold that her very existence changed as a result. "I'll perform his duties for your Accord. Give me the means and the power to move the Clan, and I'll abide by whatever you or your Masters wishes." The Hvítálfar had regarded her as though seeing her for the first time. "An Interesting proposal." Eldrin's Mithril irises were inhuman, almost insectile in their coldness. "Slave! Don't you dare!" The Khan's dying body suddenly filled with vigour. "Silence yourself, now! Rip out your tongue, or I'll do it for you. You—" There was no resistance, mental or otherwise, as Saran drew the scimitar from the Khan's discarded saddle, then plunged the gleaming Mithril blade into Kazahr's soot-encrusted belly. "CURSED SLA—" Twisting the blade had been one of the most pleasurable acts Saran had performed in all her life. "I will inherit your will," she had said to the dying Khan. "Your children, and your children's children, they will think themselves the lords of the Steppes, but in reality, they will fight the wars of the Gods, dying by the herd. Every generation will know only war. There will be no solace, no rest, only futility. That will be your legacy, Great Lord. I'll record it on the Totems for all to see." She recalled Kazahr Khan's horrified expression. If dicing her torturer's guts had been a pleasure, watching the old horse's eyes fill with despairing pearls of water had been a greater pleasure. "Tell me of the Accord," she had then demanded of the death god. "Gift me that which you had given the Khan, and I'll give you his people." She would never forget Eldrin's affirming approval. Three decades later, Tryfan's goals remained consistent— for the Steppes must be restored, and the elemental balance returned. In the intervening years, through subterfuge, subversion and the supplication of the Steppes' grassland refugees into the Tasmüyiz, Saran had performed admirably in bringing order to an otherwise unruly and bloody Khanate of chaos. With fingers as bloody as they were fair, she had hand-reared Temir's father until he too outlived his purpose. Thankfully, the grandson was reliant and obedient to her counsel, perceiving her as a mother more so than the filly Saran had chosen to deliver him. The rest was history— though watching Sanari speak, Saran realised something. Gwen Song, the subject of their conversation, was not a member of the Accord. Nor was she a servant. Instead, the girl was a Vessel of an Old One. One powerful enough to manifest the minute oasis of Shalkar into an emerald valley, terraforming the landscape in under a week. Listening to the Sanari speak of the "need" to find common ground with the sorceress, Saran couldn't help but feel cheated by her years of service to the Accord. Was her ascension to the role of the Thunder Blood Dini merely a measure to stem the tide while the "True" instrument of Tryfan matured elsewhere? A quarter of a million horses had perished since the night Kazahr died. Since then, she had abided by the promise to keep the blooming Elementals from the Flame Tree pruned. Now, Sanari said that deliverance was at hand— though it was up the Horse Lords and Saran if they wished to continue their marauding ways. "Was this always a part of The Bloom's vision?" she asked the serene Druid. "To put us at the mercy of the Humans?" Was Humanity now the favourites of The Bloom in White? Unbidden, Saran recalled that the eastern Humans had an aphorism: the dog was stewed when the rabbits were hunted— as the bow was unstrung when the pheasants are shot. A millennia ago, the Horse Lords were unrivalled instruments of the immortal Hvítálfar. How long would it take for Humanity to fall from favour? Before the Druid could answer with a non-committal response, an earth-shaking roar erupted not far from the thicket of squash vines. A battle had been joined, though, from the lack of war cries, the conflict had not gotten out of hand in her absence. "Come, Dini Saran." The Druid did not wait for Saran to give her approval. "We should move on. The Sawahi has remained fallow for too long." Saran followed. One could not compel Tryfan to intervene in the competing interests of the mortal world. For their present circumstance, whether the Horse Lords chose dignity or servitude, or the middle path of cooperation, that was "her" choice to make and her burden to bear. She was on her own, for even should Temir discard Saran, no Elf would materialise from between the grapevines to rescue their agent. More likely, in her absence, Saran scoffed, Eldrin would offer Temir the same boon he had given the grandfather. The pair cleared the squash patch. Outside the grove, Saran bore witness to why the Magister from Clan Taylor had boasted about the Mageocracy's "Void Sorceress". She briefly recalled that there had been another as well, a double-edged blade that had returned as a revenant to bite at the Mageocracy's plump flesh. What made this one any keener and less likely to slice off a thumb? Whatever the case, across an open field, the sorceress was proving her worth as she flittered about, stinking of Necromancy, with half her body covered in blood that may or may not be her own. Below the sorceress, Khudu steamed and stamped, his armour in tatters and his sculpted form covered with wounds, marking a trail of crimson from the dune to the battleground, painting the sand in the manner of scattered petals. At first glance, an uneducated observer would think that Khudu, who still burned with vitality, was the clear winner. But Saran instantly saw that the sorceress was trying to give the Khan's Cherbi a platform from which to descend to diplomacy, for there was no Kirin, no Void Wyrm, and no Wyvern aiding the sorceress as she teleported every few seconds to whittle away the Cherbi's Vital Haze. At a safe distance, Sanari stopped, then regarded Saran with one of her expectant smiles. Saran sighed, acknowledging the new and burgeoning world. Yet, unlike the lucky Kazahr Khan, she had many distances to go before she could sleep. Gwen chose the vast, flat expense directly adjacent to the field where Saran and Sanari held their scheming conference. Sure enough, after a dozen exchanges where she and the Cherbi both drew blood— she by literally cutting the warrior with shaped Void Bolts and his by near-hits that triggered her armour and mantle— the pair emerged. In the communion of their interchange, she empathised with Khudu's death wish in challenging her as an individual and not through the power of his people, whose barrage of pilums would nail her to the sand lest she borrowed Garp or Golos' power. Presently, she gritted her teeth and endured the thrilling pain of dodging fatal javelin tosses to preserve the possibility of perfect diplomacy with the Golden Pavilion. Even if the Khan had the wisdom to see that Khudu was on a path of suicide, she doubted the Rat-kin's future would hold much kindness if she tossed Temir the honourable head of their Cherbi and cousin. Thankfully, as anticipated, Saran demanded a halt to the hostilities in the name of her Khan. Without waiting for Khudu's protest, Gwen withdrew her Desolation Aura, simultaneously suppressing the manifestation of her Bone Shield, signalling an ambiguous end to the battle with the Cherbi still standing "on top". Khudu looked more demoralised than if he had suffered a crushing defeat, tempting her to send up Caliban from below the battlefield to deliver the warrior lest he later changed his mind. Heeding the Druid's gestures, the foursome convened in the open. "We shall listen to what Magus Song has to say," Saran announced to the Cherbi. "I'll take responsibility for relaying the loss of Shalkar to the Khan." The Cherbi shook his head. "No, I shall shoulder that burden." The Dini of the Centaurs appeared genuinely surprised. "The Khan will not be pleased." "I am his cousin. What can he do other than dismissal?" The Cherbi shrugged. "The war's over, for now. There's no need for an Orkok to serve as his honour guard anymore. I could use the rest. My sons are maimed or dead. My stables need refilling." The two exchanged a mutual look of puzzlement at one another's amicability. "Right, so we're ready to negotiate?" Gwen tested the waters. "Sanari?" "Make your case, Magus Song." Sanari nodded at her. "I am merely a witness to your agreements." Gwen nodded. "I would invite the Rat-kin's Elders as well, but there's no guarantee they may nor may not be carrying the phage, so I shall speak in their stead." She gestured to the fields. "I am no farmer, so you'll have to trust Sanari in stating that a fully developed, one-hundred acre compound around Shalkar should be able to sustain the Golden Pavilion's needs with about half of our produce, a feat made easier if the grassland's elemental stability can be restored and the seasonal rain returned. To this end, I have two choices for Temir Khan. One, the Khanate becomes our business partner, part-owners of our enterprise. By the law of the Mageocracy, which all of its governors shall abide, the Khanate and us will engage in profit-sharing. Yes, PROFIT, not produce. The foodstuff shall be sent to auction. The resulting gross— which should be substantial— can be used by the Khanate to purchase seeds, livestock, rations or hired help. In this way, you have complete flexibility." Perhaps not knowing the importance of cash flow and liquidity, the Cherbi did not appear moved by her grand and generous gesture. "Our other option?" "The other is easier, though not one I would personally recommend." Gwen had initially not wanted to offer the more straightforward route for fear of the Centaurs screwing themselves. Still, looking at Khudu's confusion, she realised she might have vastly overestimated the Horse Lords' economic acumen. "A portion of the food here will be given to the Khanate as tithing for its alliance and the protection it offers. This portion will be enough to feed the Horde in its current scale and then some. It's a healthy, symbiotic relationship in which, the more food the Rat-kin produce from Shalkar, the more your Horse Lords will receive." Gwen explained that the second offer lacked the flexibility and locked the Horse Lords into maintaining the status quo. Rather than having the means to develop their lands and culture, the Horse Lords would only grow more reliant on the Rat-kin— and unless another rat holocaust occurs, that would eventually invert the rulership of the Sawahi and the Steppes. As with Tryfan's stance, Gwen preferred a balance between the Horse Lords, the Mageocracy and her "Ratopia". "One more thing, I shall be taking one-hundredth of the proceeds, or one per cent of the net." Neither Saran nor Khudu appeared to care. "These are ambiguous choices beyond our ken, Magus Song." Khudu shook his head. "Dini?" "I would choose the first option," Saran appeared confident. "Mistress Sanari?" "Well done. I have witnessed the agreement. Magus Song, please proceed." Gwen readily agreed. "I'll inform Magister Hill and Taylor as well as Meister Bekker. More than likely, someone from the Foreign Affairs department will be raking over trade agreements from the Shard. Rest assured, I'll remain here to oversee the development of the agricultural hub. Will you be staying, Sanari?" "If you wish it." The Elf's golden orbs lingered on her face. "I wish it very much." Gwen remembered that she knew next to nothing about farming, much less optimised horticulture in a desert setting, with Essence-enhanced plants fertilised with Wyrm spice. "Please inform The Bloom that for adopting me as your agent without consent, I'll take the seeds as payment." Sanari appeared unmoved by her insolent remark. Beside the Elf, the Mithril-horned Dini of the Centaurs grew suddenly rigid. "Lord Cherbi." Gwen then turned to her challenger. "You're still oozing. I regret to inform you that nothing short of Essence sorcery is going to heal the lesions entirely." Though their conversation had been quick, Khudu had refrained from drawing vitality from his kin, and as such, had been slowly bleeding out from his two-dozen Void wounds. "I'll seek assistance from the Dini," the Cherbi acknowledgd the wise woman Faun. "Should your terms fail to deliver, Magus Song, such as treachery from the Tasmüyiz, or the withholding of our fodder and supply, I shall personally ride with my Nokuds to raze your Rat-kin city to down to the last stone." "And so long as your people stay away from Shalkar and refrain from raiding east of the Sawahi, I will additionally supply the Golden Pavilion with healing medicines in the instance of an unforeseen outbreak." Gwen did Khudu one better. "The devil's in the details, so have hope. If the Khanate can additionally provide escorts for supplies, border patrols and regular Purges of Elemental incursions, we shall be more than happy to accommodate in HDMs or fresh produce." "That does not sound… disagreeable," the Horse Lord mulled over her words. Of course not. Gwen almost rolled her eyes. Given the choice of gainful employment versus mutual destruction, why would the former sound anywhere near disagreeable? She produced a bundle of towels, threw one to the Cherbi, then mopped up the blood from her face and neck. For Stian and his people, a careful agreement with the Centaurs was merely the beginning. Once the Dwarves can be consulted and the Rat-city and its satellite pseudo-citadels established, they can begin to absorb the Tasmüyiz who would inevitably flee from the Khan's tyranny into the Mageocracy's Ratopian protectorate. Once the new status quo is established, that would be the beginning of their problems. What would Temir think then of their labour practices? Would Saran possess the means to stem the exodus? Could the horned wise woman summon enough clout to counsel Khan of Khan to choose cooperation and compassion? What would the other tribes under the Khan think? Would a civil war engender over differences in the opinion of enslaving those with a furrier nose or pointier ears or pinker tail? As Gwen was no desert prophetess, only time would tell. Whatever the Elves had planned for the region, her prerogative as an individual agent was only her Rat-kin, over whose suffering she had chosen the act of Noblesse Oblige. To this end, their Pale Priestess would not sing of psalms to love thy neighbour and turn the other cheek. Instead, she would do her people one better. Instead, she would bring profit.

With how busy Gwen had been since arriving at the Steppes, two things that followed in the wake of her confrontation with Khudu and Saran came as a surprise. One was the continued delay in the arrival of the Dwarven delegation. The second was the sudden lull in everything, an eventless, week-long break so peaceful and pastoral that she felt as though running down a flight of stairs and then stepping into a pit of Şöpter wool. But such was the irony of acute management. Once an executive officer ensured that valuable people were in place, there was less to micromanage, leading to the perception that most CEOs spent their time pursuing PR stunts, or in her case, adventuring hours. In Ratsanto, Stian and the Elders looked after the management of the settlement. Strun and Garp, together with Golos, took up the task of security around the oasis, recruiting, dispersing or eating the visitors. Sanari single-handedly taught the Rat-kin about the new plants and instructed those with talent in rudimentary quasi-magical plant husbandry for their tree homes. Eve and Mathias attended the clinic, taking care of the sick, injured and newly arrived. All of which left Gwen with nothing to do unless she wanted to join Gogo in harassing and bringing the Sand Wolves to heel. In the morning, she awoke to Elvia, who had already been up since daybreak, making breakfast for herself and Mattie. Occasionally, the Prefects most familiar to her, such as Strun or Stian or Skaz and Ix, would visit with news of newly cultivated fields or exciting bits of governance related to newly-arrived refugees. However, with repetition, her rat-feed news stream quickly faded into obscurity. The only fascinating event became that of Golos, who ventured out at dawn and returned at noon, depositing Creature Cores of mysterious things he had eaten along his patrol routes, like a Gatcha-machine that dispensed collectables through poop. After coaxing Sanari, she now had a viewing platform crossed with a cosy nook at the top of the tallest baobab tree from which to oversee her domain. To what she believed was the easterly direction, Elvia and Mathias had set up a clinic of sorts to process the ill, the injured, and the newly arrived. Strun, now the undisputed representative of the "Mistress", had been acquiring new bodies for Ratsanto by riding Garp to the local villages and making a show of the boons in Ratopia. Or at least that's what the Rat-kin champion proclaimed. Gwen recalled but chose not to investigate that Strun had often lamented how the surviving villages had treated him when he was dying of thirst and starvation trying to warn them about the Necromantic Phage. The crops themselves were already bearing first fruit. Sanari had said that the plants would expend much of their vitality after the first batch and that after two generations, agricultural maintenance would take precedence. To this end, Gwen had persuaded Magister Hill to inform the distant Magister Taylor, requesting the latter to send out an urgent request to transport Filtration Engines and Elemental Generators. As this was a part of her venture, Gwen offered to pay for all related Teleportation costs, even if the Mages have to put out CC quests on the Tower's Notice Boards. With a stable Shalkar, she explained in a letter, the Sawahi would stabilise, the Rat-kin could make their homes, and the Centaurs could recover. With her mornings done, Gwen would walk among the tree-like vines, marvelling at the fruits growing larger and riper by the day, speaking to the Rat-kin who came to pay homage. The new rats, in particular, had received a vision from the Prefects that her acts were nothing short of divine intervention. As a result, visitors occasionally appeared bearing food, fruit and dried nuts to curry the "Pale Priestess'" favour. One time, she reached the middle of a Sunset Squash field only to find a crude statue of her carved out of white stone, wreathed in yellow squash flowers and surrounded by offerings. What am I, a fertility idol? Gwen was amused that the statue not only had her likeness but added rat ears and a bump on the buttocks to suggest a hidden tail. Thanks to the inexpert hand of the anonymous sculptor, the visage looked like she'd visited Sawahi Disney Land and had bought one of those overpriced, made-in-China Mickey ears. In the afternoon, she picnicked with Elvia and the Centurions in informal meetings, working out their dues and teaching the rats basic logistics by taking advantage of the arithmetics the Elders possessed to instruct her subordinates. On the other hand, teaching the average Rat-kins turned out to be an ordeal. The frustration notified Gwen of the need to establish formalised schooling systems to dig for talent among the rats and filter her furry minions so that they weren't just a grey-black mass of whiskered faces but individuals who could put their skills to the best use for Ratopia. To a certain degree, this was not difficult, as Gwen had done her portion of volunteer tourism in her old world in nations like Ghana and Tanzania. In the feel-good aftermath, she had admired the hybridity of profit-driven tourism and capitalist philanthropy, particularly when the volunteers couldn't stomach the heat and had unanimously self-funded a solar-wind system "for the collective good of the people". Philanthropy and profit, in her opinion, thus made a fabulous pair— provided the latter doesn't override the "Non-Profit Organisation's" core principals, like building multi-storey offices in multiple cities and spending eighty per cent of the budget on administration and "consultation". If that were to happen, she would have to come down with Golos to address the board. Evenings were equally quiet and romantic. Atop the tree, the ugliness of the excavated city-in-progress was hidden by the darkness, becoming spotlights of Daylight Globes and Maxwell's Camp Heaters, turning the oasis into alien acreages full of blinking fireflies. Strangest of all was the moving mountain that was Garp just outside Shalkar's approach, a literal dune that shook and quivered as the Shingleback dreamt, Gwen supposed, the same dream shared by Almudj. Finally, at night, she would retire to the treetop and set up her Portal Habitat. Elvia would return by then, and they would sit under the stars to watch what she hoped was the Milky Way and not a billion portals into the Quasi-Elemental Planes, worlds pure in their energies, inferring that the true anomaly was their Edenic Earth. If that were the case, she would much prefer that stars were the spirits of past Khans floating on an isometric Astral Plane, looking down on the masses and running general commentary like horse racing pundits. Then, thinking of the paperwork that awaited her once she got back to London in a month or three, Gwen would drift off into sleep, dreaming of the new income soon to fall into her future Tower's coffers and of her Evee next door. It took a week more for the Dwarves to arrive, together with Temir Khan's decree a day prior. The order was encased in a shell of elaborate gold and True Silver wrought into a scroll case. Its content was for the Mageocracy to oversee the region of Shalkar by nominating a Magister rank officer as its overseer, meaning, "not Gwen". The move, Gwen supposed, was to undermine what she had built— albeit after the initial moment of displeasure, she could only scoff at the Khan's lack of understanding of the Mageocracy's entwined politics. If she had to guess, someone other than Saran probably proposed the ridiculous stumbling block. After their resolved conflict, the trio of Sanari, Saran and herself had spent some time outlining her wishes and desires for Shalkar, to which the Shaman had expressed no evidence of displeasure. Instead, Saran had nodded sagaciously while looking at her with mixed reverence and caution, then offered her full support on the condition that Shalkar's spiced squash must flow. Assuming then that she was an "ally" in Saran's corner within the Khanate, the trouble could only come from Khudu's warrior ranks, who couldn't have been happy when the Cherbi returned home to announce his temporary retirement, citing the reason that he had to replenish his stables. Unknowable to the Horse Lords— that the Mageocracy would send an administrator had been within Gwen's calculations regardless of their childish politicking, as she had to return to her regular classes within two months from the date. What was curious for her was that her foes remained in the stage of an economy that emphasised personal ownership rather than commonwealth, a particular prospect which foreshadowed much of why their management of the Sawahi had been so impoverished, even with Saran taking cues from her Elven overlords. There was, Gwen deduced, an uncomfortable parallel between the Mageocracy, Tryfan, the Steppes and her old world's Western efforts in Afghanistan. Her only hope was that her Rat-kin oasis would not become yet another mausoleum in a place famous or burying empires. This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. With all things considered, she took the decree with both hands while observed by the deliverer— a nobly dressed Eagle-kin, the couriers of the Khanate. She then dematerialised the priceless case into her Storage Ring to keep as a souvenir. The item would make a good conversation piece for Maxine, whose support she needed to count on for Shalkar's produce to make it through London and beyond. She could imagine it. Visitors to Peterhouse could say, "My, what an interesting and masterfully wrought scroll case!" And Lady Grey would smile and say, "Indeed, it was from the year that Gwen Song, Henry's protege, rat-fucked a whole host of horses!" Stifling her inner laughter, Gwen kept her mirth private to share with Elvia later. A day later, the Dwarves arrived. Welcoming the stouter delegation, Gwen was thrilled to see that the Mageocracy had her best interests at heart. It was because, whether by intent or by coincidence, the overseer to be stationed in Shalkar introduced himself as the long-faced and balding "Provisional Magister" Ollie Edwards. Together with Ollie came the familiar face of Hanmoul, who gave her a bodily, manly embrace as they met, crushing her against his plated flight suit. Before she could address her friends, however, her eyes were drawn to the reason why the Dwarves were so late. There was a sizable entourage of Striders and other mechanical units, including a dozen Golems— then there was a pair of towering iron giants, each three storeys tall that strode across the Sawahi as iron-wrought Colossi compacting the sand with every footfall, transmuting the path upon which they trod. For Gwen, who had vividly shared a close encounter of the deadly kind with these Golems, she immediately recognised the Mana Signatures and unique Essence auras of the colossal Dwarves-in-a-box. Siege Class Balefire Golems. If the one she had fought was a powerhouse in itself, then these were akin to two city-scale elemental reactors on legs, making their way across the Himmseg— the blighted lidless world of the tall men. To expose such venerable elders to the lidless world must have been an endeavour in itself, fully indicating how seriously the Dwarven community took the news of her finding. "Lassie, tis me pleasure ter introduce yer to some Elders O'mine. Feast yer eyes, Gwen, upon the eternal bodies of Engineseer Dhudreag of Clan Kül, hailing from the deep city of Zugspitze." Hanmoul's expression was locked into one of eternal reverence. "And this is Runemeister Skaghaem of Clan Bürumm-dal, descendants of the Ancestors, an elder among Elders, a white beard among the numberless Grey Scribes of Watzmann." Gwen refrained from commenting that these Balefires possessed only stylistic beards carved into their articulated armour. From the sound of their names, it was safe to conclude that these were Germanic Dwarves from the central continent— where the largest active Dwarven undercity and its satellite citadels outside of Deepholm had their seat. Straightening herself, she offered a learned greeting in Dwarven, introducing herself through a long string of titles that outlined her achievements, then asked the "Ancestors" for guidance. The act was longwinded, but it was necessary to show the proper respect— in the world of the Dwarves, only those with accomplishments and pragmatic contributions to society could speak words that possessed "weight". "Greetings, Human Magus." The giant that spoke was Dhudreag, making him the elder of the two Balefire Dreadnaughts. The vox-box inside the Balefire roared as the sound rang out from its vibrating armour plates, visibly warping the air with heat and pressure. "Thou art the one who had aided the young ones and to whom the debt is owed." A statement, Gwen noted with some satisfaction. "Tis I," she said in what she hoped was old Dwarven from Deepholm. "Come ye for vengeance, wise old one as old as the stones?" "Aye," the acknowledgement was like a thunderclap. "The Great Grudge of Vjalth Agaeth Kjangtoth, if found true, shall sound the horns of war across every Kjangtoth that still stands in the Prime Material. Our kindred's lost souls shall be avenged by every Dwarf whose heart still harkens for Deepholm. The Ancestor's Halls demand it. Honour demands it. Our Cores demand it." Vjalth Agaeth Kjangtoth, Gwen gathered, must be the name of the destroyed outpost, something that translated to "citadel of molten sand" or "sand smelting city". "It is heartening to hear a voice so resolute," Gwen hailed the Balefire. "If this young one may ask. Come you bearing knowledge for the reasons of its fall? Were the Elements after the Dyar Morkk?" "Aye lass," Hanmoul answered for his elders, who nodded and went on their way. Shalkar to the Dwarves was never their destination but merely a waypoint, and for giants who needed no water, air, nor food, there was no reason to rest or delay. As for their mortal entourage— Dwarves were a hardy people. After explaining the urgency of the matter, the Commander of the Iron Legion briefly lamented the difficulty of moving the Balefires through Human-made Teleportation Circles, which had to be rebuilt by their Enginseers. According to Hanmoul, the news of the destruction of the Citadel and the wholesale murder of its stout folk had sent shockwaves through the Dwarven community. Such horrors had happened during the Beast Tide when the Aberrants had caught the Dwarves off-guard, but never again since the Sundering had a Citadel been butchered in the dark— until now. "I needs ter go, lass. We'll talk more when we return—" Hanmoul eyed his Strider, now modified for the desert. "Unless yer wants to come to Vjalth Agaeth Kjangtoth with us?" "I am afraid I must stay here and work things out with Ollie." Gwen glanced at her unwilling partner in conspiracy, recognising the futile frustration in his thinning hairline. "Right, Ed?" "Just so we're clear." The provisional Magister instrumental for his role in the Dwarven alliance sighed. "Lady Grey originally asked me to bring you supplies, crystals, medicines, and to act as a guide for Hanmoul and his entourage from Bavaria." "Aww. that's so kind of the Headmistress!" Gwen gushed. Ollie made a face. "When I got here, Magister Taylor said that he had a wonderful opportunity for me, and it was an offer only a fool with no ambition of becoming one of the youngest Magisters in the Mageocracy would refuse." "Oh no…" Gwen offered the young man a sympathetic smile. "I said I would do whatever was needed, and all he had to ask." Ollie paused. "That was out of courtesy, by the way." "Oh— Ollie." Gwen winced, wondering if she should console the man with a perfumed hug. "He replied there's a position in Shalkar, soon to be a trade hub of the region, among the Rat-kin, and that you were responsible for its inception. Ergo, as I am a part of your Faction, and that Lady Grey trusts me implicitly, and Lord Ravenport had mentioned me by name, I was the perfect candidate to be stationed here." "He's right, you know." Gwen nodded in agreement. "That's good money to be made here, accolades and wealth and reputation, all for the discerning individual." Ollie stared at her. "There's no Vid-casts here, no Divination Towers. No pubs. I have no family, no friends— I have no one here. I can't watch the IIUC preliminaries or the competitions. There's no take out food, no Tower of Tandori. There isn't even an NoM on every corner crying, 'GET YER METRO! FREE NEWS FER WHAT AILS YA!' There's not even paved roads or sidewalks, or people..." "Rat-people are people..." Gwen couldn't help but secretly smile at Ollie's casual mention of her achievements. In the last few months, the METRO had been blanketing London and its surrounding shires, becoming a quintessential start to the day for NoMs. "Look, I can get you the METRO, delivered every fortnight..." Ollie gave her a withering look. "Don't lose hope!" Gwen gestured to the milling furry bodies rolling about the place with industrial purposes. "How's London, by the way?" "The same. Unless you mean how are your investments? On that front, Richard and Petra are keeping a tight lid on the problems with the aid of Magister Walken." "More problems from the Militants?" "From the Barlow Group, yes," Ollie confirmed her fears. "There's a dockside region the IoDRP and Barlow are fighting over. Your group offers premium incentives, but your opposition uses coercion, bribes, and other dirty means. It's quite the circus your family have gotten yourself into— The Ely Group versus the Barlow Group." It took no fantastic feat for Gwen to imagine the tricks, turns and double-crosses happening all over the strip of industrial wasteland between Canary Wharf, Millwall and Cubitt Town. As her base of operations stemmed from Mudchute and Barlow from Billingsgate, the land in-between must have become a no man's land of real estate intrigue. That said, she was right to be away from the situation, for her position as a War Mage and a future Magister made her active participation impracticable, not to mention that she had yet to proclaim a particular Faction as her backer. "Thanks for the heads up, Ollie." She took the provisional Magister's fingers and patted the blushing Ollie on the back of his hand. "I'll talk to you some more when we're in private. We'll be seeing each other lots. For now—" She turned to the Dwarf, who had elected to delay his departure to inspect her agricultural operations, for his people likewise suffered from food insecurity. "—Hanmoul, when you return, can I ask you for some favours? It's regarding developing this place for the Rat-kin. They helped me find the Citadel, you should know. Without Stian and Strun, none of us would be the wiser as to what had happened to Vjalth Agaeth Kjangtoth." "If yer needs it, just say it," the Dwarf happily concurred without any reserve or hesitation. "I don't know how, lass, but the Debt of Hanzul between us grows with every meeting. How is it that yer running into such calamities with so much regularity?" "Maybe it's fated to be?" Gwen said, turning her gaze to the bodies of the Balefire Golems walking into the distance. "Hanmoul, you ever feel that you are a node in the web of something greater like the low ways and that these seemingly random encounters— the Murk Ogres you call Sinneslukare— the Dyar Morkk— the Elementals here— and Hierophant Sanari yonder— are all connected?" "Not the Horse Lords?" Ollie raised a good point. "Are they not the central players here?" Gwen shook her head. "Nor the Rat-kin, they're all accessory to something… bigger." "What der ya think that is?" Hanmoul said, perplexed by her sudden sentimentality for conspiracy. "I have no idea." The Pale Priestess and Worm Handler of the Sawahi shrugged. Ollie's rapidly ageing face broke into a rare expression of merriment. "So there's something Peterhouses' MVP doesn't know?" "I wouldn't laugh." Gwen eyed the smiling scholar with a look of disapproval. "You think it's funny now, Ollie, but guess who's taking care of the aftermath once I am done solving the problem?" At her foreshadowing, Ollie grew instantly glum at his self-fulfilling prophecy. "We live in interesting times," Gwen said, feeling a slight shiver at her proposed premonition. Looking over her rats, she could only guess how long the peace could last. "Let's hit some shots. We'll pour one out for a future that's more... boring."

As with Morrigan's woe, Gwen Song's absence from London was suffered by many who perceived that three months was too short of an exile for a young woman so capable of stumbling from one calamity to another. A key reason for the ambivalent sentiment was because the green-eyed sorceress' influence reigned over the METRO like an oppressive fever, forever pervading the thoughts of those whose interests ran parallel and yet could not benefit from her angel-invested profit ventures. When the Metro first put out the "Steppe" editions, the Sun and the Telegraph went so far as to lodge an official complaint to the Home Office that finally, the succubus' phantasmagorical populism had strayed into the realm of unhinged fiction. Who the hell were these smiling Rat-kin? Where on the Prime Material did they even materialise? Why should Londoners be duly informed and made to care about these furry Demi-humans full of disease and filth? Khitani Centaurs? Cock! Creatures of myth and history! There were skeletons of dead Khans and other notable horses in the Museum of London should the average citizen feel so inclined; why should they read about the Horse Lords' losses in the Southern Campaign? And Mongolian Death Worms? Mere legend! These monsters would never visit England's tranquil shores, so why should the public be exposed to such sensationalist trash? Silence the witch! Outlaw the METRO! Down with the Westferry Press! The protests were many but under the penmanship of one Wyatt Bennett, a correspondent infamously sacked by the Sun and hounded into poverty by the Telegraph, riveting narratives of romantic dunes, handsome Horse Lords, furry Şöpter slaves, and Wyrms the size of skyscrapers ploughing through a sea of sand flowered like pigfaces in the desert's upcoming spring. In the aftermath of a week-long assignment all-expenses-paid by the METRO, every man, woman and child in London now knew that was a place called Shalkar in the distant, exotic Sawahi and that it would soon ship its rare produce to London, all of which Morrigan was keen to sample. Yet, without a second thought, the Metro's rival papers had roused the local traders of Wildland produce to resist the newcomer. At first, the talk in town had been one of toxic scepticism, for who would desire to eat cucumbers or bake a squash that's farmed by foreigners' hands? Buy local! The Sun said, as did the Telegraph, albeit with tamer language. Support the Mageocracies' neighbourhood farmers! Never mind that small family farms accounted for a negligible volume of the Noble-owned properties or conglomerate-acquired arable land— how could one call themselves a loyal citizen of the Mageocracy if they put foreign-grown cabbages in their gullets or used turnips from some God-forsaken Black Zone? What was even in those legumes? Rat-phage! Pollutants! Mana miasma! Droppings? Everything and anything could be in those damned vegetables. FACT! The good people of London, said the Sun, should organise a protest at the docks to barricade the delivery ports so that no such filth could touch the Core tenet of "eat local" at the Mageocracy's heart! Two weeks later, the METRO withdrew its statement that the vegetables coming in the next few months would be available to all. In the strongest terms, Dominic Lorenzo, Chief Editor at the METRO, strongly criticised his employer, the greedy Magus Gwen Song. Gwen's great sin, the man stated with passion in a full-page editorial with the sorceress standing beside a literal circus of rats, Dwarfs, Dragons and more, was that she dared to restrain the supply of vegetables so that only the wealthy, the wise, and the well-connected could even think of purchasing her produce. What use— Dominic composed in his fiery rhetoric, where DRACONIC-INFUSED, ELF-TENDERED, TRYFAN-WROUGHT tomatoes if all of London could not toss it in a salad? Just look at this picture of her smug face! What's that? A Sand Wyrm? An ancient Thunder Wyvern? Was his boss, the self-proclaimed sorceress of the People, still a woman of philanthropy? Or had Gwen become another profit-seeking drake common to London's upper circles, like those Militant Factionists? The following week's METRO ran an image of a Wyvern sleeping among the bean-stakes as the Rat-kin toiled to prove his point. Additionally, the front page included a full spread of loveliness more eye-catching than any number of Magus Song-look-a-likes on Page Three of the Sun. "Her Grace, the High Hierophant Sanari of Tryfan teaches the Rat-kin how to enrich Sunset Squash." Westferry's poor NoM paper sellers became mobbed by the Mages. Elves— the people of London liked to read about Elves. Immortal beings of loveliness, eternal youth, ageless wisdom and limitless sagacity, the embodiment of grace! Benevolent quintessences of good, who had remained in their tree homes, without conflict with the world, lending an occasional hand to the lesser, younger races of the Prime Material! Lo! Read the article. Behold the Hvítálfars of Tryfan! Beings from living legends who had gifted man knowledge free of charge so that mortals may find their Path in a harsh and unforgiving world! Since the days of Pendragon, Elven mythoi had featured strongly in most of the Mageocracy's founding fables. To the citizens of what was once the largest continent-spanning empire in the Prime Material, Elves were as staple a concept as the Nazarene. "The avarice-driven Magus Song", continued the METRO's string of "Steppe Specials", was in cahoots with upper-tier elements of the Shard, as well as the immortals from Tryfan. The Rat-kin, the paper noted from its secure, confidential "sources", had affirmed without prejudice that the Magus had no desire to sell her blessed, jewel-like, sumptuous tomatoes to the common folk of London at all. Instead, sources close to the Void Sorceress had proclaimed that Magus Song was the one behind the negative press because there was no way she could meet demand, fearing that her favouritism would draw the rightful ire of London's connoisseurs of Wildland cuisine! Week after week, with the paper plastering every surface in London's Metro systems, obnoxiously hollered out by paperboys in every corner housing a crier, the city's attitude toward the Rat-kin's legumes shifted with the inevitable momentum of a glacier. Where can we buy the Elf-food? How much for a kilo of Draconic broad beans? Was it true that eating a whole Sanari Spiced Squash could prolong one's life like a Vitae Fruit? Will consuming the Gogo Tomatoes cure constipation? Such were the rumours circulating London's transport systems and its dreary country towns. And such were the reports clogging Mycroft Ravenport's desk, much to the delight and salivation of a particular soul-bound Goddess, one not usually given to gluttonous desires. In an epoch before the Word Bearers of the Nazarene came upon the isle, when Morrigan could fully manifest her avatars, she had oft slaked her thirst at the bubbling brooks or dug her beak into the blood troths the Druids had raised in praise to the Mistress of Fatality. In the past, men had called her the Goddess of War and Fate, the prophetess of doom, death and the demise of monarchs, a verdant force of nature kept hale by wicker caged offerings from humble old Druids. Unlike now, the ways of the painted men were more straightforward, a time when violence served as the catch-all solution to most of Humanities' and Demi-humanities' problems, where ambushes and betrayals were the height of intrigue. And with the changing times, Morrigan had changed as well. Now, she was secrets, door tapping ravens, and invasion of privacy. Deprived of the offerings of ash, fire and flesh, she could only feast on the psychic energies in the building mortal men called Westminster, soaking herself in the icy effluence of conspiracy. Her Master, the Duke of Norfolk, was one such individual who was a reliable source of nourishment. Then, of course, Morrigan had discovered a new fount of replenishment— one that escaped the restrictions of the Conditions placed upon her immaterial personage. Gwen Song, Apprentice and heir to an Arch Arcanist of old. The girl's Master was a man buried with more mysteries than in Westminster's catacombs, a sorcerer of the old ways who had dabbled in every conceivable form of mortal power. Interestingly, Kilroy's student wasn't an adherent of the arcane but preferred the psychic energy of greed, wants, dreams, and ambitions universally shared among the waking denizens of every Plane. It was a contrast that intrigued Morrigan as she perched over the Duke's desk, delighting in the man's growing exasperations over the sorceress' successes. Each time, the Oliphant in the room grew larger— was this the Sorceress' way of straying from the Path walked by her Master's wife? Whatever the case, Morrigan was in no rush to allow her newfound source of Essence to wilt. Within the parameters of her contractual obligations to the seat of the Lord Marshall, she would nudge the girl just a few degrees toward what was best for them both. For two beings who were potentially going to be around for a very, very long time— she had no doubt there were more delicious secrets to be gleaned from the sorceress' Crystal-teeming mind. Already, Gwen was paying dividends, for Morrigan was now privy to the delicious secret of the Dyar Morkk. A few weeks into the Dwarves' arrival in Shalkar, after the Cores of the deceased were identified and numbered and consigned to the rebuilt Ancestor's Halls, the Dyar Morkk was once more activated. Thanks to the data gathered by Meister Bekker, Chief Overseer of the Sawahi Campaign, the residue mana signatures had provided two critical clues for the Duke's office. One was something the Mageocracy had suspected for some time but had not the chance to prove— that a section of the Dwarven Low Ways was responsible for the mysterious theft of the Red Dragon Egg from Carrauntoohil as well as its transportation into London. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Until now, the illogical mechanics of that incident had been burning a hole in Ravenport's desk. For years, the Dragon Egg's appearance was a bigger mystery than the culprits responsible. Firstly, Sythinthimryr was an ancient Red with near-total dominion over anything tainted with her Essence, including the eggs of her sister-scions. That Sythinthimryr herself would lose track of an egg either meant the egg was utterly consumed and its energies absorbed or that it had to be moved through an alternate dimension. Yet, all knew that one could not stow living things in Storage Rings or Handy Haversacks, much less a sacred object the weight, size, and mana-density of a Dragon Egg. Secondly, while the Duke had suspected that the Elves could arguably use a Druidic Satchel to move the Red's egg, the Essence clash between Elven and Dragon magic made such ventures impossible. And to Tryfan and the Shard's knowledge, Sythinthimryr did not serve a Great Tree— even if she did, a theft from within was doubly as dubious as those blessed with Essence could not lie to their patrons. Thirdly, an ancient being with the power of Sythinthimryr could slither between the Planes without too much trouble, meaning she could, if she would pay a small cost, access most of the Prime, Quasi and Para Elemental Planes, none of which would block the Essence sympathy of its kin-egg. Thereby, logical deduction inferred that either Spectre had invented whole new forms of translocation magic— which meant the Mageocracy should now be sweating— or that the secretive organisation of these "Others" had merely exercised an opportunity. A salvaged section of the Dyar Morkk, one made momentarily operable, was a logical culprit to the mystery of the suddenly appearing egg. With its subtle alteration of space, the Low Ways was naturally shielded from Planar disturbances and possessed a unique mana structure separate from Elven, or Draconic sorcery. That and the Dökkálfar had tunnelled beneath the shores of England since she was but a mote of divine desire in the days before Human Druids received the knowledge of sacrifice. The findings, though satisfactory, raised new questions as well. The Engineseer contingent in the Sawahi had reported that the route led north toward the mineral-rich tundras of Black Zones of mid-continental Russia. At its end, they found a second outpost— a processing citadel-hub, with sub-routes leading forward toward the Sundered Cities of the Ural region. Thankfully, these were devoid of kin and abandoned after the Beast Tide. But where did the Elemental go from here? Assuming there were no Dwarven traitors among Spectre's membership, how could the Brass Legions of the Fire Sea empower passageways that required Dwarven Runic magic, and indeed, the agile mind and living Cores of Dwarven Engineseers to maintain? And indeed, if the Elementals had gone somewhere, as the evidence indicates, were they coming back? Could the Dwarves then lay an ambush for the inbound Brass Legion? When would they return? What were the indicators? The Dwarves knew nothing, and if the knife-ears at Tryfan had anything to say; they were undoubtedly silent. The quiet was itself disquieting, for there were no disturbances anywhere in the Mageocracy's Domain that reported a horizon to horizon Legion of Fire Elementals wearing brass bangles and wielding armaments of barely-contained plasma. The absence of trouble in Human lands had the Engineseer Assembly of Zugspitze paranoid with the direst possibility— "Boulderdash! Wha der ya ken, Human Thane? What if the blasted fire beards are going after Deepholm? What if they aim to cut off Deepdowners from the Ancestor's Halls as payback for our hard-won victory over the Sundering?" Morrigan agreed with the hypothesis. In the Himsegg, all roads led to Rome. For the Dwarves, all the Low Ways led to Deepholm. But her Master remained adamant that the Elementals were after something "more strategic". One Legion, Ravenport had argued, even one lead by an Elemental Prince as infamous as Zodiam, would not penetrate the adamantine walls of Deepholm. Unfortunately, as Morrigan's Master had lacked an impressive beard and the clout, the Deepdowner's worries remained unsatiated, catalysing the sleeping Citadels into deep-seated anticipations for a war they wanted to fight but didn't know how nor where or when. To find a constructive outlet for the pent up tectonic forces fomenting below was now the woe troubling the Duke of Norfolk, who had promised their Dwarven allies full support for their grudge-driven coalition. It was good news for Morrigan, for the Duke's mind had not the energy to spare to rebuke her peevish rebellions, nor for the sorceress soon to return. Therefore, Morrigan would gather her murder, then round up Cambridge's inglorious Rainbow Drake of the Pond. After that, as a pair, they would waylay the girl at the port and put an end to the Essence drought! London. The Isle of Dogs. By the time she had visited Canary Wharf in her old life, the commercial hub had become one of the most impressive and desirable locales for transnationals. On the pier, everything was gleaming glass and polished concrete, and every conceivable brand and corporation had either set up headquarters or at least a token branch so as not to miss out on the opportunities for market expansion. Baltimore Tower, the Landmark Pinnacle, the Newfoundland, Canada Square, One Park Drive, what had once been an industrial wasteland had become a real estate Mecca. Comparatively, her much more modest Isle of Dogs remained a work in progress. Shamefully, despite her best efforts, there were only three "Towers" tier buildings nearing completion— all between twenty to thirty storeys, albeit with deeper and busier basements than their alter-history counterparts. Ironically, as her transport barge sailed into Millwall's inner dockland, the most prominent structure of the region remained "The Bunker" or the Westferry Print Works headquarters, whose cubic Dwarf-designed facade and teeming patrols of men in industrial Golem suits made for quite the spectacle. "Mistress," the aptly terrified voice of Strun rang out beside her. In the distance, the Shard floated like a sword staked into London's Core. "Are we at the heart of the Human world? Your tree homes are forged from obsidian and steel, no less wondrous than Mistress Sanari's stories of her home in Tryfan! And there are so many..." By habit, her hand found its way onto Strun's ears, where her fingers dug through his luxurious, shampooed fur. Smelling no longer of sweat and Garp spice, the Rat-kin now had a softer look, one that spoke less harshly of what the young Demi-human had endured in becoming the "Herald of the Afaa al-Halak". Initially, Gwen had considered Stian as her envoy to the Shard. Compared to the others, the Rat-kin was incredibly wise, not to mention the old fur-ball had seen enough shit go down in the Steppes to speak authoritatively on every relevant topic. However, as she could only secure one Core-Shielding Enchantment from The Shard for an "ambassador" to London from the Rat-kin— the Elder had left the opportunity to his grandson. "Go forth and see the true world, how large it is and what we must endure to eke out a living in its shadows." The Elder had entrusted his grandson with quite the mission. "You will be the Eldest one day, Strun, as you are the Whisperer of the Wyrm. If even YOU lack the eyes to see where our people must go, then the Rat-kin are truly doomed like the Horse Lords." The sagacity of Stian's natural foresight almost made Gwen wish she could transport the old rat over to London to work under Walken as the Magister's second. Patting the rat's head some more, she regarded her other returning companions. Elvia and Mathias were now... tanned. Their accomplishments in establishing a foothold for the Order of the Bath in Shalkar was commendable, but what truly made Gwen chew her lower lip was the healthy, golden glow her Evee now exuded. A tanned, olive-complexioned Evee with skin the colour of royal honey that offset her baby-blue eyes? Not only that, the Cleric had spent so much time in the field and then again in the "field" with her Familiars that her flaxen locks were now bordering on platinum. Her allure was now criminal! A combination like that on a face as angelic as Elvia's was the stuff of salvation! In her opinion, all Evee needed to harness Faith from the masses was to trot herself out in a daisy dress and sandals, a big old blooming Ki-ki on her shoulder, and her Tri-Crown icon would become a second sun! After three months, Gwen felt a little bit like she had fallen in love all over again. The surf, the Sun, the beach— once upon a time, those were the stuff of her soul. Of course, there were no seas in Shalkar, but the oasis was no less blue, and its sands were just as blonde, and her Evee all tanned and golden like syrup. As for her vampiric self— The Devourer of Shenyang sighed at the approaching gallery of reporters with their lumen recorders and hovering casters. Like Jean-Paul, her kind was forever doomed to be pale. Even if she withstood the Sawahi's relentless sun, she could temporarily polymorph into Sebastian, the lobster— but it took less than a day for her complexion to heal and the skin to shed like a snake's, an analogy a terrified Ollie had remarked with great alarm the first time it happened. "Are those your servants?" Strun indicted the crowd on the pier. "They seem very eager to see you." "No…" Gwen said absentmindedly. "We don't do servants and Masters here, Strun. In theory, everyone is 'equal'. Only hard cash, merits, and accomplishments can raise one above the masses, though I would take that with a pinch of Garp spice..." "I see." Strun gulped. "Will they understand me?" "I trust the Runesmiths knew what they're doing." Gwen's fingers brushed the device on Strun's neck, hand-tuned by the Runesmiths that had later arrived in Shalkar to make good on their promise to reduce the burden of their "debt". Like her Ratopia, Vjalth Agaeth Kjangtoth was now undergoing a complete restoration and refit, with a coalition of Clans and kin to the original inhabitants gathered to replenish its numbers. The new Dwarves who arrived late were very quickly introduced to her by Hanmoul, who immediately inaugurated the newcomers through Sen-sen's infused Maotai. For her Dwarven friends, Gwen opened not only her heart but also her Storage Ring. The results involved the partial destruction of one of Sanari's baobab trees, the birth of a new legend, "the Lassie who inhales booze", and harsh reprimands from the Balefire Elders wondering if some unseen power had abducted their construction team in the Murk. Gods, has it been three months? Really? Her mind reeled just thinking about what she had built out of pure incidence. Without the evidence of Elvia's taut, tanned skin taunting her with their sun-kissed warmth, she could hardly believe that she had been outside of London for almost a hundred days and that the snow had come and gone and the banks of The Thames were now in hues of olive and emerald. A part of her implicitly understood that she missed the city and her people within it, but the charm of having "gone wild to the Black Zone" had left its mark. Already, she longed for the limitless desert vista with its cloudless, ultramarine distance that stretched in every direction, with the sky feeling like a pair of big blue arms that could scoop her up and take her to a place without worries. Even the labour of instructing the Rat-kin, which was expectedly tedious and frustrating, was a joy that London's bookkeeping could hardly compare. Every day, the concrete results of her work passed her by, hailing her as Mistress or Priestess as they loaded bales of foodstuffs onto the sand sleighs of the Horse Lords' Drover Teams. Even Sanari had stayed for the better part of two months until one morning— the Druid abruptly declared that she would be returning to Tryfan for reasons beyond their need to know. The Trellis Portal had shimmered, then the Druid was gone. Gwen lifted her hand from Strun's ears. The press was waiting for her on the docks like a pack of Jackal Priests anticipating a human femur. She wanted to skip them and instead find Petra, Richard, and Walken, but her Ratopia needed obscene profits for its second and third phases to flourish. Thereby, Gwen straightened her spine and flattened her wind-tossed dress— now was the time to put on a happy face.

London. The Isle of Dogs. Richard Huang, General Manager under Executive Officer Eric Walken, carefully studied the city's reporters as they piled toward Millwall's old dock, one of the few industrial structures that survived Gwen's remodelling for its utility in unloading construction materials. How like a gaggle of geese they seemed, Richard observed from behind his ensorceled spectacles, watching the men's and womens' anxious faces while around them, the hazy smog of spring lingered, clinging to the last vestiges of an unusually long winter. "Mister Huang. Miss Kuznetsova." A few of the journalists greeted him as he and Petra took their place near the front. Compared to the reporters from the Sun and the Telegraph, the folks from the METRO could make an appointment with their boss sorceress back at the Bunker, and so they stood about smoking and joking, huddling for warmth and coffee. "There they are!" someone called out from the left, an NoM dockhand who, like the hundreds of others, wanted to be the first to witness the Devourer of Shenyang's return, as well as the rumoured Rat-kin that accompanied her. For the working NoMs of the city who were free from the intrigue and politics of sorcery, such a sighting would provide for many a conversation after dinner with the family and with their mates, told and retold with more fabulous embellishment each time until "Strun" was a nine-foot-tall demon rat with horns, holding a staff with a screaming bell, leaking emerald Void Essence as he befouled London's holy ground with his vermin-phage. "Lea, let me borrow your eyes." Richard tapped into the Empathic Link between himself and his Undine, channelling the Spirit's vision as she floated above the Thames' placid channel. If indeed this Strun was as monstrous as the reports suggested, then he would have words with Gwen about picking up more strays on her adventures. In Shanghai, Lulu had thankfully turned out for the best, but Richard had always suspected Lulan's transformation was a product of serendipity over choice. Later, when they picked up Golos out of the blue, Richard had felt equally impressed as he was alarmed, for the creature's prowess came with the enormous baggage of a Mythic bloodline, one toward which Gwen favoured turning a blind eye. Even if her uncle Jun was ploughing Ayxin's fields like Garp in Shalkar, until the unlikely event of a harvest, there was no guarantee that the Yinglong was on the same team as her family— or China— or Humanity for that matter. While he organised his thoughts, Lea obliged his request. Momentarily, Richard's eyes became covered by a cataract-like pane as his Greater Empathic Link took over his senses. "I'll never get used to that." Petra, tall and regal in her officious pants suit, remarked beside him. As agents of the LoDRP, they were Gwen's second and Walken's immediate subordinates; and whether because of trust, talent or nepotism, it was only natural that they were the ones to greet their returning CEO. "Didn't your Lecturer warn you to use Possession sparingly? It'll screw with your head if you're not careful." Richard laughed, his voice hollow and unreal. "Lea knows her boundaries, as do I. Ah— I see them now. Gwen's looking presentable as always, dressed for business. I see Elvia and Mathias— a little more coffee-coloured than when they left— and there's the rat." "Is it as monstrous as the papers say?" Petra also appeared anxious; despite seeing the images, they all knew Strun was no ordinary "Rat-kin". "Nothing like what those paper pushers are selling." Richard chuckled. "No, it's a noble specimen if you ask my opinion. Ah, she's stroking its head— typical. And it looks like it's enjoying it." He was not surprised because Gwen stroked everything from Caliban to Golos to Evee, a Knight Companion of the Bath. Petra shook her head. "We still haven't figured out how that damned menace of a duck fits into all of this, and she's picked up another one?" "It's ugly—" Richard spoke again, this time in the tone used by Lea. "Ariel's cuter. It's only marginally better than Cali." Petra shivered. Visibly, the Mind Mage's skin broke out in goosebumps. "Christ, Lea—" "Lea, don't speak through me." Richard's voice returned to his own. Aware of just how creepy it was for Lea's sweet, seductive voice to emerge from his lips. "A pet it might be, but it's Soul-linked to the Afaa al-Halak. Presumably, it's near un-killable with conventional means. The report said it could perform Demi-human sorcery within the Conjuration and Transmutation domain. Shadow Teleport coupled with innate Haste— Don't you think that's interesting? Besides, we both read up on Soul Tap. Suffice to say, we can trust the rat to have Gwen's best interests at heart." "Yes, I supposed Strun could be worth befriending and studying." Petra puckered her unconsciously pouty lips, then signed. "On another note, I hope Gwen can put an end to the fiasco with the Barlow Group. It's taking far too much time from my research with Master Vildrenbrandt. The Dwarven Runesmiths are around, but the Greybeards can't stay away from the Citadel for long, especially with what Gwen found in Shalkar." "The Pale Priestess Giveth, and the Pale Priestess Taketh." Richard stole a line from the scriptures he'd been taught since his formative years at Prince's. "Can you blame her for introducing you to the opportunity? Even if Yossari has to return, what's not to say you could visit the Citadel next time as a Cambridge scholar? Didn't you hear that even Dwarves from central Europe went to see her in Shalkar? All she has to do is ask. In Germany, the Ancestral Forge is supposed to rival the one in Deepholm in size, if not history." Petra nodded, appearing more considerate of the mess their cousin had left them. "I suppose when the Dyar Morkk is reconstructed, there'll be new opportunities for contact with our allies in the Murk." "Assuming we don't dredge up what the Dwarves are fighting and regret ever digging past the earth's crust." Richard laughed, then turned once more to the arriving barge, willing Lea to float closer. On the forefront of the barge, their oblivious cousin appeared in deep thought, unaware that he and Petra had shouldered the work she had abandoned at the Isle of Dogs with unorthodox methodologies. For a man who fancied himself as the Majordomo of Gwen's future Tower, his work in matching wits with the Barlow Group was good practice for prodding the elasticity of Gwen's sphere of influence. As for the exercise of his talents, there had been many opportunities of late, as their opposition consisted of ex-Military Mages now living on civilian paychecks while lacking civilian understanding of Londons' innate rules. After he had put a stern word to the first few instances of Barlow Mages coercing the locals into cheap sales or forcing them to "hold out" against the LoDRP's land acquisitions for expansion, the Barlow's "employees" actually approached him in person. As a civilised magic wielder, Richard recalled feeling floored by the audacity of the act. He knew from his father, a slum lord in Sydney, that there were dark dealings in real estate and that money made men lose their minds. Still, for him— a Cambridge Magister candidate, one promoted to King's College by Lord Mycroft Ravenport to receive a "personal visitation" was nothing short of astounding. Naturally, he persuaded the men to leave in the friendliest, most bedraggled terms. Ever since their initial discovery of Barlow's thugs harassing Mister Dobson of his dubious sausages fame, matters had escalated to a degree even Richard had not anticipated. With Gwen gone, he one night found three men waiting for him just outside Millwall, where Gwen's leased domain under the Marchioness of Ely ended and the privatised land bought by the Barlow Group began. He approached them, an innocent pedestrian following his weekly routine to return to Cambridge via the Shard's underground Teleportation Circle, a simple man enjoying a simple stroll along the Thames. "There's the villain," one of them said. "The torturer." "The fiend!" Another had the gall to badmouth Richard as they moved into formation to cover his escape routes. "How the tables have turned! Bastard." Richard had no idea what they were talking about, for all he had done was encourage the ex-service members to confess their sins in front of a Lumen-recorder of their own volition. Richard did not see himself as possessing the kindness of his cousin, but in his opinion, his lawful treatment of these unlawful folk was kindness in itself. Against some other Mage, say Lulan— there's no regenerating limbs from mince. "Hope you enjoyed making Joyce suffer, scum— now it's your turn." The men, Richard recalled, were very talkative. He recalled putting up both hands in protest because he wasn't a man of senseless violence. Joyce might have pissed herself, but no harm came to her in the end, and the lass left with all her limbs and her health. "Gentlemen, before you protest— You do realise this is Greater London—" Richard was kind enough to offer a warning. "And that I am a member of Cambridge, while you fellows—" He readied a spell as he feigned panic. In all likelihood, the men were not on any official employment rosters. Men who performed the rough deeds at the behest of more competent men in darker suits seldom had monthly salaries deposed into the Bank of England. "— are Rogue Mages, drowned men walking." Then he gave the men his most convincing, brightest smile, something Gwen would do if she were in his shoes. The men— one Conjurer, an Evoker and an Illusionist, were not happy. They attacked, evidently trained in pack tactics, meaning the Conjurer immediately attempted to ensnare Richard with Chains of Ice. At the same time, the Evoker unleashed a volley of meta-magically enhanced Aerial Missiles to disable his limbs. The true killer was the Illusionist, who stuck him immediately with what looked like a Nauseating Visage to prevent Richard from conjuring his Spirit. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. They were trying to take him alive— which to Richard was as stupid as skinny dipping in a lake with an Undine. Why hadn't the men ambushed him without a word? Richard could guess at the psychology at play. The thing with these ex-Frontier soldiers, he self-remarked, was a particular emphasis on thuggery. Perhaps they were used to being better equipped, organised and planned than their foes, or mayhap they still thought they were dealing with a belligerent civilian— but didn't these men have superior officers to guide them? At the very least, they should research his magic. For a year now, Richard had spent no small amount of effort marketing them to the university, particularly to the Senior Chair in Conjuration at King's, who then took on a personal interest in developing Richard's skills as a Spirit Mage. Therefore, unfortunate for the men with nefarious intentions, their victim's body had shuddered as if struck, then turned to water. Naturally, the men froze in their tracks. Elemental Avatar was upper-tier sorcery from the School of Transmutation. On paper, Richard was a dedicated Spirit Conjurer with a dash of Abjuration. Perhaps that was why the thugs had been so confident in carrying out their attack, knowing that Creature Mages were weak on their own if their Spirits were yet to manifest. What they didn't know was that Richard's Affinity had reached such a state of efficiency that, combined with the rare supplementary items he'd acquired through Mia's trade channels, he could keep the Undine manifested at all times, so long as he wasn't OoM or unconscious. That and his Affinity uniquely offered access to Elemental abilities specific to his Undine. Thereby, in a desert, Richard might have had some trouble with the thug trio, having to resort to fleeing from their assaults before he could find justified ways to squeeze out information from their lungs like water from a sieve. Unluckily for the thugs, Richard wasn't one to bank on luck— but the bank of the River Thames. And when beside a body of limitless water not already infested with Elemental beings, there was very little an Undine and a Spirit Conjurer with Affinity above the eighth tier could not do. Once freed, Richard firstly hailed for help using a panic device for the Shard's VIPs, one that both provided his location to the Tower and the Municipal Police, while simultaneously alerting the Bunker of his whereabouts. It was a part of his thrifted loot from looking after the Dwarven delegation at Westferry, one in which he had put in two extra orders, one for himself and the other for Petra. He chose not to thrift one for Gwen, as anyone foolish enough to waylay a sixth tier War Mage of the Void Element could only hope that enough of their body was left for identification. The siren compounded his foes' confusion, catching them flat-footed in a moment of paralytic indecision between fleeing for cover and continuing their assault— leaving enough time for Richard to pump his liquid mana into Lea, instantly elevating the placid Undine into the fury of a suddenly-appearing summer squall. Reflexively, the Conjurer Dimension Doored away. The Evoker raised a Fire Shield that was instantly extinguished. And the Illusionist enacted an Expeditious Retreat while leaving behind several well-made Mirror Images to confuse Lea. Richard allowed the men time to reconsider their strategy as they scanned the area for his whereabouts. Little did the men know that he was now imbued with Lea's Elemental Dispersion and that without a large scale Evocation from a Fire-based Element scorching a whole block of the city, he could not be ferreted forth. It was all a part of the stratagem he had set up before taking on the Barlow Group— and if indeed he could bait them into burning a block of NoMs to root out a ratty Water Mage, then he was more than happy to send a recording of "Spectre" working for the Barlow Group to the Shard, or Dominic Lorenzo. While the men cursed and grumbled, Richard had bid his time by thinking about what was still left at the King's cafeteria at this time of the night. More than likely, the Salisbury steak was gone, but he was on good terms with the maids and so could coax up a plate of SPAM-stuffed toasties if need be. After a few indecisive seconds, the men had made the wiser choice of a withdrawal, knowing that Arbitor Mages should be Teleporting into the area. In a way, Richard could guess why the Barlow Group chose to strike now, for Magister Walken had worked out a reduced rental deal in one of Gwen's new skyscrapers for lease to the Greater London Metropolitan Police. It was offered at a loss— but Gwen was more than happy to get on the side of the City Guard if it meant their uniformed presence could sit on the Barlow Group like an anvil on the canvas of their villainy. Besides, Walken had reasoned that there was nothing quite like having a secondary Police Headquarters in the local vicinity to encourage the remaining NoMs to sell their leaseholds and move to greener pastures. Though the adage went that the innocent had nothing to hide, there was something naturally oppressive about jackbooted Mages with Wand slung by their thighs that made even the most obedient NoM sweat like oven-roasted capsicums. Just as the last man rounded the corner, Richard had struck. Within a split second, the air around the man grew impossibly thick with moisture, catching the Conjurer off guard. Before his friends could help and the man could erect his Mage Shield, a Water Tomb enveloped the ex-serviceman and dragged him a dozen feet backwards. At the same time, a frazzle of silvery light on the other side of the docks indicated the arrival of Richard's "rescuers," meaning the Mages could do little more than continue to flee. Richard applauded their quick decision. For now, the goons' nightmare was over. Later, they would envy the fate of their happily arrested companion, for Lea had marked the men for a late-night visitation. When the Officers had arrived with their Wands drawn, they found Richard waving at them all friendly-like. Once he introduced himself as one of the executives of the LoDRP, he explained that he was walking home when "One" vagabond attacked him for his HDMs and Storage Ring. Though caught by surprise, he was undaunted by the ambush, which led to their present meeting. To the attentive officers, Richard voiced his fears that his assailant would unduly escalate to harm civilians in their attempt at daylight robbery; ergo, he had to entomb the villain for the safety of the NoMs in the area. Richard refused their apology and commended the Officers on their prompt arrival, informing them that their Commissioner of the Arbitrators, Magister Hollyhock, was his alumni. And that he would be delighted to read about their exemplary work in the METRO newspaper. The Officers thanked Richard, then took the speechless man away, sparing the Conjurer a lengthy date with the beautiful Lea. An hour later, he and Petra had paid one of the men a visit in their homes. As for which one— Richard flipped a coin, a charity that surprised even himself. In the man's run-down apartment, however, Richard felt astounded by the audacity of the bloke's arrogance, for the men dared to work as mercenaries for the Barlow Group and still had the gall to return home after such a blunder. Was the Militant Faction that unaware of its position? Richard wondered. Or were these simply expendable bodies? Over the months, Lorenzo's stories had reported more often than not on the dire straits of the Militant Faction, which was why the Barlow Group was so desperate for quick money— but for their recruitment to be so lax and unselective? They must genuinely be short on HDMs. Thankfully, Petra had a quick chat with the man in a way that only a Mind Mage with her unearthly allure could achieve— via veiled threats delivered with great diplomacy. If it were up to Richard, a simple Water Tomb, a loved one, and a kitchen timer would conclude matters in a manner of minutes. Once they received their confessions of who had given the order, for what purpose and at who's behest, the pair left the man's family some HDMs to leave the city until it was safe, then Richard made his way to Cambridge and Petra to the Bunker to report to Walken. The encounter was only one of the many incidents that occurred while his cousin was gone, but watching Gwennie's pale face drifting into view, the incident stood out to Richard as a cute conversation he would share with Gwen— once he edited a few bothersome details. In any case, their portfolio against the Barlow Group had grown significantly as the bidding war escalated from frowns to sneers to public shouting matches and finally to underhanded thuggery. Now that his cousin had returned, the other side would likely intensify their pressure. Their boss, Walken, wanted to put down their foot and close the chapter as soon as possible, even while the novel chugged on. Therefore, with a heart full of anticipation, Richard Huang, Magus of Prince's College, looked toward the barge as it parted the misty morning. He enjoyed working for his cousin. He had always said that he would repay Gwen for all she had done, only that his achievements so far were merely interest and not principle. "CAW!" With Lea's vantage, he was the first to see and hear the incoming flock. "CAW— CAW— CAW—!" A murder of crows, over a hundred in number, was roving toward them like the glove of some unseen hand. Among them was a splendid drake— a Mandarin Duck the size of a mini-sedan, sailing through the air with the arrogance of a miniature Golos. "Christ!" Richard swore in surprise while Lea cooed with delight. How is Dede not being shot down by the Griffin Knights patrolling London's airspace? Dede was a harmless jester, but who in London would know that this duck who could peck through sheet metal and lift a hundred kilos of loot from the fish market was harmless? The crows? Richard suspected the crows. If Gwen's information was correct, these weren't the naturally occurring urbanite avians of the metropolis, but sorcery-tainted, Spirit-linked eyes from the Tower of London. Assuming Dede had managed to befriend such a flock, it was then reasonable to think that a line of communication to the Guards of the Royal Griffin Stables at least existed. "CAW— CAW— CAW—!" "Look there!" Someone in the reports' pit shouted, amazed by the sight of the approaching murder. "They're not coming here— are they?" Someone trembled, making Richard wonder if he had something to hide. "Why are the Tower's eyes coming here?" On cue, the birds turned toward them. "CAW— CAW—!" "QUACK!" When the murder reached the space overhead, they swerved around the invisible body of Lea, leaving no doubt that these weren't your everyday birds but ones imbued with the means to read the flow of mana and sense the invisible. Below, the concussed and confused dockhands aided the barge's arrival, tossing ropes and catching lanyards. Gwen was the first to descend, appearing with a constipated expression of dismay at the enormous duck's illicit appearance in London. All around the sorceress, the crows began to swarm overhead, creating the spectacle of a giant, black funnel. "CAW— CAW— CAW—!" The ear-splitting sound of the crows' cawing was like Petra casting a dozen Mind Spikes at once, making those weak to the noise cower while others covered their ears, grimacing and wincing and swearing under their breath. Still, the crows came, relentless in the bell beat of their fluttering wings. As they passed overhead like a thundercloud, Richard could see that these birds were enormous, each possessing wing-spans more akin to that of sea eagles. Round and round, they flew above his cousin, who appeared resigned to her fate as the press took their Lumen-recordings, a sorceress with a rat, standing on the lip of a cargo barge while a hundred crows aligned around her, alighting on every pole and canopy. "QUACK!" The duck landed with a metallic thud, thuggishly waddling toward her until it stood beside the rat. The rat, naturally sensing that the duck was its senior, stepped back. Nodding, the duck struck out its head to be stroked. Without words and still stunned by the crows, Gwen obliged. "CAW— CAW— CAW—!" "CAW— CAW— CAW—!" "CAW— CAW— CAW—!" Richard ordered the Undine to mute the clamour as the inner dock of Millwall once more filled with the sound of crows and their crude, cruel laughter gleefully cramming every cranny and crevice. His cousin really did have a knack for making an entry. In fact, he could already see tomorrow's headline— "Kennel Mistress of the Dog Returns, Crows forwarn of Calamities to Come!"

London. The Isle of Dogs. Adjacent to the thrumming warehouse housing the multi-storey print-engine of West Ferry, a visiting Mage or a labourer seeking work would find the infamous and imposing visage of "The Bunker", a multi-tier building with six "meagre" storeys above the Thame's waterline. Constructed by the Dwarves via the secretive means of their runic Fabricator Engine, The Bunker served as home to the IoDRP's headquarters. From the entryway, one entered through its obsidian-glass foyer into a large, hundredth-scale display of the Isle of Dogs, constructed in minute detail and updated weekly to reflect the changes brought by the corporation to the ex-industrial region. Past the imposing frontal facade, the visitor was then imposed upon by the polished concrete ceiling meeting the reflective dark marble, cascading as a static waterfall. Further in, within aesthetic, art deco alcoves nested the Levitation Platforms, each with their irrespective tubes delving some ten storeys deep, descending into the shell and chalk stratum of London's underground until it struck the igneous bedrock. Currently, of the sixteen tiers of office space, only seven levels were in active use. The foyer with the model and open room mimicking the Dwarven Guild Hall was one, while underground levels four and five were slated for Gwen's small army of accountants. The sixth and seventh underground tiers initially had been empty. At Gwen's behest, however, she had remodelled the linked-stratum to have artificial sunlight, plants and a mock-nature scape, creating a break room for her employees. She had conceived of the notion after observing Ruxin's indentured servants, such as those from Tonglv who had wronged her in Shanghai, looking like they may prefer oblivion— albeit not without Ruxin's release. Once the sceptical Dwarves completed the section, both they and the Bunker's employees found respite from their endless labour under their ever-burgeoning workload, opening Magister Walken's mind to whole new levels of micromanagement, such as controlling how employees spent their leisure time to increase productivity. Of the upper storeys, the tallest section overlooking the docks served as a boardroom for general meetings. Expectantly, its floor to ceiling glass canopy offered an unobstructed view of Mudchute Farm to the left and Surry Quay to the right. The vista wasn't a million HDMs, considering the scattered semi-urban industrial landscape, but the water view gave the observer a soothing sense of unobstructed space nonetheless. When asked if this was the foundation of her Tower by Yossari, Gwen replied that there was no way a second Tower could exist in London, considering that she had to compete with the original "Tower of London" and now on top of it, the "Shard". If and when she came into a personal floating, phallic-shaped fount of sorcery, it would likely be somewhere akin to Shalkar. In that instance, her first task would be to bring together the scattered communities of Humanity there to establish a foothold. In her Cambridge history classes, she had been informed that the first Towers, conceived none other by Magister Henry Kilroy before the Beast Tide, were built for that specific purpose. The fruition of Kilroy's plan had been a lucky break for Humanity. Through the use of its strategic-class Planar Suppression and ley-line tapping Tower Cores, regions overrun by Elementals and Monsters were quickly quelled, and Humanity's major population centres preserved. The notion of "Zones" was then established and written into Spellcraft and geopolitical canon. And in this way, the world had come together to salvage what remained of man's civilisation from the brink of oblivion and even prosper. Meanwhile, the Wildlands continued to be bastions of unpredictable danger. Outside a Tower's domain, safety was merely a question of divinable risk. Even Green Zones like the Royal National back in Sydney could turn, as Almudj had demonstrated, from a verdant source of HDMs and produce into a cataclysmic battlefield in a matter of days, assuming that a monster of sufficient tier and power could slip through the Shielding Stations. Ergo, the easiest and riskiest way for anyone to become a Tower Master was to strike out and mark one's territory, sanctioned by their state and other stakeholders. Likewise, to encourage adventure over complacency, a "future Master" with sufficient clout and sorcery was expected to leave their Tower, as a young Dragon might the home of their Patriarch, unless they were the heir apparent, as Gunther was to Henry. Instead, they would strike out to pacify the region, then appeal to the Mageocracy or whoever was their governing body to erect a Tower and serve as its Master— usually until they were dead or replaced. Such was the Mageocracy's way— and also a core reason why Walken had preferred schemes over actually founding a Tower of his own. When Gwen had reasonably asked about the Americans and how they went about their Tower building, her Empire-minded tutors had scoffed at the Capitalists and their notion of Manifest Destiny. They had explained that the "Wildland West" was excess, constrained anarchy, and unfettered capitalism transmuted into a nation of self-aggrandising entrepreneurs. Gwen took the hostility to mean that her tutors disapproved of the United States until one of them intimated that there were yearly expeditions of London's triumvirate college Magisters been lured overseas with the promise of power and position— only to face the reality that the USA was a place where one was "free" to succeed or fail. "A nation of individuals," one of Cambridge Magisters had duly informed her. "Take that however you will, but it's certainly not a Commonwealth for 'common' wealth." Gwen felt she understood the lesson better than her peers. London was a society built on the tried and true step ladder of classism called the Chain of Being. It was why the British Mageocracy found their cross-continental cousins' buccaneering attitude bewildering and yet strangely thrilling. In London, there wasn't anyone who acted like the industrial magnates in the States, not even the Queen, whose position was derived from the Church and was in service to the Crown, its people, and Noblesse Oblige. In the Commonwealth, men like Jonathan Gilt of the Ether Engine or Henry Ford of the assembly line did not become living mythoi but bookends with individual annotations in the appendices of history. In England, not even Gwen's Master, the preserver of Humanity, had wielded a perverse amount of political influence. In the USA, however, such men transcended mortality to become living embodiments of human potential, inspiring countless others to create like-minded empires where the greatest profit for the greatest many was the greatest virtue in a nation where the free market was democracy distilled and the quintessence of personal freedom. For this reason, Gwen greatly desired to visit the continent, mindful that she had promised to take Tao when the opportunity next came about. For now, she had to secure her bases and establish the foundations of her empire. Therefore, with smiles and an air of triumph, she came into the top-level boardroom with her Rat-kin in tow to greet her staff and board members, most of whom were new faces recruited by Walken over the last year. "Ma'am—" "Miss Song—" "Madam—" A chorus of greetings passed from every door and corridor as she strode by, inflating her ego and each praise stroking the Lightning Element inside her Astral Body, setting it to purr like a tickled Tom. In the open boardroom, Walken awaited her from the head of the long, oval table, on which Gwen could see scattered newspapers with headlines from her arrival a day ago. After feeding the birds with her body, she had felt compelled by Dede to take a quick jaunt with Richard back to Cambridge to speak to and report her findings to the Marchioness of Ely. At Peterhouse, Maxine had received her gift of the Khan's Golden Scroll Case with the greatest joy, kissed her on the forehead, then thanked her for her service not only to the Mageocracy but to Humanity itself. "Gwen, you are Henry's Apprentice. There is no doubt!" The matchless praise was one which Gwen had not at all expected, and it had set her face aflame until she had to introduce Strun to her Boss, and then Brown and Gracie, who came to greet her as soon as news of her arrival reached the college. Gracie and Strun appeared to instantly bond with a friendliness that bellied their differences in gender, language, culture and species, which Gwen suspected had something to do with the fact that both were Soul-linked to her Astral Body and thus, connected by a compulsive spiritual resonance. After a long supper regaling her tale and asking Strun to speak of his people to a wide-eyed crowd at Hall, the rat received a suite beside Gwen's private abode for the night. Later, Petra and Richard had joined her for an extended late-night conversation. In detail, she had told them of her suspicions surrounding the Dyar Morkk and the wonders wrought by Tryfan and as a result of Sanari's Druidic crafts. Petra especially demonstrated a hunger for the knowledge of the Elves that lit up her pale-crystal irises like a cat's in the dark, with Gwen laughing and promising that the next time an opportunity arose, she would invite her cousin to share in the bounty. Richard then regaled her with an unusually morbid "funny story" about his investigations into West Ferry's competition with Canary Wharf. The punchline was proof of the goons hired by the Barlow Group, backed by the Militant Faction and antagonists like the Exeters. As for the method of Richard's discovery, though Gwen could see that her cousin was in the right, Dick's casual cruelty continued to make her skin crawl. Even his reassurances like "No worries, there was no harm done, and everyone walked away in one piece" didn't stop her from having a rash of goosebumps. In the morning, after signing paperwork and pre-filled forms written by Petra to report the success of her Magisterial expedition to the Steppes, she had left the rest of the bureaucracy to Magister Brown, then returned with haste to the Isle of Dogs. "Welcome back, Calamity." In the Bunker's conference room, Walken's face was full of fatherly warmth. The Magister and sorceress embraced, offering courtesy kisses to one another's cheeks. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. "Boss." Lorenzo shook her hand. Gwen hugged the man anyway. "Thanks for the article." "It's my pleasure to expose your corrupt self," Lorenzo smirked. "Did it have the intended effect?" "We won't know until trouble comes calling." Gwen smiled sheepishly. For the sake of the METRO's reputation, she had asked Lorenzo to do a few hit pieces on their owner and founder, doubly serving as an ironic humblebrag to bolster Shalkar's reputation. With the amount of staff now involved in the upper management, the handshakes took some time. Afterwards, Gwen urged Strun to repeat the performance of his Desert Epic at Shalkar, this time for the starry-eyed crowd at the office. When finally all curiosities were satisfied, she laid out the new work arranging an import and export division for Shalkar for her fresh-faced managers. Without pause, all of them promised that Strun's people would never starve again. Then, finally, it was time to settled down and discuss the "Executive" business at hand. With a sweeping gesture from Walken, the rest of the staff was politely cleared out, Strun included, leaving only Gwen, Walken, Lorenzo, Richard and Petra. In the future, Gwen wondered, would Mayuree, Marong, and perhaps Ruxin also join them in the chamber? Walken, who had by now mastered his version of her patented "PowerPoint" Illusion sorcery, hand-waved the room into darkness. "Right, let's not beat around the bush." The Magister conjured into being a pyramid of cascading headshots, together with a map of their holdings. "I do believe the time has come to call in your favours, Gwen. We're ready to push for Canary Wharf." "The acquisition of south dock is completed?" Gwen glanced at the vista outside, though it was the wrong side of the docklands. In her memory, acquisition and discovery of the Isle had run into a brick wall. "I thought it would take until June." "The timetable is no longer certain, despite our best efforts," Walken conjured up details of the development proposals. "As you can see, we need South Dock and the old Warehouse District to connect the Pinnacle building between Canary and Millwall and to provide underground access within walking distance to the Marsh Wall Underground. The alternative is to build the Pinnacle where we've already submitted plans for the Millennium Harbour. We can use the land south of the dock as well, but as you know— we've promised the City of London that we would not impede onto Sir Magister McDougall's Memorial Park. To move the monument would cost us goodwill and a great deal of political capital. Richard can tell you more." "Dick?" Gwen looked to her cousin. "The Barlow Group has succeeded in acquiring the suites here— here— and here— and more." Richard nodded at the Magister, turning several annoyingly disjointed blocks scarlet. "Unlike the others, these were sealed and delivered, all legal and willing sales with no undercuts." "How?" Gwen furrowed her brows. "Did we not offer enough money?" "Not everyone's eyes turn green when it comes to profit." Walken snorted at her remark. "These owners supported the Militants. That's not so surprising, is it?" "That IS surprising, actually." Gwen signed. "I maintain that we didn't offer enough. Everyone has a limit. Now it's going to cost us more." The others pondered her train of thought in silence. "I see. Nonetheless," Walken said. "The Barlow Group now refuses to sell said suites. They'll BUY our share, though— even above the market value. Presumably, they're trying to starve us out of Canary Wharf, but their management does not know our finances as well as we know their backers, so there's that. Either way, the status quo is that we're at a standstill." "Buy our land? They're dreaming." Gwen puckered her lips in annoyance. Before Shalkar could turn a profit, a significant amount of HDMs had to be invested and passed around, which meant anything delaying the construction and the sale of her waterfront developments raised the risk of her business losing liquidity. "Alright, so what's the plan?" "Richard, if you will elucidate our employer?" "We go for the jugular," Richard pointed to a few of the unfamiliar faces in the hierarchal pyramid of the Barlow Group's Executives. "The Barlow wants to delay our projects, so we'll pay them back likewise. That's Wilbur Elliot Marriott, Ex-Magister and now renowned Hotel magnate. Beside him is Jonathan D. Nassar of the Hilton Group." "Marriott and Hilton Holdings?" "— Yes, and the joint-holders of the Waldorf Astoria properties. Your friend, Lady Astor, has a sizable stake in the ownership as well." "Alright." Gwen studied the faces of the men in their late forties. "Elaborate." "They're going to build hotels on Canary's land holds or at least convert their new constructions into free-standing hotels. They're quite determined, as we all know how hard it is to find land to build anything in central London. For both groups, the Isle of Dogs is a great opportunity for our American friends to make a foot hold." Gwen did indeed know, for the presence of both Westminster Chapel, Buckingham Palace, and other historical structures meant that the central CBD area forbade super-structural constructs that may "overshadow" these important historical and symbolic edifices. It was one of the reasons why Dwarven construction, with its underground emphasis, enjoyed such popularity among London's developers. Yet, until "The Devourer of Shenyang" had transformed the industrial wasteland of the Isle of Dogs from trash to treasure, it had simply not occurred to London's developers that a private enterprise with HDMs and foresight could convert cheap, affordable land into high-demand infrastructure. Of course, not all developers had Gwen's accountants, a block of leasehold as grand as the Marchioness of Ely's Millwall, Cubitt and Mudchute, or the means to materialise an additional subway line via Dwarven Magitech. "Over the last few months, Pats and I have collected more than enough material for the Old Bailey," Richard pointed to Walken's Storage Ring. "There's no doubt that these—" The young man pointed to a few more faces Gwen had not seen before. "These are the ones giving orders." "You have proof?" Gwen asked. "Irrefutable proof? Did you steal the Barlow's Mercenary ledger?" Richard laughed. "There's more than enough correlation," Walken chided her scepticism. "When forty fingers and countless witnesses all pointed toward these men, a definite pattern emerges. We've been cautious, you know. We pressed charges when the opportunity arose, but we never pushed the envelope. As a result, I think the Barlow Group believes we either lack the evidence or are too afraid to challenge them openly. Whatever the case, we've stowed enough circumstantial and financial evidence. For this reason, we're counting on you to make sure we get a favourable judge." "How am I going to do that?" Gwen snorted. "I am a Magus, not a Marchioness. I am not even a Magister yet." "Ravenport owes you, as do Astor," Walken replied with complete confidence, alluding to her accomplishments since arriving in London. "You said he wanted you to go pay lip service to the Elves, and you did. Not only that, you did the Elves at Tryfan a great favour, or so you say, which means you did our Duke of the Foreign Affairs an even bigger favour. He could refuse, of course, but what kind of precedence would that set? Is it not said that a Ravenport always pays his debts?" Gwen's flawless brows furrowed. "You want me to talk to Dicky to repay a hypothetical favour— and that favour is to appoint a biased Inquisitorial Arbitor of the High Court to investigate these claims?" "Yes," Walken nodded. "Problem?" "No," Gwen mockingly moved a few inches away from the old schemer. "You know, Eric, you're downright nasty. What's the end game?" Walken chuckled, his eyes glinting with sadistic malice. "My friends in the Grey Faction have been visiting me of late, now that there's HDMs to be made. They've told me that the Militants have all but lost the land war in the Niger Delta against the Lycanthropes— something about inability to discern between locals and the foe, not that they're any different down there in the Black Zone. Within months, all their mining efforts are going to go up in smokes, meaning their loans will be due very soon." Gwen made an "o" of appreciation with her lips. "They've been paying the interest, but once the income ceases, their assets will be on the auction block by September. If they manage to buy our land and can thus build their hotels, it would mean both the Marriott and the Hilton Group would extend their golden fingers to prop up the facade of Barlow's financial stability— but if we were to mire them in a legal battle, and destroy their reputation— and then leak their financial position through the METRO, accuse them of hiding their insolvency—" Gwen winced at Dominic Lorenzo, her smiling Chief Editor. "I don't think our METRO ought to be used like that." Unlike politics, a good business was built on a foundation of arithmatics. While businesses built on air could float, their failure would be no less catastrophic than the lofty heights they reached by means of rumours and heresay. "It's fine if it's the truth," Lorenzo interrupted her. "We're not pretending to be anything we're not. Nor are we being selective about what's been reported. If the IoDRP were to sink to similar methods, you could prime a Void Bolt at my head, and I would still pen the editorial." "Of course, aren't you the courier who delivers the truth that sets the masses free?" Gwen's chest grew a little fuzzy with warmth at finally meeting a member of her cabal with the right moral compass. "Guilty as charged," Lorenzo roared with laughter. "Well said, Boss. Shall we go ahead?" Gwen's lips formed a red line, woeful at the fact that this world had never really understood the allure of an open media, not that hers had been fair nor free. Still, she had to be wary because the Fourth Estate of public opinion was a powerhouse no single person should control, even if her METRO were doing its best to bring about a fairer view of the world for the uneducated. She also felt glad that her labours were now bearing fruit— between West Ferry, the Isle of Dogs, and Shalkar, the gospel of profitable philanthropy she had birthed was now punching above its weight. That said, Gwen understood her venture as a balancing act on a tightrope between two precipices. One wrong move— and one would fall below into the avaricious ocean of the free market, becoming feed for the glinting, pearly teeth of the golden-eyed, gilded Sirens below. "That said, the problem is Shalkar." Walken watched her face as he spoke. "We need those funds." "To acquire Barlow's properties when they collapse? Isn't this a bit too soon?" "Yes, wasn't that your plan? To eventually strip our competitors and cannibalise their profitable divisions?" Walken affirmed her hypothesis. "I don't think Shalkar will be as profitable as Canary Wharf. It's folly to pursue the er, 'good will' too deeply." Gwen understood her Executive's concern. It was God-given that a Faery Dragon in hand was worth two in the Wildlands. However, there was a whole race of Rat-kin in Shalkar awaiting the deliverance of her angel investment. Their Centaur "allies" had also been promised a share in the profits to purchase food and fodder for their Golden Pavilion and replenish their numbers. Her Executive was correct that there weren't immediate profits in Shalkar, but the man didn't see the whole picture. "We need Shalkar, and not just for profit," she waited until Walken delivered his conjecture on the first quarterly report before speaking once more to refute her officer. "If anything, the true treasure isn't the Barlow's lands, but a favour from Tryfan for when we finally get to tap into our 'real' business." She reached into the folds of her dress and removed what looked like a leaf the size of her palm. Then, with mock ceremony, she placed the thing before her peers. "This is mine," she announced with confidence. "Or at least, it is mine to use as I see fit— until such time that I am not." Eric Walken, Magister, furrowed his brows. The man had left London early to seek his fortunes in Australia, the one place where trees and Elves were exceedingly rare, and so knew not what Gwen had presented. "Gwennie." Petra gulped, her clear irises aglow with diagnostic mana. "Is that what I think it is?" Walken blinked as puzzle pieces fell into place. "An Ilias Leaf? Did y-you take a Leaf from a WORLD TREE? And then you brought it here?" The unspoken question that followed, Gwen could see, was likely "Will the Elves burn down West Ferry to get it back?" "It's not THAT special." She stepped back, wiggling her shoulders in glee at their reactions. "That said, THIS, ladies and gents, is a transdimensional, cross-Planar communication device! This— if we can crack the code, will be the foundation of a new Magitech that will change commercial communication— forever!"

"Petra! Put the _leaf_ down! No—don't infuse it with mana!" Walken's warning reverberated across the boardroom before Gwen's sorcery-obsessed cousin tapped into the illicit herb. "That bloody thing is said to be an extension of Tryfan's will! It doesn't like strangers." Doesn't like strangers? Where have I heard that before? Gwen cocked her chin at her Executive, feeling second-hand embarrassment that her Master's contemporary would say something so ignorant. Then again, unlike herself, Walken did not repeatedly rub shoulders with Hvítálfar from the arboreal pocket planes. Instead, her peers remained firmly planted in the "secular" world of mortal Magisterial concerns, like taxes, assets, corporate hierarchy, and an endless, cyclical acquisition of wealth and power. "It's perfectly safe," Gwen assured her cousin. "As I said, it's mine until the original owners say otherwise." "Gwen." Walken's worrywart expression reminded her of their fight in Fudan. "You're sure? A Hvítálfar keepsake is no trivial matter!" "It's fine," she repeated herself. "Even Strun's folks have pawed it many times. Sometimes I even leave it with Stian, their Elder. Sanari seemed cool with it." Petra returned the Ilias Leaf to the table, licking her lips like she'd gone a week without Maotai. "Sanari as in your _immortal_ Druid Hierophant?" Walken's voice rose an octave. "I don't know about immortal," Gwen felt an unexplainable queasiness as Walken spoke the word. She became reminded of Golos, his toothy maw split from chin to chin, telling her that these "mortals" wouldn't understand the likes of them. According to the Mythic scion, the tyranny of time touched "us" not in the same way, meaning Gwen should be wiser in choosing her battles, such as that mortal foes perished with time and that only a Dragon's hoard was eternal. "But yes, that Sanari." Walken sighed as if suddenly exhausted. He looked around the room, then approached a cabinet, opening the double doors to reveal rows of amber liquid in crystalline bottles. "Anyone else needs a drink?" "I'll have one," Petra was never one to turn down booze. "Me three," Richard glanced at the jade treasure on the table. "This is news to us, Gwen. You mentioned that Tryfan gave you one of their tokens of trust. But I assume this is something special." "It's amazing enough you are rubbing shoulders with Elves," Petra added. "But to receive something like this—is a little excessive." "Forgive my ignorance." Gwen received a clinking glass of Scottish blue label from Walken. "This was given to me without ceremony, not unlike Master dropping off a Ring of Storage. Can anyone elucidate for me why you're all so shocked?" Indeed, not even the Inquisitor from the Order of the Bath had reacted with such hyperbole as her companions were now putting on display. Compared to the disregard of her daily use of it in Shalkar, the cognitive dissonance made her feel like she was missing the punchline to a joke. "Well, I only know from hearsay," Richard replied first. "My folks at King's thinks that the Elves elect members of the Mageocracy to serve as their ambassadors, a role that offers access to their vaults of knowledge, the 'original' Elemental sorcery that served as the inspiration for the IMS system. No one knows how to become one of the Chosen, only that a token of membership is a magical leaf from the Tree of Tryfan." "Which is itself a rare and hidden piece of knowledge," Walken was calmer now, that or his face had grown numb from the alarm. "As for the Hvítálfar, what can I say? I have to wonder just how much of what you've told us is illicit knowledge beholden to Tryfan and the Tower. Didn't anyone tell you not to speak of such secrets so openly?" "Er… no?" Gwen gulped. Indeed, there had been neither a request nor a Geas to constrain her spread of the knowledge itself. Likewise, it wasn't as though she wanted to disseminate Tryfan's secrets like some conspiracy—she merely wanted to impose upon her officers the importance of retaining Shalkar and the goodwill of the Elves so that they would allow the leaf to be studied. "Professed ignorance isn't a valid cause for acquittance," Walken warned her. "Speak no more of Tryfan in public. Didn't Henry teach you this?" Gwen shook her head. "To my knowledge, he was historically connected to Tryfan, correct?" Gwen nodded. "And yet he didn't speak a word to you or the Council of Ten in Oceania. You didn't even know about Trees, Dragons and the Hvítálfar while in Sydney." "... I guess you have a point." Gwen grew silent, choosing to refrain from blurting out she had told Ollie everything, as well as Jean-Paul, which meant Meister Bekker likely knew. Her House Mistress as well had received a full debriefing over cupcakes and Darjeeling. Was the "Leaf" her knowledge to dough out? Or was Walken correct, and she had presumed too much? "I promise I won't be giving lectures on the topic in Oxbridge." "I hope you're right." Walken touched a palm to his face, scratched his forehead, then drank the glass in one gulp. "Maybe we're just rubes from Australia. Else, you've just pulled us into something we're all going to regret sooner or later." The Accord. Gwen wondered if Walken had an idea, but to speak of it may dig her in further. Walken put down his cup. "Let's move on. What do you hope to achieve with this Ilias Leaf?" "Okay." Gwen picked up the leaf with one hand. "Did you know that this operates not on mana, but Essence Sympathy? It uses the Axis Mundi of the World Trees' innate Essence to allow instantaneous communication—" "Before you continue," Walken groaned. "Are you confirming for us that Tryfan's Great Tree is a World Tree? The very ones from Planar Theory taught by Addison Andrews, first Chair of Cosmology? Are we mortals supposed to know this?" Gwen pursed her lips. There was that word again. Mortals. If Ruxin were here, the concurring Thunder Dragon would inform her that, of course, "Mortals" were mindful of "keeping up with the Joneses". Walken especially was in no small part motivated by his need to prove to his wife that she would not be a crone before their family reclaimed its deserved influence and prestige. "Look." Gwen opened both hands in exasperation like a splayed bird. How was she to know which juicy bits of knowledge were subject to sorcerous info-sec? Was Sanari supposed to lean over, all conspiratorial-like, and asked her not to speak the magic words? "How can I explain the necessity of privileging Shalkar without the proper context? Should I ask you to trust me?" "Do we not?" Walken looked to Richard, Petra and the smiling Dominic. "Isn't that why we're all here?" "I don't mind knowing," Richard said. "Nor do I mind the alternative. Eric is right. We trust you to make the best judgement for all of us. If you believe Shalkar is a necessity to please the immortals at Tryfan, then it must be true." "I, for one, want to know," Petra said without pause. "But the choice is yours. I trust you to know best." Gwen felt a sudden strain on her shoulders, like a dozen pairs of hands pressing down at once. "That's a lot of responsibility." Dominic snorted with infectious delight. "Isn't that what a Tower Master is? A walking avatar of responsibility? When you make a judgement, Gwen, folk will prosper or perish, live and die by your wisdom. Yet how many of those carrying out your will would know your reasons? Would you want them to know? Even in the METRO, our Editors don't question why certain stories run over others. Beyond their journalist integrity, any organisation must abide by a hierarchy of knowledge. If all of us here knew the exactness of Tryfan's ploys, could we act with one mind? We're not a Stygian Swarm-Mind! Is our Devourer of Shenyang so naive to believe that deep down, we don't have individual interests and needs at heart?" Gwen watched her companions, once more feeling a fuzzy warmth in her chest engender from their kindness. To someone who had received her pot of gold in a corporate setting, the professed notion of loyalty dawned as strangely incongruous. Wasn't a corporation a joint-venture of mutual profiteering? What kind of company had such selfless employees with such zeal—such faith? "Fine." Gwen raised both hands in surrender to the gaze of her peers. "No more explanations. I'll make the call." She paused to consider the pieces on the board and the resources she had on hand. "Shalkar has to commence as soon as possible," she spoke after a minute. "I've promised Strun and his people, as well as the Golden Pavilion, that they would have no want of winter fodder. Tryfan is likewise expecting a significant infrastructural injection from 'the Humans' after their gift of the quasi-magical Wildland produce from the World Tree—and I don't think it's wise to disappoint them. Added to this is a certain promise I had made to the Order of the Bath to soothe the region by bringing profitable philanthropy as sustainable development. For these reasons, we must ensure that there are no delays in transforming Shalkar— as people's lives and a grander narrative of Planar stability lies in the balance. To surmise, we please the Hvítálfar, make money hand over fist, profit-share with the locals, and build infrastructure while unifying the locals against the Elementals. It's a one Magic Missile many birds situation." The others accepted her judgement as promised. "Now for the Barlow Group." Gwen again took a minute to piece together the puzzle in her mind. "Eric has said that the Militants' levy will soon break as their failures in the Niger Delta flood over. Assuming we aid their collapse by release the news of their larceny in fleecing the NoMs, as well as help their victims seek redress, it should be mid-June before their finances begin to crumble. To this end, I shall go and speak with the Duke of Norfolk and ask for this favour of mine." She took a deep breath. "Concurrently, this means that come June—our coffers would lack the sufficient liquidity left to compete in Barlow's sell-off. The volume of capital remaining would be barely enough to initiate the construction of Millennium Wharf. In that time, our competitors would attempt to cannibalise Barlow or even attempt to continue what Barlow had created as a stumbling block for us. It means that our primary goal for the IoDRP must shift from attack to defence—that we must purchase, at whatever the price, the specific properties preventing us from signing off on the Pinnacle." "I'll take care of it personally," Walken promised, glancing at Richard, who gave the man a look of understanding. Besides the Magister, her other companions murmured their agreement. "But that's a scenario we could avoid," Gwen continued. "We are short on liquidity. For a non-Mageocracy project, I can't ask for a loan from Mayuree. The conditions of our IoDRP as set by the City of London forbade us from overt foreign direct investment. One alternative is to sell our shares to interested parties like Lady Astor, but not if she also has to draw her funds from overseas, such as from her American allies. Likewise, it would be nice if Peterhouse could invest, but I don't think a commercial office suite will pass muster as educational enrichment for the college." "Who else has the volume of liquidity we require?" Walken considered her analysis. "We're talking several million in initial deposits. That or enough clout to defy the conditions set by the city." "I was thinking someone from the Grey Faction." Gwen tapped the table. "Since I have to go and see Lord Ravenport, why not offer him a slice of the action as well? Bring him over to our side of the Thames? Eric, didn't you say that the Ravenport Estate bought shares in the IoDRP?" "You would invite an old ghoul into your bedroom?" Richard's lips curled in protest. "What would the Sun Herald say about your sugar daddy? Will you feed the beast that mocks your flesh?" Gwen chided her cousin for his choice of words with a stare full of razors while beside them, Lorenzo broke into an uncontrollable cough, likely expelling the scene from his head. "His Estate was involved, not the Duke personally, and I'd wager it was done as a favour to show support for your House Mistress, Maxine," Walken hypothesised with a tone of doubt. "But you're right. Of all the prominent Grey Faction members in London, House Ravenport alone should have scant problems withdrawing funds from the Norfolk Trust. To invest in the betterment of London is part and parcel of why the fund exists, and we're a household name in that regard. Also, what's the bet his office already knows how profitable our venture has become?" "Right—and we get to rope in a vested ally against the Militants," Gwen said. "If he has so much to gain, maybe I wouldn't need to expend my favour after all. Shall I visit Westminster now? Strike while the Dwarven ingot is hot?" "I don't think you should visit him in the Office of the Earl Marshall to exchange favours." Walken gave her a pondering look. "There's such a thing as decorum— and the Queen's Cabal." "Fine. Should I waylay Mycroft on his walks? He's famous for his Victoria Garden strolls, isn't he? The Sun said he's quite approachable. I could be like 'Whoa, Dickie, fancy seeing you here, got a minute to make a million Roo-bucks?'" Dominic almost doubled over. "Gwen, the Sun published that to irk him. Lord Ravenport hates nothing more than to be interrupted during his walk." "How about asking your House Mistress to invite the Duke over for tea?" Richard suggested, masking a smirk. "Great idea, Dick." Gwen gave the man a thumbs up. "Okay, that's solved then. We'll reallocate the funds of the IoDRP for Shalkar effectively immediately and leave just enough float to keep our pre-planned projects commissioned. Meanwhile, I'll try and sniff out our new investor." "We should ready an article for when you succeed," Lorenzo was full of conviction. "You and Lord Ravenport, eh? We'll need to print extra-thick editions. Think he'll be amicable for a lumen-shot on the front page?" "Not willingly, no." Gwen glanced at the papers on the table, then grinned half-jokingly, sticking out her hip with a hand on her waist. "But I suppose there's no news like bad news to spread the good word. Guess I'll dress up?" "We commend your sacrifice, O Priestess of Pale Flesh," Richard intervened before Walken could deliver a more fatherly, conservative advice. "You owe it to the people of London. And for the girls making a living on Page Three." "Their obsession with your appearance is a weapon you should use abuse more often," Petra affirmed her banter with complete seriousness. "If you can get your opponents flustered or distracted, there's no better way to negotiate." "I don't think Lord Ravenport is going to fall for something that shallow." Walken extricated himself from going with the flow just in time. "But I digress. You're not Angie, and you're old enough to decide for yourself." "I'll send out the request now." Gwen made a move to leave, but then Walken deft intercepted her exit. "Yes, Eric?" "Excuse me, but you're not going anywhere yet. It has been three months, Magus Song." Walken expression twisted with sadism. "You have no idea the amount of paperwork we have had to put on hold in your absence, so now that you're here, don't expect to leave until it's audited, signed and delivered!" The reply from Mycroft Ravenport, Duke of Norfolk, came in the form of an invitation held in the beak of an oversized Tower Raven. "CAW—!" What may or may not be the entity called "Mori" that had befriended Dede dropped off the letter a week later while Gwen and Gracie made their rounds with Magister Brown. Gracie's progress had been admirable, and after a few days, Strun no longer instantly drew a host of Freshmen seeking to hear the stories of Shalkar first-hand. The rat and her duck, as well, had hit it off without a hitch, forming the unusual silhouette of sorceress, duck and rat strolling on the lawn of Emmanuels, connected by an intangible, mystical bond only she could comprehend. "The crest of the Ravenport family." Gracie recognised the embossed Coat of Arms of demi-Lion in gules and tri-point argent resting on Gwen's palm. "You have business with the Duke?" "Literally." Gwen studied the elaborate heraldry, wondering what hers should look like if she received a peerage—maybe she should have a foreground of Kirin in Azure, with Cali in sable, over a shield of obsidian and lightning, with a dog-headed crown for the isle. "To the Esteemed Magus Gwen Song of Peterhouse," The invitation's cover was floridly inscribed in gold ink. She broke the seal with a push of her thumb and was surprised when the wax melted away at her touch. The invitation inside, however, made her think twice. "To the lauded Magus Gwen Song We cordially invite you to our house to discuss proposals pertaining to the Isle of Dogs. The family has heard much about your exploits, and we are greatly looking forward to meeting you in person. If you may accommodate afternoon tea tomorrow, we shall be expecting your presence. Yours sincerely. C. Ravenport. "C?" Gwen looked to Gracie. "Who is C? Mycroft's wife?" "Charlene, from Lucy Cavendish," Gracie answered at once. "She's now Lord Ravenport's youngest after his son passed away." Edgar!—or Edmund, or whatever he called himself. Gwen frowned almost on reflex. The bastard. "Remind me, how many kids does he have?" "Lord Ravenport's oldest child is Quinn, from King's College." Gracie appeared to know the famous family well enough to rattle off the names without pause. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I've never spoken to them, but Quinn was famous for participating in Cambridge's winning IIUC team during his third year, and Charlene recently graduated Summa cumme Laude from Cavendish. Her speech on the greater inclusion of NoMs in upper-tier sorcerous education caused quite a stir within the faculties. Many are questioning whether her view represented Lord Ravenport's stance or if she's striking a different tune to bolster her career." "Quinn, Lucy—" Gwen had no desire even to say the last name. "Quinn, Charlene and Edmund," Gracie said the E-word. "Word goes that Edmund died after he went out on a rebellious streak on his own, even had associations with certain unmentionables. As a result, there wasn't much ceremony over the young man's passing. That said, he wasn't nearly as talented as his siblings. I think he went to King's, but I've never heard anyone speak of him." The idea that Edmund, villain extraordinary, could have a life of his own had never occurred to Gwen, and now she suddenly felt strangely depressed. But then again, it wasn't as though she murdered Edmund or that he had not deserved his fate. Banishing the unhappy thought, she pocketed the invitation. "Decorum indicates a prompt declaration of your attendance," Gracie reminded her. "The invitation is Enchanted. Merely speak your reply and set it loose." Gwen whistled, her mind alive with fantastic visions from Pottermore. "I'll be there tomorrow," she informed the bird. "CAW!" The raven took to the skies with a caw and a flutter. "I guess it's too much to buzz my Message device," Gwen watched the bird become a speck upon the blue-grey horizon. "Of course." Gracie rolled her eyes. "You're a business leader and a Magus, and this is the household of the Lord Marshall, Gwen. You're not meeting for coffee after exercising your Familiars at the arena! They're receiving you at the Chelsea Estate as well, imply it's a private affair. How exciting, Gwen! Afternoon tea at the Ravenport's!" Gwen nodded, then withdrew her Message Device and punched it to summon Dominic Lorenzo. "Dom, I'll be going tomorrow at noon—yeah—yep—sure. Do you know where that is? It's at the Chelsea compound belonging to House Ravenport. Yes? Well, I don't, so we'll go together maybe?" She hung up. Gracie looked scandalised. "Gwen! That was a private invitation! For tea!" "Right, where were we?" Gwen ignored the warning, then pivoted Gracie to their prior conversation. "Let's keep testing Brown's plans to muster forth a Familiar. Cali's a cutie now, but my god, those early days were pretty sketchy when it came to vitality usage, and lord knows what you're going to summon without my Master personally drawing his Familiar spell." Ken Peterson, Son of Peter Peterson of Unit 11, District 2, Bugsby's Way, Greenwich, stood in the thrumming carriage of the London Underground, not daring to breathe or achoo. In one hand, he held a bundle of the latest METRO, which he was responsible for distributing. Over yonder, standing tall in a tartan grey pencil skirt and a loose-fitting blouse, was the very sorceress currently gracing the front page of the paper in his hand. The sorceress looked the same as in the Lumen-pics—but the real-life version made his knees knock. Ken had worked the Underground in various capacities of late and had seen his share of Magisters, Lords and Ladies, but never had he seen any human being so—in his limited vocabulary, unreal. The "Pale Priestess", Ken recalled the title the Rat-folks had given the Saviour of Shalkar. Was indeed pale—especially the eye-drawing part of her—as pale as the rumours that she wasn't entirely alive. Bathed in the yellow, tungsten-etched Day Light globes of the subway's interior, the "Priestess" was simultaneously the most alluring vision of femininity he had ever beheld, while also exerting such an aura of devastation that even he, an NoM, recognised her monstrous nature as The Devourer of Shenyang. There were other passengers as well, all sitting well away from the standing sorceress, even going so far as to cram up against one end of the carriage, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, unwilling to avert their gaze while simultaneously terrified that she would stare back. Why was the Mistress of the Isle of Dogs catching the subway? Ken wondered, fighting to keep his innards from turning into scrambled eggs. Another voice in his mind reminded him that the sorceress had done much for the NoMs of London and that his fellow paper sellers from Mudchute had assured him that the "Missus Boss" was approachable—but dared he risk her appetite? He wanted to look away, but his eyeballs refused to leave the imposing visage. He felt a forbidden attraction, an unbidden desire to fall to his knees and mutter a prayer of sorts. Of course, that would take him below the sorceress' hemline—an exciting prospect for maybe a few seconds before her Devourer-ship would summon a horned, demonic rat to vivisect him on the carriage floor. "Hello." A voice spoke to him. It took Ken several seconds to realise it was the boss of his bosses' bosses that now addressed the label on his shirt. "Ken, can I ask you a few questions?" The folk standing close to Ken took a few steps back. Ken gulped. Even if he were to die, he wished he could have told the story to his mates at the Greenwich Publican in person. "S-sure," he couldn't help but stammer an agreement, for the girl came closer, and the clicking of her heels sounded a thousand times more intimidating than his landlord's wife tapping at his door with a wand, asking for the month's rent. "How long have you worked today?" "I was out since six, yer Devourer-ship." The sorceress' expression grew strangely rigid. "When do you conclude work?" "After the afternoon rush, at six PM, yer Devourer-ship." "How much are you getting paid?" Ken squinted. Money was a sensitive issue. Dare he lie? He did not. "One LDM per hour, same as the others, yer Devourer-ship. It's good money for us folk who joined the press early." "Please, just Gwen—" The sorceress confirmed his worst fears by making a contemplative face. "When do you get paid?" "Fortnightly." "Where do you live?" "Greenwich." "With family?" "Yes, yer Gwen-ship. I got me ma and pa, me missus, and a little feller." "Is your wage enough to live on?" "Me old woman also works at the Print Works, cleaning and such," Ken added, hoping to the Nazarene this was not a tax audit. If so, he certainly had not seen a tax script in his life and would have to flee at the first opportunity. His neighbours had said they send tax criminals overseas to penal colonies like Australia, where the flesh-eating Roos are three meters tall. "So yes, we've enough to live on." "Is junior attending school?" "Yes, Greenwich Public." The sorceress seemed pleased. "Do you like working for METRO?" Ken seriously considered his answer. "I wouldn't work for any other, Miss, on account of the food." "The food?" "The soup kitchen gives the early-risers packed lunch," Ken indicated to his assigned Dwarven-made storage capsule, a simple device operated by an HDM that stowed several hundred copies. "Better than me mum's Sunday roasts, I tell yer. Especially when they make the buttery chooks, greases yer gullet, it does. Where am I going to find another job that offers free chow?" "Ah yes, the butter chicken." The sorceress nodded in appreciation. "Have you run into any trouble on deliveries? How was it resolved?" Ken confessed that he often ran into problems, growing more comfortable now that he wasn't turned into a newt and swallowed. "Them schoolboys from the Grammars are the worst. They try and fiddle with the box even when I tell them not to—and they say nasty things about yer Devourer-ship. Also, I want to thank yer that we're not selling the papers but giving them away. Else I reckon we be robbed daily. Er—and thank yer for putting in a word with the Biters, Miss." "Ah, the Arbiters give yer a hand?" "They're nice ter us paper pushers," Ken concurred. "Since yer paper writes nice things about them, unlike the Sun and the Tele." "That's good to hear. Where are you going now?" Ken looked at the sorceress strangely. "Nowhere, yer Devourer-ship. Here is my carriage. I pass out papers, like this—" He gave out a paper to a Mage beside him. Smiling nervously, the Mage took it with a nod and an audible thank you. Realising that the politeness was because of the sorceress' presence and that she wasn't about to add him to her Swarm of Teeth, he quickly gave out the entire bundle under his arm, with each of his recipients loudly declaring their appreciation for his hard labour. "It's not usually this easy." Ken grinned at the girl. "Thank yer, yer Devourer-ship." The Pale Priestess smiled. "Alright, can we have a picture together?" "Ah—" Ken's mind blanked out. The sorceress sidled up beside him, making his hair stand on end as her blouse brushed the rude fabric of his shirt with the stitched words METRO lined across the chest and back. A small, warm hand reached his rough, calloused palm and slid into the space between his thumb and index finger, sending a jolt of vivifying electricity to course through his body. A man materialised from the crowd with a camera, then took a flash-recording of the two of them standing side by side. By the time his mind returned to the Prime Material, the sorceress was gone, and the carriage was full of new faces. "Mate, you're giving out the METRO or not?" a voice asked him. Ken blinked, worked his body as a golem-automation, then returned to ponder a quintessential thought—would any of his mates at the Publican even begin to believe him? That—and how many LDMs he could fleece from the buggers, providing that he and the bosses' bosses' boss would appear on the new week's edition of the METRO, sharing a handshake, just like the big-wigs in uptown.

The Ravenport's London Compound sat three stations east from Westminister and two stops south in a prestigious corner of Chelsea adjoining the Ranelagh Gardens. In the past, the compound had encompassed the entirety of the southern courtyard from Chelsea Bridge to King Charles' Court. Now, at Charlene Ravenport's behest, most of its private land had been surrendered for a public park, leaving only a modest sixteen room "Manor" in service to the Earl Marshall of England. It was under its austere, Edwardian facade in rich red brick that Gwen now arrived, clacking from Sloane Square in her eye-watering heels for a few hundred meters until confronted by its brass-bound gates. There were three modes of transport which she could have chosen, and sore feet were her sufferance of choice. The rationale, at least according to her cabal of schemers at the Isle of Dogs, was well-founded. Firstly, unless she wished to ride to the compound in a Fabricator Engine or a Strider, there were no decorum-worthy vehicles to deliver someone of her class and station to visit a noble of a higher station. Buying one when the IoDRP was trying to gather funds was doubly untenable. As for flying, that particular convenience would break all manners of etiquette. As such, taking the public transit and making a public showing of her closeness to her employees made not only for an excellent front page—it also cemented the difference between the haughty Militants and her IoDRP. Additionally, scant critique could be levelled toward her announcing her visit to the Ravenport's compound, lest the Sun wanted to expose her for the "absurdity" of taking public transport. Secondly, the appearance of her visitation to the Ravenport mansion must be communicated to her stakeholders, regardless of the success of their alliance. Walken's opinion was that such a showing would complete the despair of the Barlow Group, thoroughly demoralising their attempt to block the Pinnacle's construction. Thirdly, House Ravenport was a stumbling block she had to cross sooner or later. Despite Dickie's professed neutral feelings about the death of his son, "bad" blood doesn't go away with fancy words. The only way to move on with peace of mind was to wed her interests to theirs and vice versa—through mutual profit. Once that happened, both parties were bow-tied at the ankle by their joint stakeholders. Likewise, as a future Magister with a Tower on the horizon, diplomacy with enemies she had not chosen of her own free will would be best practice. "Caw—" A pair of ravens flapping atop the anchor struts for the gates announced her arrival. As seen in Gothic horror films, the gates yawned open with a squeak of green brass, entirely of its own accord. The interior was the textbook definition of a manicured English garden, with every tree and hedge tamed and shaped into geometric perfection since the epoch of King George IV. There was also an explicit lack of entourage out to meet her. Gwen glanced at the riverbanks, where Lorenzo and his men awaited with dismay for the front page shot that would no longer appear. In a way, she felt relieved. It made sense that their success should be limited. Unless Dickie consented, there was no way the old ghoul didn't see past her shallow ploy of the Kitsune borrowing the Manticore's terror. Nonetheless, she walked in-between the gates, shook loose her hair, then struck a pose in the middle of the open gates embossed with the heraldry of ravens. Lorenzo took a low-angle cover shot from a suitably safe distance for his ostentatiously titled "Dog visits Raven" article, then farewelled the onlookers gawking at her dramatic narcissism. CLANG! Like a pair of gnashing incisors, the gates railed closed with a discordant tone of disapproval. The pebble stone path ahead was undoubtedly never made with stiletto heels in mind, nor was the distance to the "modest" manor, designed originally for war horses, suitable for walking. Thankfully, Gwen had a Flight Licence and so abused the fact to "glide" her graceful self toward the frontage of the three-story manor with its Gothic arches in wine and enormous, white-ribbed French windows. As she closed the final dozen meters, the door opened, revealing the absent figure of the majordomo, who bowed from the waist before hailing her countenance. "I can only presume Lady Ravenport is expecting me." She smiled at the butler. "Is Duke Ravenport in?" "He is not," the man offered a curt and unambiguous answer. "How about Lord Saville?" "Lord Saville is on business for the Duke. The young Mistress of the House is waiting for you inside." The moustachioed servant appeared ripped from a period film. "If you would follow my humble self, I shall take your august self to her." "Very well, lead the way." Gwen figured there wasn't much point in squeezing clues from a man who was likely the hidden villain of Cluedo. The interior of the Ravenport's London Manor was not the lavish Louis XIII style she had been anticipating, but rather a minimalist form that deviated from the ecliptic preference of the late Edwardians. Chief companion to the ridiculous space were the portraits, hundreds of them, row after row of gaunt Ravenports of the past going back centuries, all the way unto the rise of Henry V, the "Argent King", progenitor of England's Arthurian legends. Gwen noted that common to the appearances were the hawkish nose, the calculating grey eyes, and the thin lips that gave Dickie the look of a Bond villain. Nearer the end of the upper corridor, Gwen received a preview of the hostess she was about to meet. It was a portrait of the Ravenport family with Dickie's second wife, Everleigh, and her two children. The Mistress of the house was herself a vision of femininity perfected by good breeding, good food and unfettered access to Transmutation magic. From her perfect fair hair to her flawless poise, Dickie's second wife should be in her thirties in the picture but had the mien of a girl-wife just making it past her second decade. To Everleigh's right stood a girl with a regal frame and eyes that took after the Duke, though feminised and with lips kissed by rouge. The kids and the mother did not look at all alike, a testament to the strength of House Ravenport's genes. Then there was the boy to the woman's right, dressed in flamboyant doublet and hose, embroidered with the crest of House Avon and Ravenport. With a sinking feeling, Gwen recognised the psychopathic glint in the kid's dead fish irises, becoming astounded by the skill of the portrait artist in framing Edmund's hidden mania. The door to the room in which Charlene waited for her was already open. From the look of the doorframe, this was not a tea room but a bedroom. More mind games? Gwen frowned. Or did Charlene read too much into her widely known association with Elvia? That would be foolish. Firstly, she liked blondes. Secondly, thanks to Caliban, she had never been less thirsty in all her life. Whatever the play awaited her, Gwen tugged on her dress, patted down her blouse, then ventured past the threshold. "Welcome to our humble home, Magus Song." The voice that greeted her came from a young woman about Gwen's age, though her severe features did make her look more mature than her mid-twenty-odd years. Her voice was controlled and measured, with an aristocratic air not unlike her father's. "Please, call me Charlene." Charlene Avon Ravenport, of House Ravenport, stood from the arrested grains of an enormous armchair to greet her, dressed as one might expect, in form-fitted, crow-black sables. Compared to Gwen, Charlene was half-a-head shorter, though the girl carried herself with the poise of someone taller by a handspan. As she approached, her kitten heels announcing her arrival as she left the plush Persian rug to step onto the polished oaken floor. Charlene Ravenport, Gwen surmised, had the look of a handsome and confident predatory bird of prey. "Thank you, Magus Ravenport, for sparing the time." Gwen kept their meeting formal. "It's provisional-Magister, as your title should soon be as well." Charlene extended a hand as the two women closed in on one another like duelling hens. They shook, her hand warm and soft, hers cold and skeletal. "They're preparing the tea in the garden." Charlene nodded toward the back section of the compound. "Before we become partners, I would like to divine the Oliphants in the room, if you do not mind." Charlene sat but did not invite her to sit. "Of course—" Gwen had a feeling the topic was unavoidable. She looked around the bedroom for a place to sit, eyed the bed, then a disturbing realisation crawled up her thigh, tickled her spine, then spread across her scalp. Here was not Charlene's room, nor a guest-chamber—but a boy's bedroom. Gwen had not noticed at first because the room was choked full of things; specimen jars, magical implements, scroll parchments, assorted magical ingredients, collectables, two globes of the world, as well as extensive landscape paintings that drew the eye away from the smaller lumen-pics hidden in brass frames among the dusty bric-a-brac. In one frame, she saw Edmund in his early teens, stoic and rigid, smiling disinterestedly at the lumen-recorder. Another picture showed an adolescent holding a wand and wearing a cape, pointing at something in the distance. A third vision showed him at a Duelling Arena sitting front-row with his mother beside him, looking like he'd stepped in shit. To her right, a picture that caught her eye involved a smiling kid with his hand on the Awakening Stone, both thrilled and happy. Beside it, there was a similar image of Edmund at what looked like Cambridge's King's College, with the distinct form of "Dusty", the Dust Devil, looking all kinds of harmless. That Edmund had a childhood, a life of his own, or that there was a boy before there was a man had never occurred to her. In Gwen's memory, Edmund was merely a faceless bastard who had assaulted her, gotten inside her Astral Body and molested her after confounding her mind. The realisation now that a human being was inside the monster made her feel strange and angry. "Unpleasant memories?" Charlene was testing her. "I do not think that the passing of a bloke who tried to have a go with my body and mind is going to touch me as much as you think." Gwen switched tracks from diplomacy to sarcasm. "Besides, even as a victim, I hardly knew him." "What was he like in his final moments?" "I didn't kill him," Gwen reiterated the fact, her emotions feeling as though caught in a crucible. "And I wasn't there. I killed his compatriot, the one they called the Faceless Man." "What was he like when you met him?" Charlene put up both hands in defence. "I am not accusing you of anything, Magus Song. I am merely interested. Edmund and I weren't close, but he _was_ my brother. Could you tell me how you met? I've read the reports from Father but never met an actual person with whom he had—interacted." "A victim," Gwen corrected her. "We're called victims. As far as I know, I am a rare survivor." "Of course," Charlene concurred. "My condolences. Could you humour me?" "I shall, but then we must talk business, else I've got uncomplicated deals elsewhere," Gwen declared her position. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. Charlene inclined her head, wearing the expression of a sister rather than the young Mistress of the House. Gwen wondered whether the girl feigned sympathy or otherwise, then resolved not to care so long as they got to the business at hand. "Agreed." Charlene concurred. As she did not want to touch Edmund's things, she remained standing. "We met at the Royal National," she began, feeling all kinds of strange, like delivering a victim's testimonial at court. "This is not a happy story, so don't expect any euphemisms..." Gwen told her opponent as much as she was able to divulge without giving herself away. She began with the killing of the teachers, then moved on to Debora while withholding the involvement of Faceless. She talked about Spectre, the cave, the "Land God" that Edmund had wrangled, then in meticulous detail, she relayed Edmund's madness. "… and if I had been a second late in Voiding him, I wouldn't be here today." As she finished, Gwen noticed her fingers were trembling. She might be mentally over the bastard, but it seemed her body remembers. Charlene sighed. "I see. And the Mageocracy would be a poorer place for it." Gwen raised a brow. "Whatever Edmund's faults, I thank you for the story," Charlene said. "I will relay his… somewhat final moments to Mother." "Lady Avon is present as well?" Gwen realised that etiquette indicated she should greet the eldest Mistress first. "No, she's away." Charlene absolved her consternation. "Mother's merely unhappy at father's pragmatism, as usual. She thinks it's a slight to the Ravenport name to leave you unmolested." "I would reconsider your choice of diction." Gwen stared daggers. "Edmund didn't exactly leave me in a caste state, as so to speak. Compared to what he did, a salacious grope wouldn't even register on the scale of damnable offences. Tell me, how much do you care for Edmund? Is this conversation a task set by mummy dearest? Or did 'Daddy' dear put you up to this?" "Now it is I who should commend you for your choice of words, 'Secret Sister' dearest." Charlene's lips curled. "That's the true reason for my mother's ire. It's sickening, but she had considered owing up to the rumour that you might indeed be her daughter. Father rarely speaks to mother, so to see him in a rage was quite the unique experience." Gwen fought to keep her expression from twisting into a mask of cringe. "She dislikes Edmund THAT much, eh? He's not a stepchild, is he? He sounds like he was adopted." Charlene's reply came with a secretive smirk. "Gwen. I'll gift you an open secret as thanks for Edmund's story. Would you like to hear it?" "Sure." Gwen shrugged. Free was free. "We ARE stepchildren." Gwen blinked. "What?" Charlene laughed. "It's well known that father's marriage to Lady Avon was political. Our birth mother died delivering us. Edmund and I, we're fraternal twins." Gwen stared at Charlene's face before recalling that fraternal twins did not share identical DNA. "So Lady Avon…" "Might have given birth to you after all?" The girl laughed. "You have her colour—and Mother is incredibly vain when it comes to the emerald lustre of her eyes." "Gods." The corner of Gwen's lips twitched. "If I could tell my mother that, it might just be worth it to see Helena implode." The two women shared a private chuckle, each for reasons the other could not know. "But Lady Avon is your mother, isn't she? Even Lady Maxine said so." "From birth, yes," Charlene clarified. "But we did not issue from her womb. Father never touched her, you know, on account that he's an old romantic." "Who was your mother then?" Gwen struggled to imagine Dickie with roses and chocolate, serenading a woman under a Romanesque balcony, crying Caw—Caw—! "A far-removed relative and a childhood friend of my father." Charlene appeared to read her expression with great interest. "Father wanted to continue the Dust-talent of the Ravenport line in an unbroken manner— his success can be seen in Quinn, Edmund and myself." "Yet, with all the healing magic in London at your disposal, your mother still died?" Gwen furrowed her brows. "Don't tell me there was a conspiracy involved as well. Assassins plots and whatnot." "There isn't," Charlene said. "But you are VERY astute. Of the twins, I was the older, and my delivery was already difficult for the body of a well-practised Dust Mage. Edmund was the weaker of the two of us, and his birth taxed mother to her breaking point. As a Void Mage, you should know the limitations of healing magic, Faith-charged or otherwise. If Astral Bodies could take healing, your kind wouldn't all be dead." "You couldn't call on Tryfan?" Gwen remained puzzled by the aftermath. "Summon the Bishop of Canterbury or something? Drops a dozen Vitae Fruits or use Regeneration laced with Faith from the knightly Ordos." "Father is in the wrong Faction to command the church's aid for such a private matter," Charlene replied. "And yes, he should have called on Tryfan. I have no doubt the Bloom in White would have sent aid—at a cost—and then mother would have survived." "But she did not?" "Father did not call for aid. I think it is because of duty and his sense of honour to House Ravenport. Edmund thinks that father wanted mother to die." "Okay— a bit extreme. Why?" "Father wedded Lady Avon while we were still nursing at our wet nurses' breasts," Charlene said. "Thanks to the abrupt marriage, High Society readily accepted that we are her children. In truth, father needed an alliance at the time, and Lady Avon's family was perfect for the precarious position he had found himself mired. If you look at who benefited in the end, as Edmund had—" "Holy shit." Gwen sucked in a lungful of perfumed air from Charlene. "He got EVERYTHING he wanted! The kids with Dust Talent, the political alliance, AND his kids grew up with a mother as decorum demanded!" "That's right," Charlene gushed with questionable authenticity. "Isn't Daddy wonderful?" "Good grief—your Daddy's a real piece of work! So I take it Edmund's not good pals with Daddy-dearest?" "He was born tearing at his father's throat." Charlene's shoulders drooped. "They fought even before he could speak. Edmund blamed Father for forsaking his birth mother, even outright accused him of killing her for the favour of Lady Avon, the stepmother he hated with every ounce of his being. Father's attitude toward him grew even more aloof when Edmund Awakened a tier lower than I had a year earlier. Once, Father even confided in me that had Edmund not taxed mother during labour—she might have survived the ordeal of a high-tier Dust Mage giving birth to two Dust-talented children. That Edmund's talent was above average was an existential insult to my mother's sacrifice. Of course, to my knowledge, Father loved our mother dearly, and to this day, he and Lady Avon sleep in different rooms. He was as good a father any noblewoman could ask and had rarely left me wanting. I never understood Edmund's gripe." Daddy issues were the worst; Gwen shuddered as the thought crossed her mind. If Edmund wasn't such a psychopath and had gone off the deep end, they might have even found common ground. Charlene picked up a photo of Edmund. "I understand why he joined Spectre. Father disliked Edmund's attitude so much that he had Ed board at Eton from the earliest possible age, then threw him into College without even a semester break at home. Ed quit, of course, never completing his Magister training. He reappeared in Sydney, or so the reports say. I don't know if Father knew the truth, but Lady Avon and I assumed he merely wanted to get away from Father by escaping to the other side of the world." Gwen felt her head throb. She also knew a guy who hated his father so much that he fled to a penal colony to escape the guy's control. Holy fuck, was Edmund her father's soulmate? No wonder the two of them 'found' each other. "So you and Ed—" Gwen paused. "Never mind. You said you were not close." "No, we're not." "And you asked me all this out of curiosity?" She pointed to herself and then the Lumen-pics of Edmund. "Or is there another meaning to this ruse?" "Closure, perhaps?" Charlene stood from the lounge chair. "I don't know. He WAS my brother, even if we never grew up together. Do you have siblings?" "I think you already know I do. Percy's in China, and you've just made me miss him terribly." As expected, she felt a hot gush of tenderness engender from her diaphragm, coupled with the vision of her hugging a struggling, scowling Percy. Charlene's apathy was impossible for her to understand. Baby brothers were the best, and she loved her brother dearly. Unlike Edmund, Percy was a good boy who didn't care for Daddy and was on solid ground with grandad. What is Percy doing now? She wondered. Maybe she could Teleport back to Shanghai for a spell and give Percy a big, wet, slopping kiss on the cheeks while he squirmed and complained. That would be the best feeling. "I see." Charlene's steely eyes, so like her father's, studied her. "I should also confess that I wanted to see how you would react to the humanity Edmund had lost. I wanted to see if you're as ruthless as the rumours say or if there's still humanity in you. From our interactions, I sense you're either a Magister-tier illusionist or an honest and sensitive individual, not at all like the picture of you painted by the SUN or your METRO. There's little wonder you're so sympathetic for the NoMs. In that regard, I don't think our opinions diverge." "NoMs are people too. The IoDRP employs almost six thousand NoMs a month so that you know," Gwen said, impatient to be away from her uncomfortable feelings of empathy for a villain. "So, are we done? Here, I mean." "We're done." Charlene opened the door. "And I apologise, Magus Song. Know that Father has put me in charge of the Norfolk Estate Fund, so please ease your mind. Now, let us retire to the garden for tea and talk of the real reason why you're here." Gwen sensed that Charlene must be the kind of girl who always does her homework, for the newly minted Magister knew the details of her IoDRP almost to a minute scale. The knowledge meant that their negotiation spoke the same language and worked on the same plane, drastically reducing her wiggle room. "Five million for a fifteen per cent ownership in the second Phase IoDRP's Millennium Wharf and the Pinnacle, and five per cent for ongoing ownership of the Millwall and Cubitt constructions." "Seventeen per cent for Phase II, fifteen per cent on future rental leaseholds, but no ownership of Phase I. We retain management rights." Gwen moved the illusory bar charts she had conjured. "The Dwarves are invested in West Ferry and the Bunker, meaning we won't be able to sell, much less transfer ownership without say so from the City of London." "You think that's an obstacle?" Charlene cocked her head haughtily, a bone china cup in one hand and a saucer in the other. "Four per cent. We'll arrange the High Arbiter for the Barlow Case." "Am I to think you would buy a fifth of the Pinnacle, then ignore Barlow's underhanded tricks?" Gwen made a thrust. "The judge comes with the territory, one would assume." "Judges don't come cheap, neither does a future favour promised by House Ravenport," Charlene riposted. "How about the Print Works? Twenty per cent, and we've got an agreement." "The Print Works is inviolable." Gwen shook her head. "I'll sell you a portion of my one per cent stake in the isle, how's that? There's boundless potential, even if it doesn't come with voting rights. Ten per cent of my origin stocks, and thirteen per cent for Phase II. I reserve the right to re-purchase my share at a later date." "Twenty." "Now you're just greedy." Gwen pointed to another floating chart. "Perform your duty, Magister Ravenport, and that point one per cent will gift a near-perpetual income to the Norfolk Fund rivalling its best investments." "Why does a girl as young as you need so many HDMs?" Charlene mocked her. "Ten million, five up front and five in assets for fifty-one per cent of your origin holdings, ten per cent of Phase II and five per cent of Phase I, and we'll call it even." "Now you're insulting my business acumen." Gwen smiled back with teeth. "I did say we could forgo the matter and simply delay development for a few years. I am sure another opportunity will come about, but how many IoDRPs are there for the Norfolk Fund? You're not investing in lettuce." "We could take over Barlow." Charlene showed her teeth as well. "I'll manage it personally with staff from the Gray Faction." "I am sure Lady Maxine would love that, and Daddy-dearest too," Gwen's tone grew churlish. "Leap into bed with the Militants? Taking over a failing company propped up by loans and about to be cannibalised? I've no doubt someone with your talent would make it work, but Norfolk alone can't stem the tide. You'll need allies." "For us, allies are not in short supply." "I am your ally." Gwen smirked. "Sell me three per cent of the Norfolk Fund. " "You jest, surely?" Charlene retorted by biting into a scone. Gwen rebutted with a passive-aggressive scone-slathering. Both women had to pause for breath for the impasse they had reached. While Charlene pivoted to talk about their family, Gwen scanned her memories for parallel portfolios. She and Charlene were on the same page— but their interests had yet to align. How is it then that they could meet in the middle? While her mouth filled with jam and cream, her sugared synapses fired up the recollection of a legendary deal made on a golf course in Hangzhou between developing "Alibaba" and a falling giant in Yahoo. One was a company with no cash and explosive revenue potential, and the other was a company with liquidity and an uncertain future. BOTH believed that their company was undervalued by the other. The solution, a stock swap, was a stroke of bloody genius. And though Alibaba rightly predicted its ascension and Yahoo did not, the latter's double-digit stake in Ali emerged to encompass the entire marketable value of Yahoo in a post-Google, post-Facebook apocalypse, providing Yahoo with so much revenue that its stock had the tenacity of a Lich. "How about—" Gwen remembered to swallow before speaking. "—we do an equity swap?" Charlene raised a carefully plucked, aristocratic brow. "We'll settle on a fair evaluation of five per cent of the Norfolk Fund." Gwen conjured the charts from earlier with a swish of her hand. "Forget the cash. I'll trade you fifteen per cent of the IoDRP as it is currently valued, give or take the difference. Once we are connected at the hip bone, your cash-stake is my cash-stake. If your investments fail and mine succeed, you still come out on top. Likewise, on the chance someone blocks our construction, we can count on the Norfolk fund to control the aftermath, which in turn minimises your risk. And if we BOTH do well, then the profits can only be said to be astronomical!" She extended a hand across the petite fours, her green eyes glinting with the distinctive sparkle of glimmering HDMs. "We work together, for mutual interest, in pursuit of mutual profit. We'll combine the IoDRP and the Norfolk Fund to form the Isle of Dogs Norfolk Redevelopment Project and let the Duke's name resonate across every sound and bay in the isle!" Charlene's eyes said she agreed—but her hand teased Gwen's fingers a little too long before meeting her palm in a firm handshake. "When shall we summon the accountants?" The bird-like woman's grey irises did not betray the excitement Gwen assumed she should be feeling. In a way, she knew Charlene had agreed so readily because the equity swap was a bum deal for the IoDRP. On the surface, Gwen was paying for Norfolk's social position, power and influence with cold hard currency while Norfolk took in assets on the cheap. Their hands parted—Charlene's rouged lips parted, exposing pearly white canines. It was a shame then, Gwen grinned back, that Legion, borne from the IoDRP proceeds funnelled into a separate investment account, would otherwise be an entirely independent entity the Norfolk would have to purchase all over again.

In the end, The METRO got the shot it wanted, though not in the form it initially wished. In the garden-estate of the Ravenport's London manor, the Devourer of Shenyang, Handler of Worms, Mistress of Dog and Rats, stood beside the Lady of Ravens, one in white and tartan, the other in figure-hugging sable. The special edition's cover page featured little else other than the two eye-catching young women smiling at the audience, embossed with the cryptic and yet self-explanatory title "Dog meets Raven". Within hours of the ink drying, the edition inundated every transit node in London, both land and water-bound, even flooding the Teleportation Station at Heathrow. Be it shoved by force into the idle hands of passersby, or picked up out of curiosity for the "twin" daughters of the Duke of Norfolk standing side-by-side, all of London knew by the day's end that a project in the hundreds of millions of HDMs, inflated to over a billion, was happening in their city. What especially hooked the good folk of London was the scope and scale of the IoDRP in its transformation of a mud-swamp industrial bloc into a nouveau jewel of commerce. As customary, hyperboles like the "The Pearl of London's Real Estate" and "A Hub for All" captured the interest of their readers. Then, to the pleasant surprise of the audience, the devil in the details surpassed the bait-worthy headline. For the genteel readers, the IoDRP was to change from a private enterprise into a partially state-funded cooperative. Four per cent of the Norfolk Sink Fund, possessing land and leaseholds second only to the Crown, would be traded to the IoDRP for sixteen per cent of its original shares. The eye-watering small print floated for the investors immediately glued their eyeballs to the page, enough to neglect the alluring headshot of the deal's architects smiling at the viewer. Comparatively, the average NoM labourer, after their eyes had feasted upon the two young proprietresses, turned the page to find an article dedicated to London's underclass. "Pinnacle and Millennium Wharf to add 3500 Jobs" implored the supplement on the third page, together with a pleasing pie-shaped chart. On the fourth page, the girls promised that in its completion, the next phase of the redevelopment would add five thousand jobs for NoMs to service the locale via catering, general service, cleaning, maintenance and other miscellaneous employs Mages disliked. Most of these jobs, the METRO explained, would be made available through the IoDRP, with management positions open on merit to the company's existing NoM employees. In addition, small businesses such as cafes, restaurants, food stands and service amenities would account for another six to seven thousand positions. What's more, the City of London's public sector was due to announce another thousand-plus posts once the hub was running. Altogether, between the construction, which would take upward of thirty months, there should be ten thousand jobs soon to materialise, both long and short-term, with salaries promising to fall between liveable to lavish. In a week or so, the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment Project would be renamed the IoDNC, or Isle of Dogs-Norfolk Conglomerate, and its logo would change accordingly. "A triumphant return to the days of London's explosive growth!" the METRO concluded. "A city for all, not just the powerful, sorcerous, and noble-born." In the Bunker, Eric Walken placed the paper brought by the girl on the boardroom table with a complex expression. Walken's reaction to Gwen's triumphant return was a bittersweet ambivalence—one he expressed with profound sentimentalism. On the one hand, he had inadvertently risen from a senior member of the Grey Faction to one of its splendiferous stars, surpassing the position he had held even as one of the Magisters presiding over Oceania. On the other, he had spent almost a year working six days a week, carefully pruning every facet of the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment Project, and had made the Bunker his home. He had hand-raised its staff members and middle management and had even gotten to know the cleaning corps by name. Now, with a part of the future IoDNC co-owned by the powerful and influential Norfolk Fund, there was bound to be new members of the board who would disagree with his choices. "Like giving up a child for unwilling adoption" was how he explained his ambivalence to Gwen. To his chagrin, the girl's annoying sense of empathic justice was absent when it came to HDMs. She explained that a part of the deal was that the original company would retain complete control—though, of course, Walken was correct in that snobbish folk with large titles would indeed be joining their board meetings. However, he shouldn't worry about butting heads. Instead, Walken should anticipate the moment when their newcomers flexed their weight. Quietly, he could then explain that a small but significant portion of the company's controlling stocks belonged to a Mythic-tier Dragonic Scion. To get Ruxin onside to go against Gwen's decisions, and therefore Walken's decisions, would be a truly epic and Lumen-caster worthy mini-series by the BBC. Besides, Gwen explained, even if Norfolk were to eventually usurp control of the IoDRP through the Gray Faction's underhanded avenues, the subversion would work out for the better. The revenue she had apportioned for Project Legion could not be stymied without catastrophic contractural breaches. If so, then they should receive enough reparations to complete the first phase of Legion regardless. "Still, you won't find anyone willing to work on the Llias Leaf in London, at least not publically," he reiterated his warning for his overconfident girl boss. "Besides, where are you going to find a Planar node like Tryfan?" "I have my ways," Gwen said with a wink. "Do you wish to know?" Walken shook his head. He had a wife and daughter and thus did not need to know how the girl was hoping to subvert the unspoken rules of reality. After patting his rigid hand, Gwen then softly explained that her Tower wouldn't be in London anyway, meaning he had nothing to fear and that the IoDRP was never "theirs" in the first instance. Rather, they were custodians for the Lady of Ely, the Ravenports, and the Middle Faction members with their vested interests. In time, their little group would lack both the clout and the time to manage a project of such a size and would have to leave it in the hands of proxies. Taking that into account, Walken should enjoy his time in the limelight, solidify his connections, and get ready for the next stage of their mutually beneficial relationship. "We had thought you were raising a child." Richard tsked when she made her point. "Turns out, you were rearing cattle. You know how Pats and I took care of this place—" "Whatever the case, we made lives for the NoMs better, even if Gwen made out like a bandit." Petra gawked at Richard in surprise. "Besides, sentimentality from Richard 'Drowner' Huang? Now I've seen everything." "You did well on the Isle, Dick," Gwen comforted her cousin to reassure him that they weren't abandoning the Isle of Dogs, only that they would lose complete jurisdiction and that their closely-knit team should prepare to move on. "It added the necessary laurels onto your graduation certificate, I assume?" "Oh yes, both me and my friends from King's," Richard readily agreed. Meeting her eyes, he adjusted his ensorceled glasses. "Thank you, Cousin. You've done me another favour I cannot repay." "Don't be like that." Gwen punched her cousin's arm. "You've done me plenty of favours. You kept a tight lid on things while I was gone. That's more than I deserve." Richard shook his head. Petra rolled her eyes. "For a Water Spiritualist, he's stubborn as a Mineral Mage sometimes." The boardroom laughed, putting a gentle comma on the matters at hand, for the rest of the problems to come was now well out of their hands. Watching the kids, Walken laid back in his seat not to relax but to conserve his energy. At the velocity at which events were now transiting, there was bound to be a train wreck very soon. A week after, under the auspice of the "Dog-Meets-Raven" article, Gwen and Lady Ravenport visited the Museum of London together to cut ribbons for Charlene Ravenport's "Life in London" Project featuring giant Lumen-stills of the everyday lives of the city's NoMs. In the interview, they confirmed their companionship, concurrently teasing the Sun and the Telegraph about their supposed relationship and their "shared" connection to the Duke of Norfolk. Eventually, once their sisterhood was denied, both gave word that everything The METRO had reported was true and that London's investors should ready their HDMs. A day later, the proverbial levy broke. Suddenly, it was as though fractures that had been building became magnified at once, leading to the complete structural collapse of the fatigued system the Militants had been undermining. Unexpectedly, it was the Telegraph that broke the silence by putting the Barlow Group to the roast. To her disbelief, the merciless headline "THE ISLE OF DOG FOOD" firmly placed the blame of its imminent collapse on the IoDRP, then went on to note that due to the untenable prospects of the company's debts, they would no longer be able to hold onto their loan-purchased holdings in Canary Wharf and its surrounding government areas. The article itself, much to Gwen's brow-twitching, continued its euphemism and idioms of "A dog's breakfast," "A dog will have its day," "dogged by debt," and had even put up a picture of her from her high-heeled, summer-skirt days in London with the tag "The Hound Mistress puts the bite into Canary." If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. In short, whoever wrote the article deserved a damned raise for exhausting every dog-pun in the English language, concurrently communicating Barlow's precarious position while placing all blame on the IoDNC and Gwen in particular. _Was this a counterattack?_ Gwen wondered but couldn't fathom why or how. Was the Barlow Group hoping to declare insolvency? As far as she knew, that's not how bankruptcy worked in the Mageocracy. Whatever the case, the counterattack completely caught the METRO on the back foot, as they had at least six days until their next edition. Meanwhile, the Telegraph busied itself, simultaneously undermining her reputation while directing their opposition to visit the Isle of Dogs for redress. It was a stroke of genius, one she had no way of anticipating. What frustrated Gwen more than anything was that even using The METRO, there was no possibility of getting Barlow's stakeholders to realise that theirs was a self-goal and not one instigated by the "top bitch of the IoD". Simply put, no laymen could understand that the Militant-Funded Barlow Group was a cluster-fuck of conflicting interest from its very inception. Even in her Magister's classes, her teachers had stated without ambivalence that the Crown, unlike their continental cousins, looked poorly upon war for the sake of pure profit. According to the Commonwealth's historical lessons, profit should be a byproduct of victory, and a loss-in-war did not mean the venture should be a loss-in-profit. Comparatively, the Militant Faction's military-industrial greed was ravenous. They borrowed funds to fight wars and used their political clout to make the Shard turn a blind eye. When their members returned laden with magical loot, all remained happy and kept their bought mouths sewn shut. However, in the advent of the Niger Delta, early profitability quickly turned into Sunk Cost Fallacy, coalescing as a stubborn refusal to withdraw from a "tamed" region rich with magical flora and fauna. In six years, what had been regular principal payments then slowed to interest only, then more loans had to be taken out to pay the initial war bonds, which then forced them to turn their eyes toward the civilian market. Once more, Gwen could only marvel at the audacity of the Telegraph, who now accused her of single-handedly undermining the livelihoods of thousands of people who worked for the Barlow Group. Additionally, the unspoken word in the article had suggested that the collapse of the Militant's pseudo-Ponzi Scheme should be laid at her feet and that Gwen wore the heel that broke the camel's back. Whatever the case, her METRO printed its retort; then everything seemed to chill for a few days until unbidden, Charlene suddenly materialised to warn her about the shit storm coming her way. "You're about to have a major problem, which is a problem for me," Charlene broke the news at Cambridge after finding Gwen blissfully feeding Dede. "Jesus, is that even a duck anymore? What tier is that monster?" Dede lumbered up the shore of the Duck Pond, a Goliath of a duck only a little smaller than a pony, putting an end once and for all to the debate of whether a Magus could fight a horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses. "If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck—" Gwen joked. "QUACK—" Dede roared, letting loose a sonic blast that would have Golos' approval. "Caw—Caw—" Another greeting came from the nearby tree. "Mori?" Charlene looked to her for answers. "What's she doing here?" "You know the Tower Crows?" Gwen felt impressed by just how connected Charlene was proving to be. "But of course, they're your Dad's goons. I know it is called Mori, though interestingly, different ones come around, all calling themselves the same name. What's with that?" "Much like the secret of your duck, that's not for me to tell," Charlene rebuffed her enquiry, then cut straight to the chase. "Anyway, let's not divert from the issue at hand. The Militants are moving to pay their debts with the Veteran's Pension Funds." "That's both absurd and... illegal, I think?" Gwen blinked, suddenly making an unhappy connection with the suspicion that had plagued her for days. "Don't tell me the Veterans are being told I am the one fleecing them of their livelihoods." "Of course they are." Charlene breathed out. "At a time like this, they need a villain, and you fit the bill better than most, being a famed NoM sympathiser, and one guilty of taking their jobs." "I took their jobs!" Gwen's eyes widened. "Really! When?" "In their mind, you offered positions that Mages could have filled but gave it instead to NoMs who are doing them for cheaper." "So I should overpay Mages to stand on corners and deliver papers? Pay Mages to shovel mud from Mudchute? No Mage would work for the wage of an NoM!" "I think that's obvious to you and me, but not so much to these Orc-headed spell heads. Your problem is that the Isle of Dogs employs more NoMs per Mage than any other corporation in London, the public works notwithstanding." Charlene's scowling elfin face reminded Gwen of the displeased Elven Wardens when she flashed Sanari with Caliban. "At any rate, there's going to be a protest aimed at the IoDNC." Gwen furrowed her brows. "Why? What are we to do? Pay their pensions?" Charlene rolled her eyes. "I say protest, but it's an organised riot directed at 'us' and 'you' in particular. Maybe there's a legitimate Mage's work union behind it, or maybe the Militants are semi-mobilising their loyal adherents, but the results are the same. You've destroyed their reputation, and now they're going to destroy yours—with mine caught up as well." "They're the criminals!" Gwen fumed. "What the hell? Can't you do something about this?" "The law takes time, and I've tasked High Arbitrator Illingworth to begin the Barlow corruption case immediately with the evidence you've provided. An official investigation cannot be rushed, as is the nature of the High Arbitor's Office. Your present problem, however, is far more immediate." "… Shit. When's the protest happening?" "Between this week and the next." "So we can safely assume this is not a peaceful protest? And that it's going to be at the IoDNC's expense?" "I dare say there are no grassroots intentions to damage anything, but there will be forces instigating the protestors. I can guarantee that." "Who are the organisers?" "The Royal Veterans' London Chapter is organising the march." "Could I go and talk to them?" "I doubt they will be listening to you unless you want to front up money for their soon to be missing pensions. These are frightened and unsure Mages who survived the Mageocracy's wars—they know we won't prosecute them harshly." "Come on. Surely the government can do something. What's the Shard doing? The Metro Police?" "The Metropolitan police is on our side in this matter," Charlene sighed. "Thank God they have a headquarters on the Isle. That said, the inclusion of Veterans in any capacity always complicates matters. Most of the folk you should be expecting are spare bodies, but you never know who-saved-who and who had remained in the service of a Magister and a Magus of the Factions. Even if we assume the ones marching are all sympathetic to the Militants, there's no reason to rough them up or provoke them to self-destruct. These are men and women who have given their youth and their bodies to the Mageocracy. To repel them without mercy would destroy our credibility." "Yeah, bad optics." Gwen dug her fingers through Dede's down in frustration. "Okay. So who's looking to benefit from all this? What are the Barlow Group getting? What are the Militants getting? So they shift the blame onto me, or the IoDNC, then what? As a private entity, we have no obligation to feed the Veterans or offer reparation. Likewise, if they damage our plant and equipment, it will only generate lawsuits they can't afford or won't pay. These folk aren't walking away as the winners, so who are the beneficiaries?" Charlene considered her words. "That's… very astute. I do think—" _DING!_ The Magister-in-waiting paused when the Message from a serving Magister blossomed beside Gwen's ear. "Gwen here," she answered the call with an apologetic nod to Charlene. "Gwen, your crows have come home to roost." The caller, unsurprisingly, was Magister Walken. With far less detail, Walken informed her that his sources had revealed an incoming revolution from the Veteran's Association, who has falsely attributed the partial loss of their pension to the Devourer of Shenyang. "I know, and I am speaking to Charlene right now," Gwen informed her Executive Officer. "Either way, contact the Commissioner and see what he can do to cordon away the protestors in the next few days. Tell them we'll supplement their building budget if they can muster more Arbiters to stand guard and pick out the belligerents. As thanks, there shall be two—no, make that THREE Golem suits made by Master-tier Runesmiths on order for the Metropolitan office regardless of their help." "Right." Walken understood her intentions implicitly. "How do you want to resolve this? Any advice before I move forward?" Gwen looked at Charlene, then gave the matter a minute's thought. "Ask Yossari if they can line up the Striders as a barrier. If there's one thing the Shard cares about, it is continued diplomacy with our rune crafting neighbours in Wales. Likewise, the vets should understand how pivotal their relationship with the Dwarves need be, considering half of them fought under the shadow of the Cromwells. Likewise, park the Fabricators in the middle of the street. Tell our bearded friends to dig out a moat if they have to. We can't have these protestors coming into the IoDNRP and getting slapped down by the Arbiters. If they refuse to be cowed, direct them towards Millwall. Yossari's folk had clearance for two Rocksmashers, correct? Have the War Golems guard the chokepoint, Stone Shape the damn concrete into an impassable maze if you must. Record everything and hold the line even if they throw the first stone. We'll rebuild once it's all over." "Right, I'll get that sorted," Walken replied. "Any advice for your companions?" "Get Richard and Petra to keep an eye out for agent provocateurs," Gwen gave the order. "Charlene says there's bound to be agitators in and among the frustrated folk—" She paused. "And tell Richard to exercise complete discreteness in his fact-finding." "Will do." The Message Glyph died. "You have a good team," Charlene observed with appreciation. "A Magister is never himself, but a collective. I have companions as well, though most were hand-picked for me by Father." "My folks have been through a lot since Sydney," Gwen vaguely explained. "What's your take on this?" "Well." The heiress to the Ravenport Fund strolled around Dede with a learned eye. "I think you're bound to receive a visit soon. As am I, in fact, so I came here to save us both some time." "A visit?" Gwen cocked her head. "From?" "From our mutual friends behind the Barlow Group." Charlene's eyes grew hard as peach pits. "I still doubt that they're committing to the wholesale denial of the Veteran's Pension, meaning there's bound to be a play happening very soon. Have you had tea? Shall we wait a while to see if my prophecy comes true?" Gwen stood from Dede's lap. "Sure. Dede, you up for tea?" "QUACK!" "CAW—!" The crow professed its desire to join them. Charlene stared at the crow with disapproval. The crow did not appear to give a toss about its boss' daughter. "I'll ask my guest from Shalkar to join us." Gwen watched Charlene's interactions with the crow with interest. "Have you met Strun, Lady Ravenport? He's a self-professed refugee rat, but once you get to experience his tack-sharp mind, the bloke's an absolute hoot—" _DING! DING!_ The Glyphs that blossomed was red. "Gwen here." Gwen took the emergency call. This time, it was from Dominic Lorenzo. "Boss, we've got a Garp-sized problem," her Chief Editor's voice came through. "It's our NoMs." "Our NoMs?" Gwen looked to Charlene, who looked back with just as much uncertainty as herself. "What about them?" "Before I say anything, stay calm." Dominic's reply sent chills up her spine. "Are you calm?" "I am calm." "Right." Dominic continued. "Gwen, there are folk attacking our paper handlers, accusing them of taking their jobs and working for the b—for you! Do you remember Ken Peterson?" "... The bloke from the train?" Gwen recalled the man's terrified face with a sinking feeling. "Yeah." Lorenzo's voice grew low. "We received him at Elvia's Clinic with extensive injuries. If it wasn't for a sympathetic Cleric who stopped the mob on the train..." "Alright." Gwen's reply was calm indeed. Calm enough to charge the air with fizzling static. "Hold the fort, Dom. I'll be right there."

Elvia's Clinic and Soup Kitchen for the Poor Believers of Christ, "Evee's" for short, was renowned across the docklands from Hackney to East Ham. According to the word on the Thames, it was the place to bum if a man or woman was down on their luck. Be they hungry, destitute or desperate; all were welcome at Elvia's. Without disappointment, such generosity attracted abuse as naturally as gadflies were drawn to an Auroch's arse. Once the news of its fulfilling free food drifted downstream, all manners of vagabonds had floated from the outskirt slums toward the Isle of Dogs. At first, the locals rose with homemade implements to keep order and protect their "Saint Evee". After an altercation with a gruff Mage broke out, Gwen had invited a private security firm to patrol the perimeter. Coincidentally, the same corporation also hired ex-Arbitrators from the retired Municipal Police ranks, thereby supplying law and order to Elvia's open-handed generosity. When she stepped once more into the courtyard, Gwen thanked the Nazarene that she had made such a foresightful decision, for the moment she arrived at Elvia's Clinic, already a dozen officers were interviewing victims and taking records of the injuries sustained by West Ferry Print Work's paper handlers. Other members of their little cabal were likewise present, including Lorenzo and a few of the Dwarves. Walken was missing, likely putting out fires elsewhere that would later arrive at Gwen's desk in the form of documents needing signatures and acknowledgements. "Sergeant Rhodes, McMahon." Her heels announced her approach. The officers turned. One was a stout man that looked right out of Blue Heelers; the other was a younger bloke more interested in her than in his investigation. "Magus Song." "Your Ladyship." "Please, just Gwen." Gwen shook their hands, then stood closer to the gurney where the NoM slept. "How's our man?" "He'll heal." Sergeant Rhodes breathed through his mouth. "They weren't going to kill him anyway. That said, this was intimidation through and through." The man on the gurney was "Ken Peterson, Son of Peter Peterson of Unit 11, District 2, Bugsby's Way, Greenwich," better known as the bloke on the cover of the METRO to his friends and family. She vaguely recalled the man's name but recognised his face— or what had been his face before the brutal beating had given him a new one. While Gwen soothed her tempestuous feelings into a semblance of calm, the officers studied the woman behind her with wary distance until the visage appeared to match the list of VIPs in their bank of notable personages. "Your Ladyship Ravenport!" The Arbitrators bowed their backs. "I am here as a guest and an observer." Charlene Ravenport raised a hand to stop the officers from offering bothersome platitudes. "Please, Sergeant, assume that I am not here and go about your business." "At once, your Ladyship!" The amusing sight of the officers obeying and actually "pretending" that Charlene was no longer present managed to cool a little bit of Gwen's bubbling anger. From what she could see, a copper working alongside nobles and Magisters required a particular class of social awareness. "Ken?" She approached the bed. One of the Clerics Elvia hired from the local hospitals jolted the man with a carefully transfused mote of Positive Energy. Slowly, Ken's eyes fluttered open. "Y-your Devourership!" "Yes, it is I." Gwen held the man's hand. "Can you tell me what happened?" "The cost of… fame." Ken managed to squeeze out a smile. "Your Devourership, I lost… I lost the box." "The box?" Gwen looked to Lorenzo, wondering what was so important about this box. "They destroyed his storage box." Lorenzo exhaled in exasperation. "It's not just a warning to you, but us as well, and to the NoMs working for us. They could have killed Ken with impunity so that you know, and I think your reputation prevented that—no one wants a Shoggoth to manifest on top of their mansion one day." "Who did this?" Gwen looked back to Ken. "Ken, do you know?" "Mages—from the Barlow Group!" Ken Peterson was adamant. "I know their faces! They're always loitering near Canary, the lot of them. They came into our neighbourhood to try and intimidate us into selling our leases! We wouldn't budge, but they dared not attack us there in our homes on account of Master Richard waiting for them outside." Or waiting for them inside their homes, Gwen figured. Sometimes, it took unconventional methods to deal with particular methodologies. Even so, what had changed to precipitate this specific shift in scope and strategy from the Barlow Group? The answer she could guess, though she wasn't sure if her partner would agree. Behind her, Charlene audibly drew her attention with a soft cough. "You're right. I think we both know what's happening here," Charlene spoke as if reading her mind. "It doesn't take a Cabal Agent to figure out that the catalyst was our equity exchange. You and I are now in an unassailable position—at least one not movable by the Barlow Group. Ergo, the Militants have decided to move everything at their disposal to salvage the situation." "They won't win!" Ken Peterson spat specks of blood from a mouth swollen with bruising. It was a miracle that after all that, the Brit had kept all of his teeth. "They won't—will they? Bastards! We have it good here, and that's too much for them!" Gwen assured the man by patting his hand once more. This time, her compassion was genuine and heartfelt, much like her guilt for putting the man in the limelight to be targeted by petty revenge. If Ken had died and not merely be injured—or if Ken had been a Mage and his Astral Body disrupted or damaged—her feelings right now would be a storm of rage only conceivable by Golos and Ruxin. _Click-Click!_ Not to miss the chance, Dominic took another image, ensuring that her compatriot Ravenport was also in the frame. Charlene did not protest, attesting to the fact that their interests were indeed mutual. "And there are others?" Gwen asked the attending physician. "Yes, dozens, albeit in lesser states of trauma." the Cleric parted from Ken's bed to steer them elsewhere. The officers stayed with the now lucid Ken Peters while Gwen and the management team at the Print Works ventured to the other beds. The other workers were indeed better off, even if roughly-rolled and in a state of shellshock. Some apologised for losing their devices; most were fearful they would lose their jobs, while a few carefully asked if they could switch to a different position. Gwen bit her lip. Whatever the case, she could sense the damage was done. Confidence in the company's ability to protect its NoMs was faltering, and those in less desperate situations would no longer think that the West Ferry Press was a safe Eden. _Ding!_ While she mulled over her next course of action, a Message Spell bloomed beside Charlene's ear. The daughter of the Duke gave her a knowing nod, then left the Clinic's compound to take the call. While the woman was gone, Gwen walked from bed to bed, reassuring her workers and fomenting a speech, wondering whether this world's Churchill had any rhetoric to lend. Newly injured workers from further afield continued to arrive now and then, both a testament to the success and scale of the METRO Press, as well as the effort to which the Militants were asserting their dominance. Looking at the flustered Arbiters milling about the place, Gwen couldn't help but wonder if there was a power up-on-high that was looking down on them. The Crown, well nestled behind its Griffins and gold-wrought gates, was probably as giddy as a kid watching the bees fight the hornets, breathless as it waved its sceptre-stick, waiting to poke fun at the losers. For what other reason, Gwen rationalised, should Charlene be caught flat-footed? It wasn't easy to believe her father Duke could be waylaid as she had. Likewise, the Ravenport family cared, above all else, about their reputation. If their venture failed to achieve the lofty heights promised by the METRO and over-blown by the Sun and the Telegraph, then the Duke's perchance for faultless schemes would lose its lustre. In a sense, London was a nest of Dragons, and the city's competition, Gwen supposed, was something akin to a Magister-making "Gu" pot. A few minutes later, Charlene returned to her side with a knowing expression that suggested the next stage of Barlow's ploy had arrived as she had anticipated. "Gwen." She willed the glowing Message toward her so that her Device made a resonating " _Ding!_ " Gwen took the Message, not entirely sure what to expect. _"Our Dearest Magus Song."_ The Message possessed a familiar voice. _"We have missed you so much since Cliveden and have since been watching your performance with bated breath. As your friend and admirer, House Exeter cordially invites you to the negotiating table with the Barlow Group so that diplomacy can be achieved, one that is mutually beneficial to you, us, and our dearly cherished Charlene. A meeting has been arranged as noted. Meanwhile, we wish you all the luck in dealing with your woes._ _—Your ardent fans in waiting, Edward Poins and Benedict Thomas of House Holland."_ "… the Exeters?" Gwen recalled her lesson from Le Guevel. "They want to help us negotiate with the Barlow Group?" Charlene nodded, then pointed in the direction of the Bunker. "I do hope this is the light at the end of the tunnel. In that regard, may we speak more privately?" "Of course, give me one second." Gwen motioned for Lorenzo, who attended her at once. "Yes, Boss?" The Chief Editor and presumably Ex-Cabal agent did not look amused by the state of his precious news sellers. "Your orders?" "We'll make this right. Anyone injured can submit a verified Arbitrator's report to receive one months' wage, doubled, HDM-in-hand. For everyone else, one-week bonus wage. Additionally, tell the kitchen their budget is tripled for the next month. I want all the workers well-nourished and happy. Likewise, for anyone who is living in our properties or leaseholds, give them one month rent." She paused, looked at the envious faces of the Arbiters whistling at the smiling labourers, then once more upped the ante. "Put out a bounty with the Tower for the criminals who did this, set the cap at forty thousand HDMs and take it from my private account. Make it preferentially open to our local Arbiters and work with the inner-city Metropolitan Office to verify their capture. As soon as possible, I want their faces and confessions on the next edition of METRO." Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. "Great move and I'll write up something in defence of our NoM employees," Lorenzo affirmed her order. "Anything else?" "Tell the Runesmiths and Engineseers we've got trouble coming—possibly an enormous protest and a potential riot. Walken will coordinate the Bunker's movements with theirs so that we can minimise loss of life if they're forced to 'defend their property' against unlawful citizens seeking to loot the sovereign Magi-tech property of our allies. Once Richard's back, get him and Lea on recording duty." Lorenzo took his orders and left. "Alright, let's go." Gwen pointed the way to the Bunker so that Charlene could follow. "So, what do you think the Exeters want?" "The answer is straightforward enough, even if it is not to either of our likings." Now that they were walking alone, Charlene grimaced as though she had to swallow a live hornet. "You do know what the Exeters want— and it's you—and I." Gwen cocked her chin with a scowl. "They're after our funds? Bastards! That's my money! I made the Isle of Dogs from nothing! And it took you years to gain the Duke's confidence." "There's that," Charlene responded to her intensity with a strange look. "That's not what I meant." She raised a brow. "Do you need me to spell it out for you? We are in London, here, in the heart of the Mageocracy, the veins of the aristocracy bleed a bright blue." Further down the quay, realisation dawned upon Gwen like rotten soil dug out from the swampland surrounding Mudchute Farm. "They want to… marry me?" Gwen almost gagged at the prospect. Charlene's brows twitched. "ONE of them wants to marry you, although I'd wager both would want to have their bit of fun. Think about it, Gwen—what do you think is the perfect resolution to our conflict of interest with the Barlow Group? What would resolve all of our problems and emerge in a way that all of us become winners?" "Christ…" Gwen searched her mind for a better way of expressing herself but fell to an old faithful expression of bewilderment from Forrestville. "Fuck me, are you serious?" "Indeed, that would be a part of the deal." Charlene illustrated suggestively with her fingers while wearing a secret smile. "Thoughts? Which one do you fancy? Poins or Benedict?" "No fucking way!" Gwen growled at her recollection of a grey-haired young man with his carrot-top brother, then groaned as the rational part of her mind put a stopper to her outrage. Whatever her feelings, Charlene made a sensible case. Matrimony among the nobility was never about love or even physical attraction. Instead, it was about the compatibility of Elemental Affinity, wealth, class, and prospects. Right now, the IoDNC was at war with the Barlow Group and the Militants. Classically, the most natural way to resolve the problem was through marriage—not of young bodies—but wealth and interests. Then, if they could make love and not war, new wonders would engender. Terrifyingly, now that Gwen knew the rules, the prospect was indeed enticing. According to Le Guevel, what belonged to her would remain hers alone as a part of her dowry and insurance. Concurrently, the Exeters would lose an enemy and gain an ally. The conjoining of the Barlow properties with the IoDNC would also resolve all major land disputes and pave the way for the most significant urban development in recent history. If that alone were not enough to catalyse a political and economic marriage, she could also consider that House Holland, with its golden lineage of Henry of Monmouth, would make her children distant heir to the Throne of England. Furthermore, her bloodline of Lightning and Void would mix with the Exeter's Smoke and Steam to create genuinely astounding heirs who could be the envy of the world. For blood. For wealth. For prestige. For privilege. Logically, was there a reason to refuse? Of course, she would never entertain the matter under normal circumstances. Of the four above, she lacked nothing, and when she came into possession of her Tower, there would only be an excess. Besides, Evee would be sad. If so, what could compel the Exeters into possessing such confidence? The answer, Gwen found with some distress, was in Ken Peterson. "Are you implying." Gwen turned to Charlene; the more she thought about this, the more she wanted to murder something. "That all of this—the articles, the attack on the NoMs—the drama with the Veteran's Pension Fund—all of it was for me?" Charlene tilted her head at Gwen's accusation, her eyes twin slits of scepticism. "Gwen, your ego is as legendary as your exploits. Do you think I am not caught up in this as well?" "They're out to fuck you too?" Gwen blurted out, a flicker of spit narrowly missing her conversation partner. Charlene winced. "Please, Gwen, I know we're comfortable in each other's company, but I assure you I am not as comfortable as you might assume. We are business partners, compatriots, companions, perhaps, but we are not close enough to share bodily fluids or casual vulgarity, which is worse." Gwen stood a distance apart and studied the girl, her mind alive with new suspicions that her partner was playing chess in a dimension that she could not access. "Tell me truly, did you plan this? If so, what do you want?" The daughter of Mycroft Ravenport raised both hands in surrender. "I deny nothing, but don't accuse me of ploys I did not put in to place. I merely went with the flow of events. Schemes, Gwen—are not so simple as business deals. A supplier of ploys should be fluid. A good plot flows around the events, not become the event itself. My father taught me that." "Your Father's a Duke," Gwen reminded her. "My father was sowing seeds in NoM single mothers while fighting my actual hellion of a mother." For once, Charlene appeared taken aback by Gwen's briskness. "What? Despicable! No footman to cover his tracks and take the blame for his bastards?" "Maybe he IS the footman, you thought about that?" Unable to control her laughter, Charlene halted her then and there, waited for the awkwardness to pass, then returned to their former, more profitable topic. "I shall confess that yes—I do have some knowledge of the Exeter's plans. However, I am not a partner to said plans. In reality, I wish the two of us would remain as unattached and disconnected from the gentry as possible. As father already has Quinn to continue the line, the reins around my neck have been loosened, and I may pursue whatever I wish, be it politics or blood." "What does this have to do with the Exeters?" "Is it so hard?" Charlene asked. "To believe that the Exeters have you and me in their sights? They are twins, after all, and London's laws do not allow one woman to have two husbands. Besides, is my share of the Norfolk Fund not many times the worth of your ownership of the IoDNC? Are we not both women carrying distinct and desirable bloodlines?" Gwen made a scowling face. "The cheap bastards!" "That's God's truth." Charlene laughed. "What a ploy, though, hmm? They put pressure on our respective investments, then offer a greasy olive branch. Of course, there's merit as well. The blood that flows in the veins of House Holland is sacred without question. If our children—disgusting a concept as that may be—should yet engender a second Henry Dawn Star, who knows what the Mageocracy might look like in the next century. Likewise, you don't need me to tell you of what the marriage can produce, both economically and in terms of London's political scene." "Either way, I see it as a poisoned apple—" Gwen shook her head with absolute adamance. The more she thought of the bastards' smug faces, the more she felt that a stern point must be made to leave her and her investments well alone. If the Exeters wanted to push the envelope in this dire time, she would return their Message to the sender in the cruellest terms. "I only trust in my future, carved with my hands. Besides, I know you, Charlene—you and I— we don't marry Tower Masters. WE ARE the Tower Masters." "Well then." The self-professed schemer extended a hand. "Shall we teach them a lesson? I don't think it will salvage the situation here at the Print Works, but it should keep undesirables from interfering with an already complicated situation." Gwen took the dainty, aristocratic hand and firmly shook the potential Duchess' palm. "I am sold. So what's the plan?" "Well." The Ravenport girl's cold, hard eyes glimmered like black diamonds. "I hear, Gwen, that you're awfully good at duels..." London. The Isle of Dogs. The Veterans' protest promised at West Ferry materialised two days later in a manner as infuriating as it was futile. Around the fortifications the Dwarves had set up overnight, just over two thousand men and women gathered, excluding their friends and family. Likewise, joining the march via resonating sympathy or boredom were another thousand or more spectators caught up by the riotous atmosphere. Annoyingly, most of the protesters wore the colours of the union jack, adding to the impression of legitimacy, dissuading onlookers from thinking that this was merely a rioting mob. They were also organised, for just past Canary Wharf, near the inner dock, the protesters held up well-made signs, placards and banners made for a headline-worthy spectacle. "GIVE BACK OUR FUTURE" "GREEN-EYED GREED" "DON'T DEVOUR OUR LIVELIHOODS" From the Bunker, Magister Eric Walken stood over a battle map reconstruction of the protest, wishing with all his might that these were Mermen and that all he needed to resolve the matter was to unleash Gwen for fifteen minutes. "Those are some nice looking signage," his War Mage boss remarked. "Funny how a bunch of poor, penniless Veterans have access to industrial printing machines." "It would be funnier if we could trace those signs back to the warehouses where the Sun or the Telegraph prints their papers." His new Duchess von Boss, the daughter of Duke Ravenport, snickered in turn. The banter between the girls made Walken's temple throb. For several hours now, they had been monitoring the protest. Charlene was confident that there should be agent provocateurs working among the Veterans. Merely from the fact that bystanders and family members had shown in force, he could already imagine the political fall should the elderly or the young be injured. Besides the trio and their scribes, several open channels of Message hovered, each in their distinct Divination spheres. One was to Petra, who was using her hidden talents in the field to canvas the protesters. Thanks to his unique Spiritual talents, Richard remained invisible and hidden above the crowd, keeping an eye out on the Sun and the Telegraph reporters, or at least those wearing their press badges. Finally, the dubious shadows of Strun, Dede and Mori lingered atop a construction crane, watching the events unfold with interest. To ensure that no betray came from their side, Walken withdrew all their Print Work's workers from the front line in favour of Dwarven engines. Usually, this would incur severe penalties from the Municipal office, though the political fallout should hopefully be absolvable with Charlene onboard. "Christ, next week can't come soon enough." Gwen appeared to split her attention between the vista outside the boardroom window and the illusory markers on the enormous table. "Are you sure the Exeters can put a stop to this?" "Nothing on earth is going to return their pensions unless the Militants can return to profitability and repay their debts," Charlene assured the girl. "But yes, they absolutely can stop this nonsense." Walken looked from one girl to the next, feeling distinctly old in his late age. "If you lose," he warned the girls. "You would have to marry either of them." "If I fail, I may as well be dead." Gwen grinned prettily, her fatalism as morbid as it was sardonic. "So, how could I lose?" Walken nodded in silence. To the Exeters, Gwen was game, and Charlene was a worthier prize. However, against a self-made woman who would fight as though her life hung in the balance, how could the Exeters hope to win unless they were also willing to put their life on the line? In Walken's eyes, the riposte from the girls was a masterstroke in hitting your foes where they were most vulnerable while avoiding their strengths. In the reply sent to the invitation from the Exeters, both of the girls stood firm in their position that they would not allow themselves to be wooed by knock-kneed Mages too afraid to make genuine proposals without the threat of coercion. However, they were amiable to negotiations and would prefer to meet the Exeters on neutral ground, such as the Royal Goring Hotel directly opposite the Buckingham compound. Within, in a private suite joined by a few press members, Song, Ravenport and Holland could openly carve out the conditions necessary to meet the Barlow Group in the middle and put an end to this fiasco. Perhaps thinking of success, the Hollands agreed. In reality, Gwen would take Le Guevel's lessons and strike the Exeters between the legs, where their honour lay by asking for a public duel. Such a development was unorthodox, but it wasn't every day that an heiress was also a Class VI War Mage. To further entice the men, Charlene would offer confidence by offering herself as assurance that she and Gwen would follow through with specific promises should the Exeters be victorious. Of course, if Gwen and herself were the winners, they would ask the Exeters for a favour. To refuse the offer in public would bring such scandal and shame to the Militant Faction that the twins need not raise their heads for a decade—an outcome that suited Charlene just fine, as she could finally cease responding to the continuous requests for marriage from undesirable partners. As for Gwen, the duel's outcome would firmly establish her position among the nobility and catalyse an optimal end to the IoDNC's protest problems. As for the planned spectacle—the scions of a Great House matching up against the Devourer of Shenyang in public would dominate every headline and put a stopper to the daily "bad news" spewed forth by The Telegraph. Once more studying the two ambitious young women, Walken thought about retirement. In many ways, he felt distinctly sorry for House Holland, who would undoubtedly underestimate Gwen's growth after Shalkar and be woefully incapable of understanding the sheer grit needed for Gwen to be standing in her present position. As for the protest. He felt only sadness for the ruined lives of the men and women below, each a red-blooded personage and yet, not even worthy of being a chess piece in the hands of the city's future twin Magisters.

The Royal Goring, located opposite Buckingham Palace, was famous for its regular hostings of Royal Galas and high-class functions. To date, it also remained the only hotel owned by the founders' direct line, having been built by Otto von Goring before the outbreak of the Great Undead War and now operated by Otto von Goring the Fourth, Great Grandson of the original proprietor. What surprised Gwen as she entered was how lovely the place looked despite its low ceiling, cramped space, and busy furnishings that appeared the world's loot collated in an eclectic museum. Conversely, the quirksome decor with its paintings and herringbone tiles gave the suite a strangely welcoming atmosphere, one rich with the Empire's history. At the lobby, a group of reporters from the Sun, Telegraph and the METRO were already swarming like Mermen around a struck whale. They were entertained by none other than Otto Von Goring the Fourth, who immediately broke from his polite engagement with the press pack to join the austere figures of the Devourer and the Duchess. Together with their METRO reporters, Gwen spotted Richard and Petra, who she deeply suspected had tagged along for the complimentary royal-class High Tea "shouted" by Charlene Ravenport. All the same, she had entertained the notion of bringing Strun and Dede, though Charlene's almond-sized eyes and deathly glare proved rather more dissuasive than her impulse. They were, after all, here for business, a fact reinforced by their choice to forgo flamboyance. Gwen's dress, now that she could afford a King-sized bed carved from a block of solid HDM crystal—was subfusc French-chic in black chiffon, adorned with aggressive ivory collars and cuffs that gave her the air of a domineering mistress. The designer was one of the dozen ambitious NoM graduates Gwen had on-call, and for the occasion, the young man had not disappointed. Comparatively, her partner took the seriousness a step further, showing up in crow-skin, four-inch heels that added to her bird-like visage, completed with a cubic jacket and tapered, stiffly-starched ankle-length suit-pants. Together, the clicking of their heels on the marble tiles communicated without ambiguity that they were witches of the same cabal—and that the scions of House Holland who awaited within would be enjoying a rather unpleasant surprise. "Magus Song. And our dear Lady Ravenport!" Gwen stood aside while the general manager exchanged personal greetings with Charlene. Once their cheek to cheek was over, Otto bowed from the waist and mock-kissed Gwen's offered fingers. "What an achievement in the Elemental Sea, Magus Song. You have been burdened with the affairs of our state unfairly, Milady. I do hope you are taking care of yourself." "I am, thank you." Gwen received the man with politeness. "Otto's father spent a while serving Grandfather as his second," Charlene clarified the position Otto held. "He's like an uncle to me." "You are too kind, Lady Ravenport," The proprietor cut short his genteel address to shake Gwen's hand. "To think the cherished girl-child of yesteryear is now London's bluest rose, one whose bloom puts this old man to shame." Charlene's chuckled. "Well, it's good to know we're on home ground." Gwen withdrew from Otto. "Sir Goring, where are the Hollands?" "Inside." The man nodded in the direction of the garden suite. "I've set up the press gallery in the drawing-room adjoining the garden tea room. Our young lord Exeters are awaiting your arrival and has been for about thirty minutes." "Good, at least they know their decorum," Charlene nodded. "We should be glad that they're taking this seriously." "Well, you did say they only get to marry once—lest they wish to impersonate the infamous wizard Bluebeard," Gwen remarked. True to her words, the influence of the Church of England ensured that officially, there would only be one wife, both in sickness and in health, until death did the pair apart. Charlene laughed, then asked "Uncle" Otto to steer them toward the objects of their present ploy. While they followed and was in turn followed by the troop of reporters, Gwen pondered whether the Exeter honestly possessed the miraculous power to dissuade the protesters from the IoDNC's compound. In the last few days, things had indeed reached a boiling point, going so far as to cause her pair of Dwarven Hammer Guards to ride out in their MKII Rock Smashers as a show of force. For now, the swaying Spellswords had dissuaded the passionate protestors from taking a step further past the barricade. The reasoning, Gwen figured, was that even a Mage-grunt was aware that dying at the hands of Dwarves "defending" their Fabricator Engines was an exercise in futility with no legal recourse for compensation. For both sides, having the lot of them dying would save the Faction money in terms of pensions and validate the Metropolitan Police's promise that a "riot" would draw a response exercised with "great prudence". Nonetheless, the protesters' passion had proved to be inflamed beyond the scope of diplomacy. Their continued harassment of the Print Works' workers meant that circulation of the METRO was at an all-time low as advertisers deserted them in droves. Worse still, construction of the projects at the Isle of Dogs had ground to a halt due to protestors blocking the transit of garbage trucks and barges, going so far as throwing delivered construction materials into the River Thames. Gwen had to admit that what was happening was a good strategy for the Barlow Group and their Militant backers. Conversely, the Exeters taking the opportunity to push the envelope was right up her alley, even if it proved an unwelcome Hail Mary. In their bid to shame the Exeters, her greatest regret was that she couldn't invite Ruxin to London to have a friendly chat with the Twins, who would certainly appreciate the time spent under a mythic millstone of living-lightning and Dragon Fear. Ahead, Otto waved away the footmen and personally opened the doors for them, revealing an empty garden view chamber with a walled-off illusory barrier so that they and the Hollands could have faux privacy. Within, the Exeter twins awaited under an ornate ceiling with its mural of Grecian bathers, dappled by the light from a row of two-storey French windows. As the girls entered, both rose from their seats. This time, away from the sordid atmosphere of Cliveden and its seedy history, Gwen saw the men for the first time in their natural habitat. Edward "Poins" Holland, the Smoke Mage, possessed dusky-platinum hair and charcoal eyes polluted by the purity of his Affinity. He wore the high-cheekbones of his Clan, a protruding, hawkish nose that reminded Gwen of Rowan Atkinson, and sported thin pale lips curled into an expression of frozen sardonicism. Comparatively, brother carrot-top was a sunnier fellow with fairer skin, a less stooping gait, and though he shared the same face, the Steam Mage appeared less hostile and arrogant. In stark contrast to his twin, Benedict "Thomas" Holland broke into a pleasant grin when his eyes landed on the girls and their choice of garments. Unlike the girls, the brothers wore matching, three-piece suits suitable for the April weather, with Poins in black and Thomas in light grey. Their ornate vests, comparatively, drew Gwen's eyes toward its embossed heraldry, which were rune-like and interlaced in the manner of fine herringbone, leaving little doubt about the time and effort a Master Enchanter had spent making the vestment. The foursome met in the middle, framed by a marble arch overlooking enormous bay windows and the garden beyond. Where it not for the sizzling tension in the air, the vision of London's tailored young folks standing shoulder to shoulder would have sent tongue wagging from John o' Groats to South Sea. Once in position, all four turned to face the press pack. A flurry of Lumen-recorders exploded, filling the room with light. After this point, the press would reside behind the illusory curtain, giving the speakers relative privacy. Otto directed the dazzling pairs to the window seat, where already, he had set up three-tier tea sets, each positioned meticulously in front of a flurry of antique silverware from the epoch of Victoria. Feeling the pressure of the men's searching eyes, Gwen turned her gaze directly to the twins who she hoped would meet her in the middle, ideally in an arena. The company of youths studied one another for a full minute, searching for a kink in their irrespective armours. "Your IoDNC," Poins began with undisguised displeasure. "It really is the most damaging thing to come to London since the Red Dragon." "Poins!" Thomas shot his brother a disapproving glance. "Be nice." Gwen looked from one face to the other, both identical but for their in-built colour scheme. From the looks of it, they were playing good and bad cop, just as she and Charlene were bitch and bitchier. Charlene motioned for Otto to pour her tea through a silver sieve to remove the sediments. Presumably, a trained butler was to be their man, but the owner had replaced his disappointed employee after becoming overcome by what Gwen read as second-hand fatherly affection. "Milords Holland," Ravenport's voice was huskier for her two decades as a Dust Mage, a stark contrast to Gwen, who often lowered her voice to suppress her youthful vitality. "The true damage to the Mageocracy is the fiasco at the Niger Delta. When had our glorious estate ever suffered such a resounding loss? Not in recent memory—not since the Elemental Sea. Gwen returned from Shalkar with Demi-human allies. Your men, or so I've heard, returned with a thousand caskets." If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. The riposte should have come as expected, though Poins' lower lips still grew tight, while Thomas laughed off the matter with a smile. It was an interesting insight into the brothers' dynamic, one in which Gwen fancied a potential divider. "Speaking of the Elemental Sea." Gwen took over from Charlene, who had set her up beautifully for the boast. "I do believe that particular problem is resolved, at least for a decade, or until drastic changes come to the region. We expect profitability within three months, as soon as the imports clear the port." "You've done an unbelievable job," Thomas took a swipe by emphasising the "unbelievable" part of his statement. "You mean to tell me you've terraformed the place singlehandedly?" "Of course not— though thank you for assuming so," Gwen thanked Otto as the man passed her the yearling Darjeeling. "I've had help from ten thousand Rat-folk and Tryfan. Do you know Tryfan, Milord Hollands? Immortal beings holding the secret of Spellcraft? Solana and I are on a first-name basis." That last part, Gwen amused herself, was genuine because Solana referred to her as "Gwen" on account of her Master. "Aye. We know of the Hvítálfar's role," Poins interjected with a scowl. "We know of your association with them. When you are a part of House Holland, you should take care of with whom you associate. Of the undesirables, the Hvítálfar count among the few that we forbid." "When I become a part of Holland?" Gwen raised her chin and extended her elegant neck. "'Forbid?' What a claim, Milord Poins. Tis a curious choker you've placed around my neck. Is that the courtly decorum they teach at London Imperial?" "Poins has been looking a little too forward to the diplomacy," Thomas chuckled. "I should confess that I was no less eager." "Grace begins with gratefulness," Poins continued his routine. "Look about you, Gwen. Poins and I, and Lady Ravenport yonder—we are the Mageocracy's future. Yet, you have been invited to join our ranks. As someone from the Frontier, you should know just how rare an opportunity this may be." Gwen glanced at Charlene, finding her partner's expression unreadable. She supposed that as a matter of breeding, she was the anomaly while Charlene and the Hollands were born on the same stratum. "Oh, I am no stranger to sharing regal company. I already had the pleasure of Edmund, even back in Sydney." Gwen prodded the trio a little. She rather disliked the idea that Charlene and the twins were werewolves of the same pack. Before they were nobles, Gwen had hoped she and Charlene should be witches of self-made means. "Ah yes, the untalented twerp." Poins smiled for the first time. "We were good friends, young Edmund and I—weren't we, Thomas?" "Edmund was a special kind of guy for sure," Thomas laughed as well. "I am sorry, Charlene. I know you did your best." "I would thank you not to mention my brother again," Charlene sighed at the threesome. "Have you all had enough banter? Our patriarch's world has enough smoke and mirrors to last me a lifetime, so let us of the younger generations be more direct while we still have the time and convenience." At Charlene's agitation, Gwen regretted her callous mention of Edmund. "That's fine by me." Poins looked up at Gwen with expectant eyes equally hungry and desirous. "Brother's Affinity is safest when coupled with the Void Mage. Charlene and I should make an equally well-matched pair." "How practical." Charlene nodded. "Although I heard that you often asked after Gwen. Is there no affection, Milord? No attraction, even? Her popularity on campus remains unrivalled." Even with foreshadowing and context, Gwen felt shocked by the straightforward nature of Poins' statement and Charlene's rebuttal. Were they merely bitches and bulls? Was this Crofts? The absurdity of what these men considered normal was on par with Swiftian satire. To air her unhappy thoughts, she lavishly jammed a scone with excessive cream, then rudely gestured to the hotel's upper suites. "Say I agree. Then what?" She spat. "Shall we get a room or do it on the table here? After you finish, those poor protestors better get off of my property!" All three nobles, with the addition of a shell-shocked Otto, converged on her outrage. Somewhere, the muted sound of Lumen-recorders going off reminded Gwen that they were being recorded for posterity. "Milady Song." Thomas coughed to cover his awkwardness. "I applaud your eagerness, but there needs to be more to diplomacy than the horizontal variant." "Oh, sorry, I forgot we needed a ceremony as well," Gwen said sardonically. "For a minute, I thought Poins was intimating that we're at a Mermen Flesh Market. Shall I summon the accountants and the Magisters then? Time is HDMs, you know?" More clicking came from the adjourning room. The twins appeared lost for words. "Gwen, calm yourself," Charlene stepped in. "Milord Holland, we've convened here today for reasons that need not be profaned—however, need I remind you that we are not here under our own will? You've put us in a compromised position, Milords, and we have this way responded to your invitation. We have attended, but to dance the quadrille is an entirely different matter." "What do you propose?" Thomas halted his brother from rebutting to Gwen by muttering something about golden blood. "An equity exchange? Our Father is happy to up the ante if your Father obliges." "First of all, we don't need your money," Gwen spoke before Charlene could continue. "Charlene and I— We ARE money." "Thank you, Gwen." Charlene shoved a scone onto her plate. "For that perfect revelation. Now, Milords, please listen to our proposal." "We are listening," Thomas concurred. "Pray, tell." "I propose a trial of arms," Charlene said. "You are of the Militant Faction and should know the tradition well. Gwen and I wish to organise a Trial by Combat in the same vein as Henry Dawn Star's wooing of Catherine of Argon. If your golden blood of the Plantagenets flows true, you would not deny us, or so I would hope." Behind the illusory veil, another flurry of Lumen-recorders erupted. By citing their proud ancestor, the twins could not deny her proposal without denying their "golden blood". "Tis true," Thomas replied after a moment's thought. "I would not and cannot deny you this. A lack of confidence would go against our Credo." For the moment, Gwen withheld her mockery. "So you harken for a good whipping?" Poins looked at Gwen with an expression she once recognised in Charlene's brother, possessing equal parts excitement and cruelty. "Will you participate this time?" "Gwen is an ordained and proven War Mage," Charlene reminded the man. "I would speak with care, Milord, lest she flays you alive in front of all of London." "Oh, she would, would she?" Poins voice grew gravely as Ravenport's daughter pricked at his pride. He turned to Gwen once more. "Would you like that, my dear?" "Win or lose—I'll make a man out of you." Gwen thrust forward her best figure by arching her spine and raising her eyes defiantly. A flurry of lumen recorders shuddered. Thomas burst into an impolite snicker while his brother floundered at Gwen's teasing outburst. "You're a jewel, Magus Song. There's no doubt about it. Very well— we accept. What are our stakes? Officially and otherwise?" "If we are defeated in our suit," Charlene continued. "Then Gwen and I shall formally accept your proposals for the union of our Houses. Naturally, we reserve all rights gifted by etiquette and tradition, but we shall concede that you two are capable future spouses and will undertake your offer with complete sincerity. So long as you remain willing, we shall not refuse." "Maybe I'll have the Void witch after all?" Poins said to his brother. "We do make a passionate pair." "And should we fare poorly in the arena?" Thomas halted his brother for the fourth time, then continued the parley, demonstrating a composure far exceeding his brother's Affinity-driven frivolity. "Then House Holland will do its utmost to leave the Barlow Group and its interests, as well as perform a favour in the withdraw of the protests on the Isle by the Militant Faction," Charlene said. "After which, we are happy to conduct business with House Holland if you would have us." "All risk and no reward," the mocking voice of Poins rose from between them. "Why should we agree to such terms? When we have you by the neck?" "Bah! What a curious case of a fool and his advantage." Gwen held little patience for such economic illiteracy. "You have anaesthetised our profits, Milord Hollands. But the IoDNC will not be making a loss either way. And there are other means by which the IoDNC's interests can be preserved and West Ferry continued. As the adage goes, don't push your luck when you don't have all the spells memorised. You have far more to lose, while we have only un-materialised gains to be lost. The IoDNC is the tide of change, Poins. Can you stop the tide? Can House Holland will away the ebb and flow of the Thames? What power Holland must wield to hold back the progress of a city!" "Magus Song." Thomas motioned for Otto to give her more sweeties before she could say something genuinely catastrophic. "Poins, you as well. Please control yourselves." Charlene assisted by offering Gwen a glimmering fruit tart and a lime-lemon profiterole. "To exercise fairness and tradition, we will use a three-crew bout, as per duelling jousts of old. Gwen will compete herself— and I reserve the right to nominate a champion on my behalf. Milords may have the convenience of either option." Thomas appeared to consider the matter on his brother's behalf. "Three-Mage bout?" He looked at Poins, whose thin lips curled. "I see. That is agreeable to us. Where should this take place?" "May I recommend the All England Duelling Club?" Charlene proposed a very public arena. In Gwen's old world, this was where the Wimbledon Tennis Cup held its matches. In her present London, the All England Club hosted six arena-sized duelling rings and ten individual-match rings. It was the place where the International Duelling Grail, the national sport of the Mageocracy, took place every year. "Oxford rules?" "Of course," Charlene rejected the American's love of flamboyance out of hand. As she had discussed with Gwen, pre-buffing before the battle was likely not in their favour, considering what House Holland had in its six-century history of conquest. "Elimination?" "I would vouch for none-other," Thomas agreed with a glint in his eye. "Likewise, if you choose these conditions, then I propose a blind match up." Gwen likewise favoured elimination rounds. Without incident, she could defeat both Thomas and Poins and end their ambitions once and for all. Comparatively, a round-based bout would imply that either they or the Hollands could use the three-horse strategy to skewer their odds, such as matching Gwen with fodder while they took on Charlene and whoever served as their third member. Meanwhile, a "blind" match implied that participants, or in this case their third participant, would remain a mystery. Together with the elimination rounds, the setup raised the tension and exponentially increased the bout's entertainment value for the viewing public. As for who might be their third wheel, that was an additional layer of strategy and complications. If they or the Exeters chose a senior household member, it would draw wrath from the spectators and scorn from the adjudicators, effectively invalidating the victory. If they choose poorly, the choice may offer a complimentary match to one's opponents. Ergo, a pre-ordained condition was to pick someone of the same age and pedigree as the original participants. What mattered then was the selection of a Mage that countered at least one opponent, such as selecting a high-tier Dust or Earthen Mage to deaden Gwen's Void and Lightning. More creatively, picking a Cleric or a Faith-caster was likewise a viable option to offset the overwhelming popularity of Spellcraft sorcery with Faith Magic. Finally, an extreme option would be the choice of forgoing number three entirely and simply challenge the Exeters as a duo, or Gwen could choose to solo the threesome. "Very well. We shall agree on three-Mage bouts. And as I picked elimination as our format, I shall abide by your choice of blind matches," Charlene confirmed the conditions. "To minimise undesirable interferences, shall we set the date? All England has an opening on court number two as early as Saturday, three days from now. "If you have it all planned out," Thomas leaned back in his chair. "Than as gentlemen, we shall respond in kind. Is Magus Song amiable to the conditions?" "I am." Gwen inclined her chin. "And you as well?" "We are," Thomas spoke for his brother. "I assume you have no complaints, Poins?" "I eagerly await our wedding night." Poins, as advertised, appeared to have a particular obsession with her. "I am also eager, though for something else entirely," Gwen returned with a smile of her own. "Then we agree," Thomas turned to the illusory veil. "We shall reconvene on Saturday at the All England Duelling Club. There, we shall show the world what may yet be achieved when history and blood met in Raven and Exeter—" The man paused to grin at Gwen. "—additionally garnished, of course, by our flower of the Frontier."

With matters settled and the countdown begin, the paper pushers of the big three in London now returned to their machine caves of ink and mechanisms to hammer out tomorrow's headlines. To counter the Sun and the Telegraph, the METRO made an exception to release a Special Edition, a run paid entirely at the expense of the METRO itself. The overt publicity was part of Charlene and Gwen's stratagem, for the public hungered for the new and unusual, leaving no possibility that their rivals would not answer the call. The second the METRO's men returned from the girls' luncheon, the Dwarves were ready, the engine greased, and the rolls of paper primed. All around the isle, its NoM army had been fed, briefed, and injected full of vim and vigour by a passionate speech from Lorenzo. He had explained that their Mistress of Hounds was fighting on their behalf and that her victory or loss would determine their future livelihoods. The result was a resounding furore only the oppressed could enact when their daily bread was on the line. Two hours later, still-hot copies of the new editions reached the usual paper handlers and their friends and family as well, and anyone who held a stake in the development of the Isle of Dogs. Mages, NoMs, even Dwarves, Dede and a flock of idle Tower Crows took their share of the METRO, then disseminated the svelte visage of the girls and the smug Exeters across every transit node in London and beyond so that even in the misty town of Swansea, tongues soon wagged for the BBC to broadcast the duel. For the participants, the unintended impact of the operation was the spontaneous creation of camaraderie. For once, the Mages, NoMs, the skilled and unskilled, the professional and the working class on the Isle of Dogs grew united in a singular love for their Mistress. By the next edition of the Sun, all news of the continued protests at the Isle of Dogs had been erased from the frontal lobes of the forgetful public as every front page, willingly or otherwise, now lauded the Ravenport girls, with the Exeter Twins somewhere behind the pair with their heads half-cropped. As organised by Charlene, the national broadcaster then contacted the pair, who happily gave permission for the bout to be recorded for posterity and to be transmuted "live" through the Mageocracy's Divination channels. As for their opponents, Gwen needed no foresight to guess that they would not turn down the opportunity even if they had the intent or means to do so for fear of appearing weak or unsure. What remained then was the settling of their third number. In observing the Lumen-casts of the Exeter's prior bouts provided by Charlene, House Holland's ability to match skill to boast was without doubt. "Poins" was a Smoke Mage with a wicked twist, for the boys excelled in the usage of the sorcery of "Force" or the telekinesis of "pure" mana. Force Cage—Wall of Force—Missile Swarm—Bilby's Hand—Morden's Blade—these were the arcanistry that served as the backbone to the usual arsenal of obfuscation utilised by a Smoke Mage. In a live bout, it was near-impossible to position "Poins"—a noted Evoker-Illusionist, who Charlene suspected may also be a dabbler in Mind Magic. Comparatively, "Thomas" took after Gunther in his approach to arcanistry. The Illusion magic used by Thomas was a source of wonder, visually wreathing the young man in a nimbus of obfuscation, not through insidious shadows, but blaring, retina-searing light. The Force magic used by Thomas were likewise more potent and possessed of far more damage potential than the subtlety preferred by Poins. In viewing a rare recording acquired by Charlene, Gwen winced as she positioned herself as Thomas' opponent, shrinking in horror as her mana rapidly drained from the endless assault from superheated steam and jabbing shards of Force, held immobile by an invisible Iron Maiden while waiting for her inevitable, impending demise. For the twins, Force Magic and Illusion was their privilege, one that shored up the weakness of the Smoke and Steam Elements, something Gwen had initially sought to overcome by inviting "Iron Slab" Lulu to London for an exchange program. However, from her research, Lulu versus Force Magic would result in a war of attrition. And if Gwen had to favour a victor, she had no doubt two boys born with True Silver spoons in their mouths would fair better than an abused Sword Mage from Huashang. "Nonetheless, you ARE suited to fight Thomas," Charlene observed over her Darjeeling. "Bone Armour for the Force Shards, and Void Shield for the Steam." Presently, the two sat on Emmanuel's infamous Drake Pond lawn, joined by a duck, a crow and a rat. While Gwen had fancied a picnic, Charlene had her butler and a team materialise a table, chairs, and even sunshade in addition to the cakes, tea and ices. "I could take both, just not at the same time." Gwen touched a hand unconsciously to her chin. "Ariel is highly resistant to the miasma of Smoke and near-impervious to poison and debilitation. Cali is nigh-indestructible so long as I prime my vitality stores. Considering we last met in the arena a year ago, they probably think it's possible to dismiss the Familiars and stun me into submission. What they don't know is that since visiting Tryfan and surviving Shalkar, I've learned some extra things about Creature Magic from a very generous source." "Abjuration isn't their strong suit, but they could have a true Abjurer as their number three," Charlene remarked. "And we've already discussed your weakness against Mind Magic." "Yes." Gwen nodded, her lips tight at the recollection of unhappier times. "We would still win, I think. You might have to pry Cali off the brothers, though, or the Mind Mage foolish enough to sever my Empathic Link. In that scenario, your Relations Officer is going to be working overtime." "Mistress! Please let me fight." Strun fell on all fours, causing Dede to quack in protest. "I'll repay you with my life." "There's no need," Gwen reminded the rat for the tenth time. "Strun, you'll be not only fighting the Exeters but taking the glory from someone on our side who will be dying for the privilege. I don't anticipate that I'll lose by any means, so why should I risk your life?" "But I am your… Kaglhesh," Strun muttered a word which Gwen understood to mean "One who shields," but really, considering the context of the Rat-kin's warring traditions, "One who lived as fodder". "I'll consider it," she relented. She wasn't against having Strun fight, considering the Rat-kin shared her vital stores and had an excess of lifeforce from Garp. The problem was that without Garp in London, Strun's limitless regeneration was severely handicapped, meaning she wasn't about to risk her Rat-man without the surety of victory. Likewise, even if Strun won, she doubted London's high society would very much like seeing one of their brightest disembowelled by the teeth of a Mongolian Death Worm via a "rat". "QUACK!" Dede flapped its wings. "I'll consider your proposal too." Gwen gingerly placated the raging duck. "Mori," Charlene addressed the crow in their midst. "Any news?" "CAW—" "I guess that's to be expected." The girl shrugged. "I guess Father would have found out by now, but we're not being given that privilege." "Daddy not helping?" "I am fighting to show my independence, after all," Charlene said. "Father's right not to intervene. What if the Exeters chose to do the same? Neither of us wants to cross the unspoken line. If our Fathers were to fight, they certainly wouldn't need us as fodder." "True that," Gwen concurred. "So, to surmise?" "I don't mind Richard, though your cousin's Sprit could range from absolutely crushing to completely useless. Remember, the fight order is randomised, hence the blind matches." "So, we can trust the organisers at the All England to make things truly random?" "If we can't trust the Royal Accreditation League, then who can we trust?" Charlene's reply held more sardonicism than truth. "The League has too much to lose to favour one side or the other." In the girls' hypothesis, there were a few troublesome archetypes House Holland could easily access that made the pair wary. The first was a Faith Caster from the Order of St George, whose monster-hunting naturally positioned them as allies to the Militants and whose Knight-Captain was a close relative to House Holland. To bring one of the Clerical Battle Mages would wag tongues but wasn't absurd enough to offset the bout's credibility. In that case, Gwen would undoubtedly have something to worry about, for her Necromancy faired poorly against Faith Magic, and her Void Element performed just as poorly against Faith-laced Radiance. On their end, Charlene had her own "Knight" to call upon, one with an actual grievance against the Militants. Likewise, there was also Elvia to consider. Though she had not seen Elvia taken to a deadly bout, Gwen possessed enough knowledge of Draconic lineage and Faith Magic and enough understanding of Sen-sen and Kiki to know that her little Evee was now a legitimate contender. What Evee lacked more than anything, Gwen guessed, was viciousness. In her mind, Force Magic was strong, but could it best the strength of the Yinglong distilled into a root vegetable? Likewise, just as offensive Faith Magic possessed natural advantages against Spellcraft, Elvia's defensive magic and vast vital and mana arrays made her Shield of Faith a bulwark against all danger. Additionally, it wasn't as though a Cleric of the Ordo, even a junior one, could be poisoned or gassed, or even swayed by Mind Magic, as Gwen might. Besides, should anyone delve into a Vessel's mind, Gwen was sure that a disgruntled snort from the Yinglong would explode the head of the Mind Mage like an overripe melon. In that regard, the Dragon's possessiveness for its Vessel was far more potent than Almudj, who was more of an absent father. Barring a Faith Caster, whoever they picked, the possibility of fighting a legitimate Mind Mage was a significant concern. If Petra was anything to go by, Mind Mages were specially bred through Affinity and talent, and most would have achieved an early peak in their craft by their twenties. In addition to looking svelte or suave, they additionally possessed another form of sorcery as their "cover", just as Petra had her Enchantment. For all Gwen knew, she could be fighting an Abjurer in a battle of attrition, or in the worst case, a skilled Quasi-Elemental Illusionist, who could momentarily disable her with a Feeble Mind or Sensory Jolt. "I could requisition a capable Mind Mage of our own," Charlene noted over her sugared tea. "Then again, I don't know how useful that would be. The Exeters possess excellent training against Mind Magic. You've been taught to shield against such attacks as well since your arrival, haven't you?" "More or less." Gwen nodded. "Petra's very helpful in that regard. That said, it's not my forte." "It's a shame Gracie met you so much later in life. A Void Mind Mage with Illusion? Now that, I wish to witness! Which is why I do think Jean-Paul can work," Charlene said. "If you can give him and his pet some of your Serpent Juice, his 'Usurp' should be able to counter anything the Exeters pick on their end. At the same time, I would be astonished if the student-scion of Meister Bekker of Pretoria could even be influenced by spells not cast by the most senior of Mind Mages. Besides, the boy is chomping at the bits to help, not to mention his Meister will owe us a favour, win or lose." "I suppose," Gwen considered Charlene's proposal. Firstly, a persistent goal of her work in London was to promote the "Void Cabal". Secondly, when she had asked Jean-Paul, the bloke was more than eager to have her back. Though Angela Bekker had shrugged, her silent consent nonetheless indicated the duel was a good way for Jean-Paul to shore up his "stud" credentials. Charlene replaced her cup. "Alas, that's how things stand. Quite exciting, no? The thrill of the game is as riotous for us as it is for the spectators. So many variables and outcomes! Now you can see why Duelling is a favourite pastime from Avalon to the New World." Gwen concurred, for her fingers had been tingling with Elemental Lightning in anticipation. "What I find curious is that the most important thing is information security," she said. "You said we don't have to settle until the day arrives?" Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. "Three hours before the match, according to the Duelling Association's rules, yes," Charlene affirmed her understanding. "There's an art to the process. I'll take care of that, of course. Until then, we'll have our numbers on standby." "Then I propose Jean-Paul, on my part. Elvia's Ordo is never happy when she becomes involved in secular conflicts," Gwen said, fighting the urge to see Elvia kick-ass with the fear that she could be shamed or injured. "Jean-Paul will be happy to be on standby. What do you think? Should I recruit Lulan? As far as I know, she's still training with the White Serpent of Huangshan and performs regular Purge Quests on behalf of Tonglv. I don't know how you're going to get her to London, though?" Charlene raises a brow. "Did you forget who I am? Who my Father is?" Gwen conceded that indeed, the Duke of Norfolk who looks over the Ministry of Foreign Affairs would not have trouble rubber-stamping a temporary Visitation Permit for one medium-tier Mage from China. For Gwen, whether Lulu fought or otherwise wasn't so much the point as the prospect of seeing an old friend. The duel was an excellent excuse to get Lulan to come and see the world and open up her horizons, with the only shame being that Kuso would have to stay behind to continue his work with Tonglv. Still, she refrained from the impulse. Lulan was the type to fight to the death, and Gwen had no idea what she would do if that happened. "And on my end." Charlene pointed to the list she had earlier produced. "Make a choice, I suppose. Either way, I can provide both my Champion and our number three if I call for it. Likewise, if you're worried, I can detour by Queen's College and pick up our Mind Mage." On the list were rows of names Gwen had heard of only in passing, within which three made her shortlist. Glenn Roswell was the IIUC Captain of Charlene's generation, a Mineral Mage Abjurer-Conjurer with a skillset similar to Lulan, except that the man used a Draconic-crystal Spirit that manifested "Dragon Glass". Alexis Perry, a woman in her twenties, was akin to Gwen possessing a Class V War Mage status. Dubbed the "Little Scarlet", she was a Radiant sorceress in possession of an Efreet Sprite she harvested from the Elemental Sea. If they were to employ Alexis, the strategy need not involve anything more than sitting back to watch the foe melt. Her eyes fell lower down the list, then stopped at a line Charlene had circled. Unlike the prior two, Aiden Rothwell was a name she had previously heard from Elvia. The young man was the grandson of Evee's Rectrix, a direct descend serving at the Ordo of the Garter. The Word was that he recently returned from the Niger Delta with a big bone to pick. In the Delta, the Militants had absolved all operations and progress made by the Ordo in their Mission of "Mercy", then wrote them off as collateral. In the makeup of their team, Aiden would play a role opposite that of Jean-Paul, being a supporter, disruptor, Cleric, and damage soaker all-in-one. Unlike Elvia, Aiden was a Faith Caster through and through, capable of a variety of magic unique to his Order's eldritch secrets. Usually, an ancient Ordo like The Garter would not allow their young Knights to participate in petty politics. Considering the circumstances, the connections, and the stakes in the case of Lady Charlene Ravenport, however, the Rectrix of the Order of the Garter had given consent. "Very well, I'll ready myself and Jean-Paul on my part." "And I'll bring Glen, Alexis, and Aiden to be finalised on the day." Charlene struck out a hand. The girls shook once more. "Do we need to coordinate anything else?" Gwen breathed out. Since the earliest morning, they had played out hundreds of scenarios, giving her the type of headache usually constrained to tax auditing. "No. But if you wish to know more, you know where to find me." Charlene rose from her chair and signalled for men to begin the cleanup. "See you on Saturday, Magus Song. Let's hope that for all the effort we've committed—the outcome is both proportional and worthwhile." London. The All England. In the days of yore, the All England had been set up as a club for the Nobility to practice their duels without deadly injury to either spectators and contestants. Over the century, its practices had been borrowed, improved and adapted by Duelling Clubs worldwide to become the "Oxford" standard. After the Great War against the Masters of Unlife, the traditions saw further development in the New World, where the cities had not been ravaged by a decade of spellfire and decay. In their peculiar, extravagant way, the Americans added terrain transmutation, larger arenas, more robust spell allocations, and the allowance for pre-duel buffs to add to the spectacle. Many of these wonders adopted by the "Harvard" style of Duels ultimately flowed back into England, forcing the organisers to embrace the advent of randomised terrain, environmental conditions, and allowance for double barriers and, thereby, higher tiers of magic. Consumables remained taboo, while craftables were allowed if personally inscribed and designed by the duellist, except for personal defence items solely for self-preservation. On the day of fate, the spectators filled into the All England's second Duelling Arena in droves, having waited at the gates since the earliest hour. Most were the well-to-do Mages here for their usual entertainment, though curiously, the bookies observed an inordinate number of NoMs compared to the All England's usual demographic of patrons. Though Gwen herself would not know the totality of it, her and Charlene's duel with the Exeters had been circulating among the NoMs under their employ as a sort of existential duel determining the future direction of their livelihoods. Far from caring about bloodlines or corporations, what the NoMs who read the METRO had garnered from Lorenzo's craft was that here was the battle of the Progressives and Conservatives. One advocated for keeping the non-magically aligned folk in idle squalor. Conversely, the Gwen represented the forces that would see the NoMs have a "Fair Go". Thereby, for any who was able to save and spare a ticket for the All England, they did so, acting out a divine duty as witnesses to the making of history. The arena, therefore, possessed an unusual and boisterous mood, one that had not gone unnoticed by the powers that reside above the duelling ground, above the commentator's podium, and even above even the private suites, where the Duke of Norfolk had cancelled his meetings for the day to attend. When Gwen and Charlene re-emerged from the registrar's office to a shower of silvery lumen-bulbs, they were joined by Jean-Paul Bekker, scion and Apprentice to Meister Engela Bekker of Pretoria and London Imperial. Beside them stood another young man who appeared the Void Mage's polar opposite, the sunny and blonde-haired Sir Aiden Rothwell. Unlike Jean-Paul's all blacks, the man wore his signatory Garb of the Garter, consisting of a plumed hat, velvet cape and Christ's Cross gules on an ivory shield, casting the Knight in a striking light beside his haughty-heeled mistresses. For the onlookers, however, it was the girls who truly stood out. Charlene took once more to the unconventional pants suit favoured by the continental female Magisters in Paris, appearing simultaneously severe and svelte with her smoky eyes and imperious aura of command. She would not be fighting and so had chosen to impose and impress with her presence instead. Moreso than Charlene, Gwen's new garb had the tongues of the Magisters and Maguses wagging at once. Stepping into view, Gwen appeared in a form-fitted armoured battle suit forged from what appeared to be crowskin. The girls didn't know it, but the eyes of her observers were already wandering from the girl to the upper observatory where the Duke of Norfolk surveyed the events below with a critical eye, their minds ripe with confirmed suspicions. Who else in London had access to magical feathers of such quality and in such rich blackness that when struck by the light, the feathers appeared to consume the motes of Radiance? For the girl to show up wearing a suit of enchanted feathers could only mean one thing—that the rumours were accurate and that at least once, Lord Ravenport had forgotten to send a Footman as a stand-in. To the crowds' knowledge, there were only so many Tower Ravens of such magical quality in existence, and to harvest only the best feathers for the creation of such garb would require the sacrifice of more Ravens than their minds dared entertain. Meanwhile, Gwen bathed in their misunderstanding, well-pleased that she had upped the nobles in a game of items. According to the Runemasters at the Printworks, Yassari and a whole platoon of craftsmen had spent hundreds of hours working out a method to preserve the unique attributes of the Da-Peng feathers. As a result, her new suit possessed several logically improbably properties relating to the primordial foes of the Draconic races. The foremost was its imperviousness to damage, meaning Gwen need not worry about an attack perforating the suit to injure her innards. To this end, Yassari had delivered a warning that while the armour was impossibly sturdy, it did not defy the laws of energy conservation. Should Gwen be struck by Golos' barbed tail, she would not become Swiss cheese, but her body would nonetheless suffer enough blunt-force trauma to induce organ failure. It was why MKII Dwarven Golems favoured disposable reactive shells more than the older stubborn, immovable Dark Iron variants. Secondly, the suit was well suited for agility, possessing incredible weight should she strike or charge an opponent while simultaneously being weightless in flight. The paradox was so strange that even now, Yossari's folk could not reproduce its properties and could only mark it down as a chaotic, primordial trait of the Da-peng derived from the Age of Dragons, where the birds hunted lizards for food and sport at a time when the Seven Ancestors yet recorded the rules of the world. The third property of her new suit was gobsmacking, albeit useless in the duel. She was nigh "impervious" to the magic of common Dragons. As to the degree of her immunity, Yassari said that there was no way for the Dwarves to test the item without letting the crow out of the coop, but they were confident even Golos' breath would slide off the feathers like Magic Missiles off Dede's back. Finally, the fourth property was one to which Gwen felt rather proud. Her item was unique, for having the suit made involved both hunting the Da-peng that lived within the Wall of Woods in Amazonia AND having the connections to a Citadel's Heart Forge. When Gwen had registered her ownership with the Shard, the Magister there informed her that she could loan the item out at an exorbitant price should she wished. Of course, she didn't need the money—which meant the only means to borrow the suit would be in CCs or through bartering favours. Therefore, dressed in her snazzy new suit, it was with buoyant confidence that Gwen looked forward to ripping the Exeters a new one, knowing that wardrobe malfunctions would now be a thing of the past. At the threshold of the Duelling Arena's entrance, Gwen could already smell the excitement outside in the thousands of bodies eagerly awaiting the emergence of the contestants. Beside the foursome, the Assistant Adjudicator received the signal, then bowed toward Charlene and Gwen. "Miladies. The authority has been given, and you may commence at your leisure." Gwen took a deep breath, then inhaled the buzz of excitement now sweeping over the crowd like a droning mana thrum. "Charlene?" "I am ready." Her partner smiled. "Magus Bekker? Sir Rothwell? Are you ready?" "At your service, Milady." The Knight's voice was bright and charged with anticipation. "Victory or death." "I will not fail." Jean-Paul's expression was ashen, possibly from his pre-game preparations but more likely from stage fright. "Very well." Gwen took the first step forward. "ONWARDS!" Lord Mycroft Ravenport stood a perfect distance from the invisible Wall of Force acting as a fail-safe from potential debris, gazing downward at the arena where his daughter, his "love child", and their two camp-de-aides entered. That Charlene and Gwen were now Witches of the same Cabal had been well within his expectations, been that Charlene had taken NoMs as her political unicorn, while the girl had an obsession with NoMs since Australia. The cost of the union had been a portion of the Norfolk Fund, though Mycroft was happy to pay it, as tethering the girl to the Mageocracy's interests had been his plan from the very beginning. What he had not anticipated was how quickly the girls would confront their natural enemies in the conservative Militant Faction, nor had he expected the girls to march forward with such momentum. A part of him felt relieved, for Charlene could then truly stand on her own and wash away the stain that Edmund had brought upon the family. His second wife as well, could finally shut up and return to holding her head with haughtiness. Concurrently, another part of him, the invariable part that remained the father to a little girl in happier times, couldn't help but feel like he should secretly snuff the idiotic twins like two fragile candles in the dark. To have designs on Charlene! The shamelessness was dizzying, for not even their father had dared broach the subject. But to shelter his Manticore cub meant Charlene would never come of age nor stand on her own. If Kilroy's Apprentice could crawl from the Frontier to stand in the All England, then why shouldn't his daughter, possessed of nobler blood and more significant resources, manage the same if not greater? Slowly, Mycroft's eyes drifted across the Duelling Arena toward the west entrance, where already, the Exeters were cracking jokes and giddy with glee at the trap they had laid for the girls. Besides the men were their invitee from the New World, a young man who had demanded to come to London because he had heard that the Dwarves here were sharing their knowledge of Golem making Magi-tech. To his knowledge, the Militant Faction had arranged the man's entry into London. However, the young man likely did not know that the woman responsible for the Dwarves coming out of the fold had no relations to the Militant Faction and were, in fact, a stalwart antagonist to the Faction's interests. Beside the threesome on an enormous levitation platform sat the young man's war engine, a murderous machine made for a singular purpose, designed from the Mana Core to its fibrous pseudo-sinews to hunt the most dastardly of Magical Beasts. Were he to disregard his role as a father, Mycroft would feel impressed by the Militants' and their multi-pronged ploy. Foremostly, there were no Mages in London who knew how to fight an MK III Centurion Custom with its variable array of Spellswords, Wands and warding magic. Likewise, the number of Mages in London who could confess to having ever fought an American Golem Engine vis-a-vis and one-to-one could be counted on one hand. Yet, since the young man had "made" the suit himself and were its chief designer, the All England had grudgingly allowed it. Indeed, such inclusions were not uncommon in the International Inter-University Competition, though rarely did anyone other than the Americans field such outlandish items that were useless in cramped Dungeon and across the vast tracts of the Wildlands. Secondly—Mycroft licked his lips in mild frustration—had any Mage of the girl and her friend's calibre ever fought an NoM? One that could potentially best them should they allow the slightest slip? If he were in Gwen's position, he would protest and demand that the Exeters show their honour as scions of Spellcraft. To make a Norfolk duel an NoM? The very idea made his skin crawl. And in addition, there was a potential of loss? In that case, Mycroft would abide by nothing less than tearing the Golem apart and reducing the pilot to a screaming, shrivelling husk while he stared impassively at the twins who dared to insult him. But for his daughter, who purportedly supported NoMs? Or Gwen, whose softness was as infamous as her Void Sorcery? Indeed, Mycroft had to concede with a grudging, silent growl—that for once, not all the brains had been bred out of the Golden Blood of Henry.

When Gwen imagined the confrontation with the Exeters in the arena, she had envisioned the Hollands to emerge with a mysterious Mage in a cowl, ready to trounce her with Abjuring Mind Magic laced with Faith. What instead appeared not only gave her pause but made Charlene and her companions likewise open their mouths. “A Centurion Golem Suit?” Jean-Paul looked toward her, astonished by the spectacle of a metallic, bipedal machine almost four of his Captain stacked stiletto to shoulder. "They're fielding a War Golem against us? Is that legal?" "If the All England has allowed it." Charlene was quicker on the uptake. "Then it must be. Gwen, I think we're going to have a problem, and the Centurion is only going to be a part of it." Gwen concurred, for her Divination had already illuminated both her eyes with a pale, shimmering nimbus. It wasn't what she could see that was the problem—but what wasn't there. "Christ Almighty. Their number three, he's an NoM, isn't he?" Charlene nodded. "As Non-Magical as they come, and I am fairly certain that's 'Magus' John C. Williams. He's an NoM Golem Maker from the Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy." Besides the pair, Sir Rothwell's hand took on a tighter grip around the pommel of his Holy Sword. His weapon's superior enchantments were disabled for the bout, though the Faith circuitry that enabled his magic remained active. Gwen both sensed the Knight's apprehension and felt his displeasure. In the prideful Faith Mage's eyes, going toe-to-toe with an NoM was a grave insult not only to himself but to his Ordo and his mistress. Or was it perhaps, Gwen noted the Knights' grip, the sword on Aiden's belt? Among the challengers, Rothwell's signature Spellsword most logically resembled the NoM's war engine—though such a conjecture would be disingenuous. When a Knight of the Garter graduates from his service as a Squire, he is given a Mithril Spellblade forged by the Dwarves, as per the grand narratives governing the Ordo's mythoi. Flame quenched in the blood of drakes, this Relic of the Garter is then tempered by the Knight's Faith and being, becoming a part of the Knight's blood and flesh. The blade was a tool—but it was also a part of the Knight's animus and tied irrevocably to his Astral Soul. Yet, even so, the rules forbade Aiden Rothwell from utilising the Holy Sword's full potential, and therefore his full potential, despite the stakes in the credibility of his Ordo. Comparatively, the "tool" crafted by the Magi-tech scholar and NoM pilot was a tool in the simplest sense of a hammer or a wench. "John" could swap out ten suits and not break a sweat. Yet, because the rules had made allowances for artificers, he was nonetheless a legitimate contender. Across the field, the Golem roared into life in the manner of a living beast. Gwen had to remind herself to be alert but not alarmed. From the looks of the thing, it was a Centurion model, which wasn't uncommon. However, other than the frame, any similarities between this and the machines she saw while fighting the Triffidus ended at the chassis. The main difference was the removal of the artillery Spellsword on the bipedal walker's shoulders, vastly improving its agility and overall balance. In its place, both pauldrons sported what looked like anti-personnel Spellswords mounted on articulating pivot joints. Its armour was also thinner to account for the lack of recoil from the original Spellsword, having been transformed from the geometric cubism of the MKII design toward aesthetic curves with an organic semblance. The pilot's cockpit, an upscaled version of the Dwarven Strider's central capsule, was now vertical, allowing the pilot to be housed standing upright, simultaneously serving as a protective womb for its NoM passenger. Its main armaments, Gwen noted, were two variants of Spellswords she had never before seen on either Imperial or Dwarven Golems, placed just under the wrists of the machine, below three-clawed talon-fingers that looked to be equally dangerous in their cruel way. Finally, where the Centurions of the Royal Scots forsook a "head" for a Divination array, this particular model possessed a vicious, masked helmeted head that resembled an armoured, retro-styled CCTV camera. Judging from the Conjuration and Evocation motes leaking from the cyclopean ocular implant that formed its "eye", she also suspected that it was capable of ray-magic of sorts. The "tool" aside, she had to agree that the Exeters had pulled out the rug from under them. First, considering the optics they had arranged for the duel, neither she nor Charlene had any desire to fight an NoM, much less maim or slay the man outright in his cockpit. Likewise, she had no idea if indeed the Exeters had a better network than Charlene's borrowed crows, but even if they won, there was only shame in besting an NoM. In that regard, they were already at a disadvantage. Then there was Jean-Paul, who had no qualm against fighting or killing NoMs, but whose spells were arguably diminished if he was incapable of triggering Astral feedback through his Usurp and Consume abilities. "The bastards…" Her partner bit her lip in frustration. "Not that I am doubting your abilities, Gwen, but—" "Yeah," Gwen concurred. "This isn't looking very good for us, nor is it going to look good, win or lose." "There's that," Charlene sighed. "And then there's something else. I fear my information security wasn't up to snuff compared to the Militants. I mean, I had anticipated the fact, but for them to field an actual NoM in a Centurion engine?" "I'll not falter," Sir Rothwell spoke up beside the women. "Even without harming the man, I shall endeavour to defeat them. Besides, I with the blessing of our Lord and Saviour, I may not face the man." "The Knights of the Garter have all sworn a Cardinal Oath weaved into their Faith Magic," Charlene explained to Gwen. "They're hunters of monsters or Mages who are monsters. Against the innocent and in particular, powerless NoMs, they're sworn to do no injury." "That's admirable." Gwen nodded. "But yes, that's going to be awkward." "Especially as there isn't 'malicious harm' as per the competition, and I don't think competitive intent to injure accounts for the Oath." Sir Rothwell sighed at Charlene's words. "And knowing your Lord and Saviour." Charlene twisted her lip. "This is likely your trial, Sir Rothwell." The Knight, perhaps acknowledging Murphy's Law, inclined his chin in silence. "I have no qualms facing the man," Jean-Paul said helpfully. "Perhaps if I fought him first?" "We're drawing straws," Charlene reminded the Void Mage. "But yes, I would prefer it if you fought the Golem, badly matched as you are." The foursome continued to watch as the crowd made gushing noises at the mechatronic wonder. From an upper dais where the commentator would soon be seated, the All England's officious Adjudicator emerged with a black box armed with anti-magic, within which were slips of enchanted paper likewise enchanted with anti-Divination Glyphs. "But you know what? Our hope isn't lost." Charlene willed a crow to descend on her shoulder while doing her best to ignore the pair of eyes staring down from somewhere in the VIP platform. Standing beside her, Gwen felt envy for Charlene, a daughter with a father who cared, even if that care was judgement. "CAW!" "Mori," Charlene informed the bird. "Find me information on this, John C. Williams. I want to know why he's working for the Militants and what an American NoM hopes to achieve in England." "CAW!" "Give Mori ten minutes, and we'll know what makes the NoM tick." Charlene turned to her with confidence, then gestured to the dais, where the Captain of the twin's team, Thomas, awaited their representative. "Till then, shall we?" Bathed in the watchful gaze of some four thousand spectators and likely millions more on the BBC's lumen-casts, The Devourer of Shenyang stepped up beside Benedict Thomas Holland to shake the man's hand. "Ladies first, as always." Thomas bowed after the fact, inspiring smiles and laughter from the grandstands. Gwen bowed her head in turn, as per decorum, then reached out with an armoured glove into the box. As her hand passed the exterior, she felt the magic of her armour grow dull—though not annulled— then quickly withdrew a mysterious Glyph of no particular meaning. Holding the lottery ticket aloft as though she was the heroine of a story about ripening corn, she showed her ticket to the cheering crowd. Thomas followed, withdrawing a different coloured Glyph. More slips soon followed, alternating between the two. The Adjudicator, a man with the face of a hawk and a nose worthy of a Royal Griffin's beak, then held their slips aloft. "THE FIRST BOUT—" The man's voice effortlessly reached every inch of the stadium. "Sir Aiden Rothwell of the Order of the Garter will challenge our guest from the New World, the Artificer John Charles Williams!" Gwen felt her heart sink. Charlene was right in that God worked in mysterious ways, and that indeed, this would be a duel to test the Knight's conviction in the most taxing ways. Across from her, Thomas Holland gave her a handsome smile that was neither mocking nor hostile. "Good luck," the man said. "Milady, I hope to meet you in the arena. There, we will communicate with our bodies and our lives on the line. Win or lose, I promise you that the best is yet to come." "Likewise." Gwen withdrew with a heavier step despite the innate Flight built into her new suit. She had hope for Sir Rothwell, but his Trial of Steel wasn't a matter of skill, but a battle of the Knight's existential Credo, that of honouring the promise he had made to Charlene and the very oaths powering his Credo. That—and the fact that the Knight would be soloing a literal machine. "Indeed, the Nazarene works in mysterious ways." Sir Aiden Rothwell had just finished a short prayer when Gwen returned with confirmation of the worst-case scenario. For their team, the order was Sir Rothwell, Jean-Paul, and then herself. For the Exeters, it was the NoM, Thomas, then Poins. "I will endeavour to pass this trial, Magus Song, Milady Ravenport." "There's no—" Gwen was about to act on her feelings of pity for the Knight when Charlene cut her off with a smile. "—go forth, Sir Knight," the young Ravenport commanded her champion. "Perform what your heart and your Faith desires. Think nothing of win or loss, only what is right." With the guise of a Knight headed for his last duel, the Faith Caster relaxed his armour, bowed toward them both, the crowd, then briskly made his way onto the dais, where a whole section of the opposite Force Wall had been disabled to allow the entry of the Centurion MK Custom. The first battle would occur in a desert-scape, with half of the enormous duelling field transmuted into broken urban cover. Unfortunately, the Ordo of Garter had little interest in "cover", and neither did the towering Golem Suit. "Anything from the Crows?" Gwen sidled a bit closer to Charlene. She didn't usually feel the butterflies, but now a whole host was nesting in her chest. "Soon." Her partner hid her agitation far better than Gwen herself. "Soon…" Mycroft Ravenport dismissed the specifications submitted by the twins to the All England and felt strangely conflicted by the practice of allowing NoMs to create such mechanisms of destruction. In the past, the Mageocracy had, as the Americans did, dallied in the possibility of arming their NoMs with magical weaponry so that a Beast Tide could be beaten with the same tactics of numerical superiority. If a Human city was to fall, the proponents of the Militant's industrial complexes had argued, and a million would perish, wouldn't a hundred thousand men and women armed with Wands sent to repeal the tide be a better option? Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Logically and on a practical level, the arithmetic of the victor was undeniable—but the cost was still staggering to behold, and there were more significant complications as well. As a student of not just history but the hidden history of the Mageocracy, Mycroft knew very well the consequences of giving such armaments to NoMs, even if the NoMs were incapable of recharging the mechanisms of their mana-limited weaponry. Yet, even so, rebellions and revolts in the colonies spoke very loudly of what happened when a shepherd realised too late that his sheep now possessed sharpened horns long enough to gore and pin him to a tree. If nothing else, hadn't the Mageocracy lost the New World by virtue of the Americans arming their NoMs? Hadn't these same NoMs, together with the Mages who empowered them, then enslaved a continent and its native people? CLANG! Mycroft's thoughts were punctuated by the sound of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object somewhere in the arena, each blow buoyed by loud cries of appreciation from the jubilant crowd. When Mori had approached him earlier on Charlene's behalf, he had given consent out of sheer curiosity to see what his daughter and Henry's hellion would do with the information once the battle began. Whatever the case, the Knight from the Order of the Garter was no stranger to fighting giant monsters, though this had to be the man's very first time fighting an active war machine. As a descendent of the Rothwells, the young man was an admirable specimen worthy of Charlene had he not been sworn to chastity—and now that talent was on full display. Wreathed in a halo of Faith, the young Rothwell was an avenging Angel. His armaments of Faith, sword and shield, were each-endowed with the protective magic of his belief in the Nazarene, both shedding a retina-searing volume of Radiance. With each incandescent cry, the Knight showed the crowd the same despair the enemies of the Ordo and the Magical Creatures he hunted would face—an unstoppable Sword of Holy Fire shedding enough mana per second to power a villa. It was unfortunate then that the NoM's Magi-tech creation had been specced to withstand blows from Gwen's monstrous minions, not to mention her hyper-tier lightning, the one she called "Barbanginy" in the tongues of the Australian natives. He knew not whether the All England had taken the machine's fuel consumption into account. Still, from the looks of it, the bright-eyed young Williams had equipped the Centurion with enough HDMs to last an hour of hyperactive operation. For its defence, the Centurion used what looked like a double-layer of shielding formed from overlapping Walls of Force, the same used by the arena, creating a geometric "skin" over the machine's exterior. Such a cover wasn't perfect, of course, and there would indeed be gaps—but his opponent was a warrior of might and, as such, inherently failed at the necessary perception checks. After another dozen "Clangs!" that reduced the terrain to rubble and sand to silica, Sir Rothwell encircled the machine on angelic wings of Radiance and fire, testing the Golem's weakness. So far, his attacks had kept the thing on the defensive, preventing the machine from acting. All around the stadium, the NoMs appeared delighted that one of their own was standing up against a Faith Caster—but Ravenport knew that the Knight was likely testing to see if he could disable the machine to avoid killing the pilot outright, an act that would go against Rothwell's Sanctified Vows, the violation of which would disempower years of accumulated Faith. A few seconds after Sir Rothwell's tactical retreat, the Golem's Spellswords spontaneously burst into technicolour. If the Knight were fighting another Mage, their opponent would have recognised the act of compassion from the lowering of magical output and the non-lethal manner of the Knight's assault—but John C. William was both an NoM and an academic, and therefore terribly suited to understanding the Knight's true intentions. Without so much as the courtesy of announcing one's spell, the weapons fired. From underneath the gauntlets emerged a dazzling array of colours, each a different element tied to a mixture of Evocation, Transmutation, and Conjuration magic. A "Prismatic Spray" was the name of the original spell, a Magister-tier, complex sorcery that applied multiple magics at once to one's opponent, making it almost impossible to resist. Simultaneously, from the cyclopean eye atop the Golem came a green beam of Disintegration at full tilt, not at all diminished in its lethality, pulsing at twice the girth and output of what would be expected of a seventh-tier Transmuter. While the crowd burst into a riotous clamour, the two swivelling units on the machine's pauldrons revealed themselves to be Greater Sonic Suppressors, upscaled from hand-held units into industrial variants capable of knocking out Manticores. In total, what Sir Rothwell's underestimation had netted him was a greeting in the form of twin Prismatic Sprays, two Sonic Stuns set to the maximum setting and a Ray of Disintegration. Would the girl be able to withstand such a combination? Had Gwen not demonstrated her perfect Affinity for Kilroy's Necromancy and bested a Balefire, Ravenport felt he would soon attend a wedding. Inherently, the very idea of pitting a singular Mage against a Golem Suit was an absurd idea only the Americans would consider fair. Though inflexible in its configuration and useless in certain terrains, even a regular Centurion could simultaneously release a cluster of three Firestorms at a range of a kilometre or more. At the same time, its close-range systems could simultaneously replicate the firepower of a dozen mid-tier or three upper-tier Mages. "SHIELD OF FAITH!" Without a split-second of delay, the signature Faith-burning shielding of the Clerical Ordo covered the entirety of Sir Rothwell's body. Faith, unlike Spellcraft, was an ancient form of magic that differed significantly from the thieving of power from the Elemental Planes. With enough Faith, the very rules of reality itself could be suspended for a split-second, and that power was now what sustained Sir Rothwell from the combined onslaught of the Centurion's brutal assault. Mycroft Ravenport shook his head. The Knight was a textbook example of why Mages should avoid fighting Golems. In his bravery, courage, and dauntless power, Sir Rothwell chose to "tank" the Golem while considering his next move. For a Faith Caster, it was the correct thing to do, as mana exhausted far quicker than Faith, and most Mages using tier six and seven spells would soon be OoM, or their mind would grow too taxed to continue without long periods of rest. What Sir Rothwell's Prismatic-blasted head had forgotten was that he was fighting a machine. Unlike a Mage, the Centurion MK Custom was a murder engine fed on fuel that was good for another hour of total output and could be swapped out for spare tanks for as many hours as the metal remained intact. Unless the Knight could use his Faith Relic's true power—but could not because he did not forge, design—nor enchant the Spellblade, he would not penetrate the overlapping, mana-draining Force Carapace of the Centurion. Impressive as Aiden could be, the Exeter had checkmated Charlene's champion both psychologically and in their liberal interpretation of the rules. His daughter's suite, therefore, was certainly not off to a great start. "CAW—CAW—!" Charlene thanked the crow as she retrieved what looked like a data crystal in its grip and slotted the thing into her Magitech iPad. The illusory projections that lit up her worried eyes were offset only by the splendiferous blasts of rainbow light from the arena, cut with bursts of orange Radiance broiling the thrumming Walls of Force. Beside her, Gwen did her best to catch up with Charlene's speed reading. "Gwen." Ravenport's daughter finished the twenty-page document in a matter of moments. "Is Master Yossari, or someone of her rank here in the arena? Or can be freed to attend?" "Yes, why?" Gwen had to re-organise her thoughts from the scrolling mass of words messing up her eyes. Whatever was happening to Sir Rothwell on stage wasn't at all helping her concentration; one entirely spent thinking about how she would overcome the Golem when it came to her turn. Unlike the Knight, there were means and methods available to her that were denied to Sir Rothwell that she hoped would beat the machine. Even so, the sheer volume of destructive spellfire filling the arena was at giving her goosebumps all over. "My father had decided to give us a hand from his Ivory Tower," Charlene spoke while glancing at the VIP viewing platform. "The report says that John C. Williams is the grandchild of Jonathan Charles William, originally from North Carolina. They are descended from famous Wand Makers holding hundreds of weapon patents in the US. John recently graduated with Honours from the Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy. He's in London because…" Gwen noted the triumph creeping up on Charlene's otherwise expressionless face. "… He's here to seek access to Dwarven knowledge to complete his Thesis on the integration of Dwarven Golem Interface for Human Use. To my knowledge, Dwarves are rare in North America, something about having lost an ancient grudge with the Greenskins. Maybe that's why he thought he would try his luck here?" While the stadium rocked with the sound of explosions, Gwen's mind likewise made a complete revolution. "Okay, so why the hell is he fighting us? The Dwarves are our friends. They're working with ME, with the IoDNC specifically! Not the Militants!" "Exactly," Charlene said. "I think the twins had the boy roped up by promising him access to you, and therefore the Dwarves." "So…" Gwen's mind immediately swivelled toward the same conclusion as her partner. If the twins wanted to play silly buggers, then two could play that game. "This fight…" Charlene remained stoic. "Is likely over, despite Sir Rothwell's best efforts. However, would you mind having a word with John? Perhaps ask Yossari to come along?" "Of course." Gwen raised her Message Device to her ears, then left a polite but immediate summon for her friend and ally, Master Yossari Vildrenbrandt of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, Master of Alchemy and the diplomatic attaché to the Dwarves currently serving out their "debt" in London. "Ten minutes enough? I'll have Walken teleport them over." "More than enough" Charlene nodded. "Sir Rothwell's sword might be neutered, but his Faith Armour has plenty of Radiance left before its OoM." The first bout, much to the delight of the audience, lasted well over thirty minutes. The pyrotechnical exchange that framed the contest between the Knight of the Garter and the NoM pilot in a suit of his forge and design was a genuine and satisfying opening for the escalating stakes to come. Comparatively, for the Duke of Norfolk, once the flow of the battle established, his interest waned. As a rule, Knights were powerful individual units, but their rigid doctrine, a necessary component of Faith Sorcery, seldom left room for wonderment and surprises. Ergo, try as the Rothwell boy might, the limitations placed on his items, together with the torturous vow of non-violence against NoMs, ensured that the man was mechanically incapable of overcoming the Centurion MK Custom. For those in the know, the spectacle was a gloomy one, for here was proof that the NoMs' true lack was merely equipment and that should they be given capital, resource and time, the reign of the Mages may indeed be shaken off its foundations. Of course, the manufacturing process of Magi-tech items would ensure that no NoM could create such monstrous war engines in any volume. Even ten-thousand NoMs working together would have no means to best an Elemental Spirit old enough to produce a Core that could power the Aether Engine bringing life to the Golem, nor could NoMs harvest the thousands of rare ingredients and materials necessary to forge its Ferro-sinews, runic platings, mana-converters and actuators. Yet, just as Mycroft's mind wandered toward the Mageocracy's policies, his daughter and the girl made their move. Coupled with a trio of Dwarves Ravenport recognised as the Alchemist Yossari Vildrenbrandt, a Master Runesmith with the moniker of Danmurim the Glum, and a new Engineseer on exchange to the Shard, Gwen walked the distance between the two camps to approach the twins. Was this what his daughter had planned for the data on the NoM? Ravenport felt a smile touch the corner of his mouth. And to have Henry's hellion carry out the dirty work? It was a very Charlene thing to do, an act within which he could find no fault. Below, all eyes were once more on Gwen. "Crossing the field" via its perimeter was permissible by All England's rules, though such unorthodox disruptions were nonetheless perceived as unfavourable and impolite. If the combatants were influenced unduly by the interruption, the Adjudicator could force one side to forfeit the match. "Interesting," Mycroft heard himself murmur with satisfaction as the battle below slowed its hectic pace. As anticipated, with the Dwarves and Gwen in full view, the NoM's sequential firing of his weapon systems lost its tempo, giving the Rothwell boy unexpected breathing room. The other guests elsewhere in the VIP, especially the posse surrounding the flamboyant Lady Astor, burst into speculation and clamour. Below, the Adjudicator, likely favouring Sir Rothwell, signalled that the match should continue even as the NoM grew infinitely distracted. Unfortunately for Gwen's team, the Knight's code prevented Aiden from taking advantage of a one-sided challenge, meaning he chose to wait out the curious distraction offered by their crow-clad Captain. "Mori." Mycroft motioned for one of his crows. "What are they saying?" "CAW— CAW—" Mycroft couldn't help but broadly grin as the bird delivered the exchange verbatim. Gwen, in her unique way, had asked the Dwarves to deliver an ultimatum to the Exeters and the NoM in the Golem Suit, who had to be listening through his Magi-tech instruments. "We nay hold our debt ter the Mageocracy nor The Shard." the Dwarven Master was backing up Gwen's assurance that only her allies, and those close to her, would gain any form of access to patented Dwarven Magitech, or had any hope of studying in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. "Mistake nothing, lads. Our wee Lassie here' the holder of the Debt of Haj-Zül, she's a friend to Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt, scion of Varekan-Kül, Bringer of the Lumen and our venerated Deepdowner. If yer thinks ter bargain with our favour, forget it—I declare it here and now that yer kin are Vadam!" "If you've trouble with Dwarven," the girl added with a subtle toss of her hair. "I can clarify." On the duelling field, the steaming Golem had all but grown silent, just as the twin had grown silent. Once more, the Adjudicator signalled for the fight to continue. "If you've nothing else to promise to Mister Williams, then I shall return to camp and meet you in the duelling arena with my Dwarves and our patented Magitech." The girl turned, exposing her back and the backs of her Dwarven partners to the Exeters. Would the twins retaliate? Mycroft had no doubt they were burning with shame, but the very idea of attacking a lady with her back turned, in public, and flanked by the Mageocracy's Dwarven allies was unthinkable. If the twins did act, Mycroft felt, he would have burst into impolite laughter right here and now, spoiling his reputation. When no riposte came, the Duke of Norfolk counted the seconds it would take for the match to take a dramatic turn. Would the NoM possess the necessary honour to continue the fight now that his investment in the twins turned out to be lies and deception? Or would he turn as the British weather did in autumn? After all, Williams was in Britain to pursue the advancement of his craft— honour? What was 'honour' to an academic in pursuit of knowledge? Would such a thing weigh more than air? Within the span of a dozen breaths, the Golem grew inert, then with the hiss of escaping air, the cockpit opened, and Mycroft got his answer. "I forfeit." The sandy-haired Artificer within held up both hands as he dismissed the dizzying array of Glyphs hovering all around him. "I need to speak with Magus Song, now. If you would direct me, Sir Knight, er— to the lady who handles worms—" Opposite the inquisitive, red-faced NoM inventor, the Knight of the Garter appeared in physical agony. The humanity! Ravenport chuckled. The Knight wasn't at all used to dealing with NoMs. If he had guessed, as Mycroft did, what the man was liable to do after Gwen dropped that Abjuring Circle of Clarity on the twins, then he would have forfeited first to preserve his honour. Now, the Knight would be given an undeserved victory, the dishonour of which would take months of penitence to absolve. While the confused crowd slowly caught on that the fight was over, the Adjudicator announced the victory in Charlene's favour, then cleared the arena. Watching the agitated NoM, the dejected Knight, the haughty Gwen and his smiling Charlene, Mycroft could only say that while he was pleased, the proceedings were a right mess of spontaneity, poor planning, and on-the-cuff spell casting. What if the NoM could not heed or had not listened in to Gwen's Dwarves? What if, God forbid, the NoM was honourable? What if the Exeters had retorted that, once Gwen was married to one of them, access to the Dwarves was merely a matter of time? What if Sir Rothwell denounced her here and then? If the girls wanted to be Tower Masters, the Lord Duke of Norfolk shook his head— they still had a long way to go.

"Sir, are you sure certain 'doping' is allowed?" Gwen remarked to the hawk-nosed Adjudicator, whose eyes glowed with equal parts regret and Divination at Umzokwe's feeding habits. Behind the man, the crowd in the stadium shared the man's fascinated horror. Beyond that, Gwen had no doubt wealthy viewers watching the scene at home were likewise having second thoughts about buying hi-resolution Lumen-projectors. "I'd like to have a stern word with anyone who would dare protest. I mean, New World John over yonder fielded a God-damned Centurion Custom." Charlene's eyes stared daggers at their reserve bench, where the pilot, academic and Wand Smith simmered with agitation, waiting for the match to end so that he could apologise to Gwen for joining the "wrong side". Previously, the Exeters had allowed their man to go, possessing neither the spontaneous wit to rope their pilfered Magi-tech Smith back into the fold or the clout to detain a named Academic from MIT in public. Perhaps, Gwen thought, the Exeters hadn't given up after all—though private vengeance had to be served with clandestine subtlety, for her METRO would report that the Hollands had cheated an NoM to waylay a Knight. Unfortunately for Charlene, the advantage Gwen had gained was lost when, upon his return, Sir Aiden Rothwell communicated without recourse his inability to continue the bout lest his Faith was despoiled by dishonour. For Gwen, who had not taken the man's self-righteous Credo into account, Rothwell's decision to "pull out" came as a disappointment. In her eyes, it was with great luck that they had snatched up a victory from the jaws of defeat, only now she was left with a half-hearted apology. Still playing the serene sorceress, Charlene steered her aside, then bid the Knight a job well-done and that House Ravenport would remember the Ordo's favour. To save the man face, she then begged the Knight to speak to his duelling partner, explaining that they were both victims of the Exeters' deceit. In conversing with the NoM, she assured the man, their mutual victimhood would absolve him of the guilt assailing his Faith. Afterwards, for their pre-game prep, Gwen helped Jean-Paul get ready by fattening Umzokwe. As for their opponents, Benedict Thomas prepared by suiting up in a grimly visaged padded cloth plate with the help of his aides. "Shuu—shuu—shuu—" Besides Gwen, with visible susurrations from its undulating sinews, Jean-Paul's Familiar convulsed with pleasure. From the silence that engendered, she could only wonder if the world was ready to face the debut of an albino Umzokwe the size of a horse, undulating and glistening with grey-tinged slime as its semi-translucent body pulsed with secret juices secreted from her ungloved hand. For Gwen, the feeding was no different from Ariel or Dede taking their daily vitality tax. For her observers, the uncanny sight of the dozen hot-pink tentacles slithering from Umzokwe's maw with a life of their own to wrap Gwen's hand and forearm was a sight many would never forget. Was it because Umzokwe made no other sound other than the sucking and slurping? Gwen pondered the optics while the tendrils massaged her hand, lapping up every mote of viridescence. Disparate to the sensual, Lovecraftian horror of Caliban, Umzokwe forced the observer to be inundated by an aversion that stemmed from carrion and rot, entropy and decay. Not far, a red-faced Jean-Paul shivered, likely benefitting just as much from her gift to Umzokwe. "Enough?" Gwen implored the giant leech while thinking of Garp and Strun, the latter being commanded to watch the match from the Bunker lest he "leapt in" to defend his Priestess. As much as she wanted to fill Jean-Paul, only her Soul Tapped sycophants could receive the total dose of her benediction. To Soul Tap Jean-Paul as she had done for Gracie, however, was out of the question. With the sound of a stubborn plunger unsticking from a bathroom bowl, she yanked her arm and hand from Umzokwe's writhing, squirming interior, sending a splatter of semi-clear juices across the Adjudicator's Oxfords. Jean-Paul wordlessly handed her a towel to mop up the excess while the leech cooed and rubbed up against the sorceress. The crowd collectively regained the ability to breathe. Then finally, with a word from the Adjudicator, the man professed that the spectacle was over, simultaneously announced their next bout—that of "Magus Jean-Paul Bekker" against "Lord Benedict Thomas Holland". Mycroft Ravenport waved away the guests who had approached him, then returned his attention to the match below. Unlike the bout with the Golem, the fight between Meister Bekker's Apprentice and a member of the Exeter Clan drew the full attention of the VIP section in the upper viewing platform. For the upper crust observers of London, the matchup was an age-old debate between the "Power of the Old Blood" against the "Upstarts of Spellcraft." Mycroft himself did not subscribe to the prideful contest. However, as one of England's oldest families, he knew well there was a time when Spellcraft was not the universal norm of magic. In the epochs before the Great War, generations of their Ancestors had coasted to victory and triumph through discoveries of blood that boiled with arcane power unique to humanity. To the spectators in the grandstand, the Exeters represented the preservation of old magic—or at least a facsimile of that which was lost. Theirs was a talent that could seldom be reached by academic discovery. Instead, their power came from distilling the blue blood of nobility as an Alchemist might search for True Gold. Modern Spellcraft, to the Exeters, was not the foundation but bright plumes of feathers that adorned the knights' helm, an essential catalyst, but hardly the base upon which the family had carved out its bloody fortune. Conversely, Jean-Paul Bekker was the quintessential representative of a Faustian arcanistry taken to its natural conclusion through experimentation. For those familiar with Bekker's published work, Jean-Paul resulted from the Meister's attempt at recreating the raw talent of Elizabeth Sobel, the champion-turned-villainess who made her mark during the Beast Tide. Jean-Paul's powers did not begin with divine intervention, as per the scions of Henry Dawn Star, but in an orphanage of bastards. His was a talent that, like his carrion Familiar, was distilled rapidly from a systematic selection criterion of the survival of the fittest, moulded by the Meister in the manner of a Necromancer Flesh Grafter until he could stand toe-to-toe against the peerage. The irony did not escape Mycroft Ravenport. Nonetheless, for the spectators, theirs was a contest that differed significantly from the debate of whether NoMs could be given magical arms. What he saw instead was the ideological contest between the old families and the new scholars who vied for supremacy to see who was the advent of the Mageocracy's magically-driven future. A conflict that was now played out in earnest. "Scald!" Thomas was the first to cast. There was no "Ladies first" against an opponent so visually unappealing. The crisp, final syllable erupting from between the Steam Mage's lips spontaneously engendered a mass of superheated vapours to flood the transmuted battlefield, framed to resemble the interior of a "catacomb" type Dungeon. The randomly generated setting held both advantages and disadvantages for the contestants, a fact appreciated by the spectators, who could only grimace as the last bout all but smashed through the terrain with brutal disregard. On the Hollands' side, Thomas proceeded with care, flooding his surroundings with the Element of his calling, not only obscuring his body but transforming bodily into an incorporeal form. Opposite, the audience bore witness to Umzokwe's swiftness as it slithered through the gaps of the catacombs to discretely approach the Steam Mage, forcing its slimy body into impossible cracks too small even to fit a hand, much less a monstrous worm with the girth of a draft horse. Likewise, Jean-Paul himself wove together skins of protective sorcery, covering himself from head to toe in a dense membrane. Would Thomas' Elemental Avatar survive a Void Usurp? Mycroft suspected the rest of the VIPs had just as much anticipation for the encounter, for Jean-Paul's display had another purpose—the demonstration of "stable" Void Magic to the public. In recent years, even with Cambridge's publications, Void-based Arcanistry still carried the baggage of its misunderstood reputation for self-destruction and instability. The bad reputation was because, during Sobel's prime, her hound master had kept details of the Void Sorceress on a tight leash, offering little to no elucidation for the academic community. Conversely, thanks to Gwen, dozens of institutions among the three Factions now looked forward to the Second Renaissance of Void Arcanistry, hailing for a dire herald to correct the record. Momentarily, the two forces met. Starkly different to the brutal power of the Golem and the glimmering honesty of Faith Magic, both Void and Steam were subtler in their offence. To the stadium's right, Jean-Paul wove into place a miasma of seemingly living Void particles, something of a Morden's Living Shroud, to separate from his body. For the unlearned viewers, the sorcery was something akin to a conjured creature, likely in the form of a Nightshade or a Spectre. On the other hand, Thomas' steam merely hinted at hiding a creature of sorts, which Mycroft knew to be the Steam Spirit Theranos, an acquisition that had cost the Militant Factions both lives and favours. As one who knew the history of the modern Mageocracy in its entirety, the Duke of Norfolk could only wonder at the cost of such vanity. Both Holland and Bekker were invariably not "self-made" as, say, Gwen or Kilroy had been, and both had spent excessive volumes of resources to develop their wards. If so, could the boys' ascension even be considered a boon to the Mageocracy? Indeed, if the NoM had demonstrated anything, it was that the resources spent making his Centurion Custom a reality was a far cheaper alternative than the blood, time, effort and affront to nature paid to try and re-capture living lightning in a bottle. A shattering HISS—! Interrupted Mycroft's thoughts. Below, the conjured forces of Void and Steam had found one another. Jean-Paul's miasma of jet instantly contracted in the form of a living thing, shrieking as Thomas' steam rapidly expanded to envelop and annihilate the amorphous mass of animated ink. Yet, just when it appeared to be overwhelmed, the nebulous Void-form swirled onto a spontaneous vortex. The effect, Mycroft could guess, stemmed from an impressive remote casting of "Usurp", Bekker's Signature Sorcery based upon the infamous Maelstrom utilised by Elizabeth Sobel. Instantly, the superheated steam was sucked into the swirling black mass, which then rapidly expanded as it made for the rough whereabouts of Benedict Thomas, ignoring the obfuscation of the Mage's body within his sea of steam. Ravenport observed the others marvelling at the versatility of Void Matter as an element. Unfazed, the older Exeter twin waited until the mass came closer, congealing itself into a solid force once more in the manner of an Earthen Wyrm, coiling its body to strike— Then Thomas uttered the final words to the masterful arcanistry of his Clan. "Force Cage!" No sooner had the final invocation materialised the magic did a contracting cage of force, perfectly crafted on each side with panes of pure kinetic energy, enclosed the tenebrous blob of Void ink. There was a rebellious thump from within the "Box", then a flash of dull silver as the Abjuring mana of an upper-tier Dismissal manifested. The crowd cheered. However, Ravenport could see that Jean-Paul Bekker's actual assault had yet to begin. While Thomas busied himself with the remnants of the Void-ooze, the Void Mage was readying himself for a multi-pronged combination assault. Umzokwe, that horrid leech-creature from the Void, finally slithered into place, then burst from a loosened pile of transmuted stone, making a bee-line for Thomas. Simultaneously, it violently ejaculated a sizzling torrent of what looked like putrefied offal, the stench of which Mycroft could only begin to imagine from its eyeless face. Stolen novel; please report. "Infused Blast!" Came an instantaneous riposte from Thomas, wasting not a split-second before the sixth-tier artillery-class sorcery manifested in its "Quickened" form, waylaying the incoming leech with a superheated battering ram of scalding, rapidly expanding vapours. The sticky ejecta was the first to meet the column, instantly displacing into deadly splatters that sizzled the Walls of Force. The clash appeared surreal, but from what Mycroft knew, there were no less than three spells involved in the "Infused Blast". First, there was a ram of pure force giving the blast its battering prowess. Next, the dispersing ram sent shattered shards of force all over the body of Umzokwe, scoring, blistering and rupturing its skin, thirdly cooking the creature so spontaneously that the stadium collectively winced at the second-hand agony. Umzokwe landed with a thud, recovering even as liquified flesh slid from its body in sheets. What was more disturbing was that renewed flesh, glistening and unharmed, then instantly regrew as it continued its assault. The unnatural sturdiness of the supernatural creature, Mycroft could see, was likely a product of the girl's handiwork, something of a boon associated with her Mythic-connection as a Vessel. After Shalkar, there had been significant interest in the girls' latent talents. Were it not for his intervention and those in the Middle Factions who felt indebted to her Master, there would have been no peace for the possessor of such a power. That said, Mycroft did not doubt that like her Master, Gwen was someone whose predilection for morning dips meant they could not help but stir up the reposed mud. As with the earlier meeting of Elemental and Void, the leech now reached the Avatar-body of Thomas' making. Knowing what's to come, Mycroft steadied his breath, then counted to three. BUNG! On two—there came the discordant clamour of superheated steam filling Umzokwe, who was using its tentacles to envelop the Exeter's scion—what it received instead was a rapid expansion of compressed gasses so violent as to create a visible shockwave. The Walls of Force shook, taking the brunt of the explosion, instantly misting over as the barrier generators cranked their dynamos to overdrive. For a second, it felt as though the stadium had itself leapt into the air. In the commoner's stands, the NoMs screamed, unused to such displays of power. Conversely, the Mages sighed with appreciation and awe, for the blast continued to expand for several seconds before the resultant pressure escaped into spatial vents connecting back into the Elemental Plane of Air. In a lesser duel, the pressurised air would have wounded or incapacitated Thomas' opponent. Fortuitous for Gwen, Jean-Paul was no ordinary opponent, nor had his training been less gruesome than the trials of war which House Holland set for its young successors. When the steam cleared enough for the spectators to see, they saw that Jean-Paul remained standing, clad from head to toe in a shroud of Void Matter so that he resembled a humanoid, bipedal Umzokwe. Had the Creature Mage withdrawn his Familiar? Ravenport wondered with some surprise, or was this another form of magic that Bekker had recently developed for her boy? He had his answer in the next moment as Jean-Paul failed to manifest a renewed leech but instead leapt into thin air, dematerialising as though a slit through the Prime Material had swallowed him whole. An Astral Jaunt! Mycroft felt his heart stir for the first time since the battle began. Unlike Gwen and her peers' Blink or the Dimensional Doors, Astral Jaunt was a wholly different form of transposition. Rather than drawing on existing theory from the School of Conjuration—an Astral Jaunt directly created a spontaneous Pocket Plane around the user, transporting them through their Elemental Plane to appear where the user willed. It was a higher-tier form of Arcanistry that did not leave behind mana signatures or required Divination markers that would give one's position away. Nearer the other side of the now shattered catacombs, Thomas condensed into enough of a humanoid form to inspect the work he had wrought. To his satisfaction, there wasn't enough of Umzokwe to be found, having been wholly vaporised in the cataclysmic eruption of superheated air and water expanding from the Force Cube he had created to withhold its destructive glory. Thomas' spell was one of the Steam Mage's Signature sorcery—although the arcane construction possessed no official name and was born from mechanical motion created from control and talent. Curiously, Mycroft recalled the rumour that Thomas had conceived of the notion while observing NoM Magi-tech crafters in America, when an Ether Engine exploded, unleashing enough compressed, liquid mana to flatten the garage and make "In-N-Out" of its engineers. To create the "bomb" that Thomas had used, a Mage in control of Elemental Steam only needed to compress their element into a pin-point form, then use Spatial Conjuration to create a "container" of force to constrain the power. The greater the compression, the more layered the "box", the more destructive power the bomb possessed. For this reason, though the secret of Thomas' craft was an open one, only a hand of the Exeters specific to the line had managed to reproduce it. For most, the dearth of compatibility and skill meant they could not create a manifestation of sufficient destructive potential. Whatever his opinions on the Hollands, Mycroft had to admit that the result was an impressive form of controlled chaos, of anarchy in a box unleashed, worthy of a leader in the Mageocracy's new generation. It was also a counter to "Usurp", the Signature Spell of the Void-School of Arcanistry, for the Void Mages' corruption ability would run face-first into the panes of force, which would then trigger the explosion. Despite his pessimism, Mycroft stifled his anticipation, for he still wished his daughter luck. Meanwhile, from a slit below and beneath the Steam Mage, Jean-Paul's retaliation emerged from a rent in space-time. The wonders of Astral Jaunt! With it, a Mage could remain hidden in his Pocket Dimension of Void, ignoring the chief limitations of barriers and even solid walls or floors, key weaknesses of Dimension Door and Blink! "USURP!" Not one, but two rents in the Prime Material materialised, dissipating the Elemental Steam inundating the space around Thomas. Within a split-second, the drained mana field bloated the orbs of tenebrous Void, then— The next stage of the Usurp spell-line was the release of stolen mana in the form of a nova-type Void blast titled by Bekker as "Implosion". To counter the effect, Thomas likewise unleashed hell. The similarities between the ultimate effect of both Thomas and Jean-Paul's spells did not escape Mycroft's amusement. For the majority of the stadium's audience, all they could see was the sudden meeting of twin forces, one dark and one light. Void and Steam. Two elements of extreme rarity, with Steam only marginally more common than its opponent. Within the protected barrier of the duelling area, the abstract phenomenon of a rapidly expanding force meeting its opposite. For the average Mage, there were no words to describe the jarring interaction other than a kind of tempest-tossed mutiny, a concurrent clashing of elemental chaos. The sound that engendered from the enclosed space, a chest-thrumming drone, was both the wail of a high-pressure system and the shrieking of air and water rapidly disappearing into the Void. How could mortal bodies sustain such injury? Survive such an assault? When the steam cleared, the crowd had their answer, and Mycroft had his prediction ascertained. Jean-Paul was a talented lad who cared little for his safety in completing a task he deemed sacred—but there were barriers that a Mage could not overcome with conviction alone. In that regard, Mycroft felt his daughter did possess rotten luck when it came to the ticket draw. Perhaps, pitted against Poins, Jean-Paul's subversive sorcery would have had a natural advantage. Facing the overwhelming power of Thomas' boxed Steam Eruptions, however, there wasn't the concentrated mana of Fire, Earth or even Water to steal. Conversely, the naturally nebulous nature of Elemental Steam, especially in the hands of a true maestro, was an effective counter against the corrosive nature of Void. The clincher, Mycroft had anticipated, was a case of "if" Jean-Paul's creature could survive the bomb and thereby regenerate to harry the Steam Mage while the Void caster fought at a distance. To then close the space and meet Thomas head-on was a move that took immense courage, or masochism, which Jean-Paul possessed in equal measure. In regular combat, no Mage worth their salt would dare to fight a Steam Mage vis-a-vis, considering their all-pervasive Element and its ability to negate hard-point defence and cook one's opponents alive. Now, Meister Bekker's ward lay on the floor, oozing viscous globs of Void from blurry burn-wounds that would require an upper-tier Regeneration. Amazingly, the man was still conscious, a true testament to his ability to withstand agony. Above the panting young man, Thomas was forced out of his Steam Avatar and floated a safe distance away from his opponent, with bits of his armour becoming corroded as he too tried to control his uneven breathing. All around the two, the transmuted landscape had nearly disappeared. In a real catacomb, both would have likely perished from the imminent collapse of the passageway. The close encounter of the deadly kind, Mycroft wagered, had possessed more intimacy than Benedict Thomas predicted. To underestimate Jean-Paul, whose deeds had been overshadowed by Gwen's achievements in the IIUC and elsewhere like Shalkar, was a mistake the boy would not make again. In hindsight, Mycroft wondered if the Void Mage had intended Umzowke to be a sacrificial lamb so that the Steam Mage would let down his guard and allow the Void Mage to get closer. If Mycroft himself had entered the battle with perfect knowledge, he too would have needed the means to offset Thomas' advantage, forcing an encounter so that, at the very least, there was a possibility of victory. Incredibly, Jean-Paul forced himself to stand. The stadium collectively winced, then inhaled agonised breaths as sheets of what appeared to be skin mixed with magical matter slid from Jean-Paul's body. The resilience of a Void Mage! That vitality! The irony wasn't beyond Mycroft's understanding, but still, he felt impressed by the fact that Bekker's ward was not only alive but fully functioning. "Finish me," the crow on his shoulder reported back as Jean-Paul's saying. "Or we continue." All the while, the boy was regenerating with the likeness of a Mud Element Salamander. Visibly, the wet flesh hardened, the jelly-like flesh congealed, then little by little, mobility returned to the man's body. At this display, the other nobles and Magisters around Mycroft expressed their approval. Usually, the flesh was weak, and the mind was strong, and that itself was praiseworthy. Now, the Void Mage had shown that both his flesh and mind possessed enough elasticity to survive this and a more significant crisis. Whatever Bekker had achieved, even if her creation did not reach the level of Sobel's tier of destruction, she had nonetheless created something to rival the Noble Houses. Even if Jean-Paul could not best the Holland's scion today, the nobles present would be reminded that the Void Mage had been picked from a runt's litter. Unlike the Hollands' Golden Blood, he was an urchin survivor, a bastard of no origin and history. Therefore, if enough energy and time were spent scouring the masses for men and women like Jean-Paul, and if Bekker could capture that lightning with a bit of aid from Henry's hellion, then there should be good reasons for new funding among the Meisters' circles. But there was another caveat as well. Jean-Paul wasn't the only Void Mage. He wasn't even the best Void Mage, for all knew that the greatest was behind. "Jean-Paul, return!" As Mycroft had anticipated, the girl did not abide by Jean-Paul's sacrifice. Continuing would result in a tie—something Jean-Paul had likely counted on by betting his life, for his maiming would directly provoke Meister Bekker, a figure of considerable influence in the Militant Faction. In that regard, the Void Mage's misfortune was that their Captain was a creature prone to soft-hearted empathy and compassion. "No, I can keep fighting." "I wasn't asking, JP. Get the hell back here, now." Mycroft felt an upwelling of disapproval in his chest. A compassion that inspired loyalty was an admirable quality in a leader but arguably limited when one aspired to be a Tower Master. As history foretold, those who survived the trials of serving a Tower Master would not look upon their leader with awe but with a gnawing sense of jealousy and loathing. If all had paid the price in blood to erect the Master's Tower, then why should one woman stand at the apex, possessing all—when themselves were left only with the dregs? Shalkar, it seemed, was perhaps kinder than Mycroft had anticipated. Like a good Spellsword, the girl needed further tempering to cleanse her pretty head of the remaining impurities. Didn't Singapore say they had trouble with an emerging Mermen tribe that collected SPAM cans with Gwen's likeness? Mycroft could only marvel at what comedy of errors could engender such an occurrence, but the Malaysian archipelago could teach a good lesson in necessity. There were other fires elsewhere as well that could do with a touch of Shalkar. The Adriatic Sea, for instance, had reported a resurgence of Mermen raids from the Seven Kingdoms, an occurrence echoed by reports from the Aegean. If history could be trusted as a marker, all of it pointed to the eventual resurgence of a Mermen Beast Tide: one that, with careful pruning and management, could be delayed for decades or absolved entirely through stirring up civil conflicts in the deep sea. Then there was the matter with the Dwarves and the Elemental Sea—though he would prefer to keep the girl out of the Murk for a time. While Mycroft pondered plans for the girl, the Adjudicator below announced the match in Thomas' favour, then bid the contestants return to their corners. Despite a grilling from Gwen, Jean-Paul refused to yield to the infirmary and chose to stay as a wrapped mummy on the sidelines. Once more, with her characteristic indecision, the girl relented to the guilt trip. On the Hollands' side, Benedict Thomas retreated to his corner to be stripped of his damaged armour for a new suit, all the while replenishing his reserves by taking the maximum allowance of mana potions in-between matches. Charlene glanced for the umpteenth time toward the grandstand, then approached the girl, at which point the two conspired for their final chance at victory. Through the eyes of Mori, Mycroft listened to their conversation. "What do you think? Can you handle Thomas?" Charlene was asking the girl. "He's tired, and he's shown his trump card, so yes." The girl nodded with confidence. "Jean-Paul's done a good job." "He's done no less than Sir Rothwell," Charlene agreed. "What's your approach?" "I've got a plan to play it safe and wear him down," the girl said. "Whatever he's doing uses an enormous amount of mana, while I've got Conjuration for days. Besides, I am not sure how Caliban or Ariel will take that bomb blast. I am sure Golos could tank it, but it isn't as though I could ask for an hour or two to draw the Mandala." "Nor would London appreciate the sudden appearance of the Scion of the Yinglong." Charlene's mood, it seemed to Mycroft, was more relaxed than he had anticipated, likely because of her confidence in Gwen, which Mycroft shared. For one, he knew for a fact that the Militants had not received the complete and unabridged report from Shalkar, for he was the one who had withheld details such as her relation to Tryfan and the full extent of her connection to Mythic beings like the "Snake" and the Yinglong, or her curios acquisition of "Faith". "So." The girl stretched her gauntlet-covered fingers, flexing the wonderous crowskin that made even Mycroft desirous. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?" Indeed, Mycroft mused as the girl signalled the Adjudicator to open the next match, giddy for the interesting times ahead for the Exeters of House Holland.

"Did you know Sobel? Elizabeth Sobel?" The voice of Viscount Mowbray, overseer of the Crown's fortunes in Hastings, remarked over the dull roar shaking the grandstand. "I met her once. I was a student. It was just after the Beast Tide, during the period Henry Kilroy ventured from baronage to baronage, persuading our parents to join the then Middle Coalition." "I met her aunt when the Sobel Estate still existed—after she left," replied another voice, this one older and a little dreamy from the recollection. "As for the sorceress, all I recall was that even as a young woman, Elizabeth was—" The voice grew thoughtful. "Beautiful?" Lady Astor was quick to draw attention to the man's recollection. "Ravishing," another voice agreed. "And dreadfully frightening." "I recall attending a function with Lord Kilroy once. I must confess that never had I felt such a desire for fresh linen than after a meet and greet with his bride-to-be," another voice, senior but jovial, remarked with a mixed tone. "Kilroy bid her show Father what a Void Sorceress may do—or would do if we held out against her wishes. That said, for all the terror, the demonstration was—strikingly performed." "And now we've come full circle—" A fourth gestured to the stadium with his flute of Pinot gris, all the while looking over the shoulder of his conversation partner, the ever-lovely widow of Astor. "Courtesy of the very same Henry Kilroy." "Lord knows the Mageocracy could use another Sobel," the first voice, that of the Viscount, remarked for the benefit of Lady Astor. "Gwen's a good girl," Lady Astor assured the rest, her revealing attire sparking scandalously to catch the listening Mycroft. "She's willfully obedient. Isn't she, Dickie?" The Lady raised her glass. Mycroft returned the favour with a minute gesture of his own. Left to ponder the Lady's oxymoronic riddle, the crowd's gaze paused on the Duke but did not dare to linger lest he vented his displeasure. As the Mageocracy's premier Lord, the Marshall of her Majesty's forces and the keeper of the crows, every muttered syllable of his opinion mattered. Thereby, though Mycroft knew of his fellow nobles and their burgeoning curiosity, he chose silence. As for the "Sobel" in question, he could only guess her true purpose. Was the girl's growing love of London calculated obedience? Or was it, perhaps, malicious compliance? Turning away from his audience, the Duke traced the edge of his glass with a vacant, wandering digit, then looked for the girl among the crowd. If nothing else, at least in his officious capacity, he could not fault Gwen's performance. Without a doubt, the girl's ability to transform the situation in Shalkar was a far better demonstration of her potential than her ability to devour a Chinese city. After all, any Tower worth its weight in HDMs could level any of humanities' tier-II metropolises, as well as the warrens of Demi-human Gnolls, Greenskins, or the shoal-homes of Mermen. Yet, for all the Mageocracy's potential power projection, Shalkar's unprofitability had festered on the campaign map for three decades until the girl shattered the status quo and brought questionable change. The point then, Mycroft countered, was whether the "new" Shalkar boded well for the Mageocracy or if Gwen had merely set up the stage for a more significant, deadlier conflict a decade later. Below, the crowd grew abruptly silent. For the third match, the transmuted terrain was a northern peat bog, meaning the entire array of combat took place in a field of stunted, rotten trees and sticky silt that could swallow a Mage wholesale. Knowing Benedict Thomas' skillset, Mycroft could say that Team Exeter's streak of luck remained uncontested, an occurrence that was rapidly growing suspicious, for the heir's powerful "bomb" spells worked wonders in open space, and his gaseous form performed similarly well. Comparatively, there were few advantages Thomas' opponent could observe, owed to a skill set that favoured enclosed spaces. If so, by what craft would the girl slay the drake of Exeter? Mycroft amused himself with a dozen projections. What wild magics would she show the world? With a sharp chime from the Adjudicator, the battle began. For the first few opening seconds, both Thomas and Gwen warily sensed one another from opposite ends of the fields while subtly powering up their defences. For Holland's heir, the defensive choice was because Thomas knew of the absurd offensive the girl could mount while possessing uncertain confidence he would suffer her Void-strikes as well as she in surviving one of his explosions. More than likely, the youthful Magus was betting on his superior knowledge in Spellcraft, likely anticipating an opportunity to Counter Spell the girl into submission. As for the girl, Mycroft understood as soon as she opened up with invocations made infamous by her predecessor, Elizabeth Sobel. Unsurprising to the Duke, the first and foremost of the girl's protection spells was Bone Armour. It was an Abjuration sorcery that was sure to raise brows among the genteel class of Arcanists whose ancestors had perished fighting the same magic. The girl's Signature Spell was a sanctioned variation modified by Kilroy for his wife, expending the Cores of monstrous creatures rather than drawing power from the negative energy emanated by the living dead. As the final syllable fell into place, a phantom ribcage appeared, then quickly faded into the aether, forming a protective scarab shell around the girl. The reagent, Mycroft chuckled, would be the Core of a Death Worm, a rare prize for many but hardly worthy of note for one who had cleared out a whole region's worth of the Elemental vermin. From the way her audience reeled from the mute rings of enervating Void washing over the east side of the arena, Mycroft guessed the girl had spared no expense and was readily tapping her vital stores. As the Core's energies grew depleted and Void-tainted mana enveloped the original Necromantic manifestation, NoMs too weak to expel extreme vertigo became ill or sick, dropping their overpriced sausages in a bun, which in the Duke's opinions, was a blessing in disguise. After her first showcase, the girl's Mage Shield shimmered brightly before abruptly turning the colour of jet, enveloping her body so wholly as to form a perfect, obsidian egg. From the surface, micro-portals to the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void bit into the Prime Material in the manner of teeth making rents in black silk, leaving gaping, gasping gashes that bled a thick, ebony ink. But it wasn't ink that drooled from these axe-wounds in space-time. Instead, what emerged were the signature denizens of the Void, what Cambridge's researchers had dubbed Abyssal Lampreys. Like a dark flood, torrents of the Void-things slithered into the deep mud of the swamp-scape, instantly disappearing as they made for the general direction of Benedict Thomas, whose Astral Soul burned with vitality and raw elemental energy. On the other side of the arena, Thomas' face twitched as he lifted into the air, forgoing the cover offered by the shrubbery for fear of Gwen's lampreys suddenly emerging underfoot as Umzokwe had done. With a wave of his hand, the signature crystals that housed his unstoppable offence materialised, all six of which were armed and compressed with enough power to crack Gwen's egg. By now, it was clear the girl was not playing by the usual rules of Spellcraft, nor was her Spell List one knowable even by a Senior Scholar of the arts. This underestimation of Gwen's unorthodox Arcanistry, Mycroft felt, would not be the first of Thomas' mistakes. Had—he supposed, Jean-Paul provided the necessary fright for Holland's heir to second-guess charging and attacking Gwen with an Alpha Strike? Perhaps if Thomas had searched deeply in the vaults for details of Sobel's sorcery, both recent and in the past, he would have gained some insight into Gwen's myriad tactics. Unfortunately, much like the reports from Shalkar, Ravenport also possessed the key to that particular chamber of knowledge, from which he allowed only the vaguest of details to escape. Nonetheless, once the Steam Mage realised the full implication of Gwen's strategy, he immediately abandoned the "reactive" nature of his crystal arrays to move to the offensive. With a serpentine hiss of displaced steam, Thomas Holland slipped through the gaps of the Prime Material, then reappeared within two dozen meters of the girl, orchestrating a Dimension Door almost thrice the distance of an average Mage. "Don't die, Magus Song," the heir delivered an audible and courteous warning, then invoked the translocation magic that would force upon Gwen the unbridled fury of Elemental Steam. The mud below Thomas exploded before he could finish his haughty exposition. Leading the way were eight lamprey heads, each the size of a compact sedan, faceless and featureless, slick of skin and utterly devoid of features but for their puckering, teeth-lined maws salivating for noble flesh. The ambush came as a surprise for many of the repulsed audience, but not for its studied magic users nor Gwen's opponent. Changing his gestures midway, two of the crystals dematerialised, then reappeared among the Void Hydra's heads. BUNG—BUNG—! Clouds of superheated steam rang out, followed by deadly waves of shattered shards composed of congealed force. The three heads closest to Thomas turned to dark mist as the vital forces holding together the stitched, stygian flesh of the Lovecraftian aberration failed, instantly liquifying into obscure splatters. The rest of the faceless appendages stayed the course, only to be caught up in the second explosion, sending shattered bits of mangled flesh flying in every direction to splatter the Walls of Force. BUNG—! A third explosion erupted near Gwen's Dark Egg, momentarily peeling back the obsidian layer of Void, but not enough to prevent the egg shell from regenerating near-instantaneously. A few finger twitches summoned the rest of Thomas' cataclysmic crystals, bringing the remainder close to the abode built by Gwen to shield her body from Holland's relentless assault. For a frozen second in time, the crowd collectively held their breath, hoping that the Void Sorceress would teleport out of harm's way. She did not. Mycroft's eyes widened by several millimetres. The finale was a staggered triple-blast, a walking barrage of unadulterated destruction that sent the Force Generators into agonised whinnies and the stadium to shake on its foundations. The super expansion of steam grew so enormous that a section of the upper wall released a panel to depressurise the battlefield's interior, rocketing a sky-plume into the blue yonder. A few seconds passed, possessed only by the hiss of escaping steam from the self-repairing barrier. Two thousand pairs of questioning eyes turned to the All England's matchmakers. Atop the arena's cubic fence, the Chief Adjudicator remained mum as he conversed telepathically with his team in the Divination room. Then, in the obscured depth of the steam-filled arena, something moved. More explosions, smaller now and possessed of far less pent-up energy, erupted here and there, adding to the confusion felt by the spectators. Mycroft scanned the scene, contemplating if he should command a direct mind tap into the Divination Array in the control room when his thoughts grew suddenly disrupted by the sight of an enormous something slamming heavily against the barrier. "SHAA— SHAA—" came the ear-splitting, sphincter-clenching cry from Gwen's netherworld fiend, now girthier than a semi-trailer. From the section pressed against the wall, the audience could see that it had been suppressed by an empowered and maximised Bilby's Hand. For a creature without organs, however, the crushing constriction of the famous force spell did little in discouraging the monster from lashing out with dozens of pink tentacles. Before Mycroft could even scoff, the Hydra-thing tore itself in half from the waist, then launched itself back into the steam. Simultaneously, as the arena's mechanisms did its best to vent the excess fog preventing the paying audience from seeing the titanic battle, those closest to the deadly theatre realised the mud and silt that formed the peat bog were now squirming with living, writhing masses of faceless lampreys. Another explosion engendered somewhere within, weaker than Thomas's failed coup de grace moments earlier. As a tide of hungry mouths, the obsidian slosh of creatures moving toward the battlefield's centre once more splashed against the Walls of Force, decimated but not defeated, dividing and regenerating even as the shards of force sliced and diced their bodies. A portion of these creatures, perhaps frenzied or confused by the chaos brought by the undulating battlefield, sensed the vitality outside and were actively trying to bypass the barriers to get at the spectators. "SHAA—! SHAA—!" A cry from their brood leader was enough to refocus the lampreys' attention, making Mycroft marvel at just how intelligent the creature Kilroy had wrangled for the girl had grown. Above the battle, the arena's whirling vortexes into the Elemental Plane of Air finally performed their duty, drawing the excess steam as remaining smidgens of doubt drained from Mycroft's mind. Whatever Gwen's faults may be, Charlene had cultivated a reliable partner to elevate her political debut into London's circle of power, and soon, her crops would yield grain. "SHAA—!" Another blood-curdling shriek from the singing Hydra revealed that it and its brood were now pursuing a hovering Holland across the battlefield with extreme prejudice. As a leaping, frolicking mass of faceless worms with lamprey mouths, the churning black swamp water rose as living tendrils to ensnare the skating Mage as he dodged the clumsy assaults. Not far, Gwen's Elemental Swarm was shepherded by an enormous Hydra with all seven heads, each one flawlessly regenerated, working in tandem to swat Thomas from the air like a gnat. Now and then, Thomas would unleash a wave of superheated mist or erect a spontaneous Blade Barrier to dissuade his pursuers. Still, any such measures lasted only a few seconds before the creatures came on again with renewed force. Whenever Thomas attempted to close in with the girl, she would Dimension Door away, creating a deadly game of cat and mouse—only the cat was being chased by face-eating heartworms bigger than itself. When not dodging the diminished steam explosions, Gwen stood in the many corners of the arena, directing her conjured critters in the atypical manner of a Creature Mage. As for how she had survived Thomas' killing blow—Mycroft's ensorceled eyes gathered a few clues from her Crow Skin battle dress. The girl's hair was matted and damp, and her face was streaked with the residue from the foetid swamp water. Her armour as well showed not only signs of having been covered in the silt and mud but also showed white streaks where the shards of force had scored her body. Correctly, Mycroft deduced that the girl was never in her "Dark Egg" but must have slid out with her swarm into the mud, thereby ratifying her bedraggled, beaten state. For sure, the cloudy, brackish water provided by the arena was a significant natural barrier against the force of Thomas' explosions. There were risks as well, for the shallowness meant she had less luck against the force shards that accompanied the deadly eruptions. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Thereby, Benedict Thomas Holland had not only failed to recognise the girl's sorcery but also failed to account for the girl's grit—for he could not have imagined that a sorceress of such infamous vanity would dive headfirst, without shielding or protection, into filth and decay without a second thought. Then, while hidden beneath the shielding mass of her Void-critters, she would direct her swarm while risking dire injury, possessing such confidence in her body and the craft of her Dwarven allies as to risk mortal injury. That was, Mycroft supposed, Gwen's proposed tactic to Charlene. So long as she survived Thomas' spearhead assault and kept him on the move, it was impossible for a Vessel recognised by Tryfan to run OoM against a thrice-expended opponent. While the crowd cooed at Thomas' growing frustration and diminishing mana reserves, Mycroft observed his fellow VIPs in the grandstand. Lady Astor remained her haughty self, loudly informing the others that a "mere" Holland could not possibly defeat her chosen ally. The other nobles, the unhappy few with ties to the Militant Faction, no longer shared her amusement. In a way, Mycroft felt sympathetic. If Thomas, one of the best of their current generation, was to lose—could his inferior brother then secure a victory? Poins was always the lesser one, the shadow. A man of inferior charisma seldom upheld as the Houses' heir apparent. If Poins were to lose, the loss in House Holland's reputation, not to mention the loss of their planned portion of the IoDNC, would simultaneously place an unpleasant financial burden upon the Faction. To force the girls, and in particular, Charlene, into a corner, the Militants had tapped the forbidden fruit, the Veteran's Pension. Though the understanding was that the IoDNC's antagonism had brought the fund into ruin, the reality remained that all annuities had to be paid when the bills came due. To renege on the pension may publicly draw ire toward Gwen and Charlene's investments, but no one holding the actual reigns of power could be similarly fooled by the Telegraph and the Sun. From the very outset, the Militant's ploy had been allowed to play out simply because players like Ravenport had habitually stayed away from the money-grubbing politicking of the Factions. That said, the moment the Magecracy's public trust eroded. The exact instant the Veteran's Fund was to fail the Mageocracy's ex-soldiers, as opposed to the political theatre of a delay and distraction, heads would roll, and estates liquidate—because it was better to feed the culprits to the dogs than for the Crown to frown. But if Poins were to win, these men and women would also grow wary. For a decade or more, they had upheld Thomas and neglected Poins, and the reversal of the God-ordained hierarchy was no less desirable. "Shit—" someone muttered, replacing his flute of wine and losing all appetite. "It's over." While Mycroft amused himself with the possibilities, the battle below concluded in the only manner possible for a man unwilling to bet his life—with Thomas putting up both hands as Caliban intimated the possibility of a deep-tissue massage with its tentacles. Clearing his throat, the heir beckoned the lumen-recorders to capture his following words. "I must confess, good lady, that you have gotten the better of me." The concession was clear and precise, and the girl chose not to pursue the matter. With one hand, she swept back her matted hair, motioned her creatures to retreat, then turned from Thomas as though the man was no longer relevant. Holland's response was to smile at the audience, shake his head with great seriousness, then exercise a loser's right to solemn silence. Gwen, meanwhile, hovered toward the grim-faced Poins, who had been watching a few meters from the transparent panes. "Shall we continue while I am still winded and recovering?" she said to the remaining Holland, loud enough so that the stadium's vox-casters could transmute her voice. "You won't get an opportunity like this again." The remaining twin's face visibly twitched. "I would not dream of taking such an advantage," Poins replied, half-hissing his retort, looking away from the Lumen-recorders pointed directly at his face. The BBC, however, would not allow such discretions to ruin their faultless broadcast. Both on the vid-caster in the stadium and piped into the Mageocracy's homes, all bore witness to the irony of the man's "honour". Mycroft suppressed a snort. Who would fight Gwen now? The Void Sorceress had found an unlikely affinity for the swampland, not to mention she had a nest of monsters slinking in the murk, awaiting their next victim. To refresh the battlefield would wipe away the proceeds of her vital and mana expenditure while fighting her immediately in her "winded" state would mean facing her already-conjured creatures. It was a fool's choice to challenge her directly, but also an unmitigated confession that one could not meet the girl head-on. Only once she had established her superior position did Gwen turn to Thomas to shake the man's hand with her muddy digits. "All the best with Poins," Thomas said with a measured voice. "He has always had a place in his heart for you." "I'll be sure to answer him with all my heart." Gwen's grin was serene like the smile of a Hammerhead Mermen. "I only hope Poins will appreciate my complete sincerity." Unsurprisingly, the conversation that followed in the grandstand was entirely dominated by the demonstration of Void Magic. A few of the older members who had been young men and women during Sobel's reign might have recalled the Majesty of her craft, but few of the gathered had seen Void sorcery exercised in the degree of a sixth tier War Mage. For more than a year now, Cambridge had been unambiguous in their ambition of reviving a School of Magic thought lost when Elizabeth Sobel reappeared as a Rogue Mage of the Wildlands. And now, with the girl's victory over House Holland Divi-casted across the Mageocracy's domains, new interest in the previously abandoned endeavours would surely arise. Ironically, the Faction most inquisitive for Gwen's unique craft, the Militants, had thus far received the least access to the university's data. Comparatively, the Middle and Gray Factions possessed the data—but were proverbial Hydras, possessing too many heads to focus on effectively using the knowledge. A significant point of resistance from those with interest had been the fact that all such Void Mages would effectively be "God Mothered" by Gwen's Soul Tap to "guarantee" their survival, a process that neither the Factions nor Gwen herself found agreeable. To have a contingent of Sobel-type soldiers under the thumb of the Factions had been a long and cherished Dream of the Mageocracy while it worked with Henry Kilroy. However, to have such a contingent beholden by Geas to one woman who wasn't particularly tied to any House, family or Faction was an outcome no one desired. Presently, a crow alighted on his shoulder. "Well?" Mycroft's mouth moved without sound. "The Exeters are not very creative," Mori's sultry voice chittered from between the crow's ensorceled beaks. "As you suspected, milord, one of the technicians has been skewering the odds for the Militants." "Is it obvious?" "He's allowing the randomisation to go ahead," Mori spoke with disdain. "But has limited the choices to terrain favourable for the Exeters. That's why the Adjudicators have yet to send their man downstairs." "I see." Mycroft watched the battle preparations below, with his daughter and the girl exchanging whispers. "What's next?" "Volcanic, Tundra, Arboreal and Cloudscape." "All very good for a Smoke Mage," Ravenport agreed. "And not so convenient for our hellion." "Shall I inform Magister Jerribeth of the All England?" Mori's tone grew vindictive. "Perhaps, after the match has begun so that the boy can be shamed and disqualified?" "Now, there's a curious thought." Ravenport leaned closer toward the glass. After her prior performance, Gwen's reentry ensured that both NoMs and Mages erupted into jubilant waves of witless cheering as their refreshed and radiant idol returned with Caliban singing its horrid jingle on her right and the magnificent Kirin cooing on her left. "Magus Song!" "Mistress of the Dogs!" "ARROOOO—" The spittle-conjuring fervour, Mycroft supposed, was only to be expected. It had been so long since London played host to such a spectacle of rare magics, ensuring that win or lose, the matches will be the topic of a hundred debates for years to come, possibly even informing textbooks as exemplars of extraordinary sorcery. Many would also recall that she was a Frontier sorceress so that in the bout's aftermath, eyes would turn to Sydney, now the domain of Gunther Shultz, with renewed vigour and hope. Likewise, other Tower Masters would look to their citizens in their tier-II cities and wonder if they had missed similar opportunities to raise a new Arch-Mage and colleague, furthermore altering the balance of power. Indeed, Mycroft conceded, Gwen was a girl who personified the winds of change, whether she willed it or otherwise, leaving no doubt that as an asset, she was equal parts wonder and danger. "Mori," Mycroft affirmed his unorthodox expectancies as Gwen's opponent took to the stage, with the audience receiving the man with what can only be described as a silent sympathy. "Tell the Adjudicators to deploy Map Code 2351A. Explain that this is a favour from me to absolve them of troubles to come. Explain very clearly that they are absolutely within their right to refuse, just as I am completely confident in providing the evidence necessary for a change in their board members." Without delay, the crow fluttered past the door, zipped through the long corridor outside, then was gone. "Trouble, milord?" Lady Astor, who had been watching him, approached out of incurable curiosity. Ravenport smiled. "I have duties elsewhere," the Duke noted. "I shall leave congratulating Gwen to allies such as yourself." "You are not staying for the final match?" Lady Astor's exquisite brows rose an inch. "Charlene is in good hands," Ravenport replied as he summoned the waiter to take his drained glass. "And you are too." Lady Astor's eyes formed two mischievous half-moons. "I have just realised I should have placed another hundred thousand on Gwen." "You should have bet the bank." Mycroft fought down the desire to scold the American. Mixing business, pleasure, profit, and ego was a very unhealthy habit, a dire lesson he would one day teach Charlene and perhaps the girl as well. "I bid you good fortune, Lady Astor." "So long, Dickie." Lady Astor looked thoughtful, then added something unintelligible to her farewell. "Next outing, it'll be my shout!" Edward Poins of House Holland, descendent of the Duke of Exeter, deeply suspected his brother had lost on purpose. When Thomas returned, his shoulders slouched and his gleaming armour caked with mud and scored of Void-scars, his forsaken sibling had given him one of his characteristic sunny smiles and bid Poins take on the courage of their ancestor. Thomas! Defeated! Poins tried to say something scathing, but his mind had gone blank. For one, he knew that if Thomas wished, the man could fight like the devil himself, possessing no remorse, mercy or control should he unleash the full potential of his power, which was enough to break down the Walls of Force and drown the stadium in blood-boiling steam. Being his brother, he knew for a fact that Thomas had better tricks up his sleeve, possessing more capabilities than the brute force demonstrated by his maiming of the Void Mage and his destruction of the girl's "Caliban". Poins also knew, for instance, that like himself, Thomas had a unique skill, one involving polluting their steam or smoke with Spirit-tinged element energy imbued with their Astral Essence so that, should their opponents inhale even a little bit of their "motes of force", they could be incapacitated then and there. This secretive "Dire Haze" was a skill that few outside the inner circle of House Exeter knew, for every enemy that had fallen to the Signature Spell had either perished or were absorbed into House Exeter as a House Guard. The problem for Poins, alas, was that Thomas was supposed to be the one pushed to the brink! Thomas, who had only lost a handful of duels in his entire life, and never to a woman, and never to a Frontier Mage, was chosen by fate to expose their craft and draw their father's ire! But then what did the thrice-blasted Thomas do?! He fought the damned girl as though she were some filly he had to impress, and not even down to the last mote of mana! Or to his death! Watching his brother's smug retreat, Poins felt as though he should take a gamble and strangle his Steam-aligned sibling. How dare the man? How dare he put such a burden on his shoulders? Wasn't Thomas the heir apparent? Wasn't Thomas supposed to be the pillar of House Exeter? They were the inheritors of Henry's Golden Blood! Scions of the Argent King! What would the world think? If Poins also lost, who would take the heaviest blame? Knowing their father, Thomas would receive a stern word and be sent to some forsaken Frontier, but for Poins— Edward Poins felt goosebumps crawl up his forearms and neck. "Milord, your armour is ready." The House Armourer beside Poins informed him that his seals, straps and Enchantments were in peak condition to square off against Lightning and Void. Steeling his spine, Poins took a deep breath, then made his way up the dais toward the duelling platform. It was fine. Poins said to himself. Everything was going to be okay. The girl proved more potent than he had expected—or could have imagined—but she was still just a Frontier sorceress. He would kite her around the battlefield, obfuscate himself to avoid the brunt of her power, then via the advantage of his incorporeal Avatar—he would make her suffer. Marriage? Poins acknowledged that there would be little chance for amicability after a battle of the degree he imagined. But that was fine, even if he maimed the girl, Thomas' agreement with the Ravenport's heir remained intact, and that should be able to secure the funds necessary to get his father's Faction out of the foxhole. All he had to do was win. Opposite, the girl appeared, generating a tidal surge of cheers, hoots and howls, enough to shake the bleachers. Conversely, his arrival was supported only by a few ragged hurrahs from the Militants. Poins realised a split-second later that the betting odds must have swung to the girl's favour. If so, how many of those in the crowd had engaged in horse betting against the Militants? If he recalled, the odds had begun in House Holland's favour, meaning a good number of those cheering on his side were howling for her victory because of the tangible gains his loss entailed. As for those who had pinned their hopes on the Exeters—that would be yet another point of complication for their father. The arena shimmered. Transmutation modules buried into the struts and the arena's stratum thrummed with flowering mana, altering the landscape underfoot. First came the igneous stones, growing in size until they arched overhead. Then came the slick moss and lichen that spontaneously grew into place as the light dimmed, forming a tightly packed subterranean tunnel like those in the Dwarven Murk. Poins felt the pit of his stomach drop. What the hell was this? What was this landscape even? A cave? A cavern? Where were the volcanic steppes? Where was his Cloudscape? It took a few minutes for the enormous transmutation to complete, settling into a long tunnel in the manner of a mining shaft or vein. The midsections, nested against the walls of force, allowed the audience views into the tunnel's interior. As a whole, the tube consisted of seamless blocks of volcanic rock made slick by cavernous slime and subterranean growth. Poins turned his eyes to the Adjudicator but could not read the hawk-nosed man's expression. An enclosed battlespace? He knew well that the roulette of the arena's battle settings possessed such a setting. But why the fuck was he in it? Here in the smooth-bored tunnel, there was nowhere to hide! How could a Smoke Mage even begin to take advantage of their craft in such a space? Even if he flooded the tunnel with smoke, wasn't the girl capable of kilometre-wide Maelstroms? "Contestants! Ready yourselves—" The Adjudicator was relentless. "BEGIN!" The signal rang before Poins could think of a legitimate reason to protest. "God damn it!" Poins swore, then wove into place his Avatar of Smoke, transforming instantly into a slipstream of slinking fog to assail the girl at the other end of the tunnel. If he could make it to the girl in time—if he could smog her and ensure that she inhaled a lungful of his motes of force, then he could subdue the bitch, bring her to heel— Poins stopped. He fought off the wave of vertigo wash over him, then realised he could and should go no further. There was no longer the girl or the path in the direction that he needed to go. There was, however, a mouth—a three-storey tall, circular mouth filled with teeth in concentric, diminishing rings, flexing and undulating as they invited him toward the hot-pink hole in the middle, one that regurgitated globs of Void-matter in viscous spurts. Poins felt his cheeks twitch once more. Both above and below, the creature's slick body had crammed the cavern to its absolute capacity, making it impossible for him to pass. Or rather, he could choose to pass by entering the creature's gullet, taking a tour through the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Void, then hopefully emerge through the creature's colons to assault its owner in the manner of a treacherous fart. Unfortunately, impressive as that possibility may be, Poins dared not assume that the Void fiend even possessed a dietary tract, and he was not diving headfirst into oblivion. If anything, should the heir of the Golden Blood perish in such a comical way, Poins had a feeling the family mausoleum may spontaneously burst into flames. Once more, he studied the strange "setting" of the battlefield conjured by All England's technicians. This blasted tunnel! If he were to find the prick responsible, he would wring the man's corpse like a rag! Blood and oath! Didn't Thomas pay off one of them? Poins felt a raging fury encompass his mind like hot, cinder-filled smoke. Who the hell was responsible for this travesty? Was it his brother? What would Thomas gain by his loss? Try as he might, Poins could not get his rage-addled mind to focus on the possibilities. He felt like a bear, a God damned, baited ursine on a spit! And the bitch, the bitch was the hound set loose so that he would be made a spectacle. But bear or bitch, as an Exeter, he would have to fight the cause. "CINDER STRIKE!" a little more loudly than he'd liked, Poins tested the waters, sending a shrieking torrent of howling smoke, imbued by this Cinder Elemental toward the gnashing maw that even now inched closer. Unusual for its archetype, the Elemental Blast unique to his Spirit was capable of physical and mental damage, owing to the Cinder Spirit's relative closeness to Elemental Ash. Those struck by the blast would first suffer uncontrollable nausea, then become overwhelmed by despair, making his ray-attack an unmatched combination for sneak attacks. As expected, the cinder tore through the repulsive flesh of the "Caliban" creature with ease, punching a hole deep enough to hide a Mage who might be into that sort of thing. Despairingly, Gwen's creature lacked the politeness even to feign agony, choosing to instead push ahead without flinching from an otherwise mortal injury. Drawing from the wealth of experience he had gained fighting Vermin Tides in the horn of Africa, Poins quickly wove together another spell, a more potent variation of Cinder Strike that consumed six times the mana. Very quickly, with fingers dancing like that of a fierce pianist, he wove the Mandalas into place, generation three focusing arrays that would elevate the Elemental Fire under his control. "Hellfire Bolt!" Three dazzling rays of jet black smoke, each the length and girth of a Hoplite's spear, tore through the open space, shrieking like aggrieved banshees, their passage punctuated by phoenix trails of toxic Elemental Ash. His pride and joy connected with a wet squelch, instantly consuming the flesh of the Void beast. Unlike the Cinder Strike, the Hellfire Bolts struck, corroding the meat as their latent energies expended. Caliban howled, writhing and sending spittle spraying all over, though because the damned fiend had been doing that already, Poins had no idea if it suffered or if it cared at all for the supposedly mortal injury. Likewise, Poins had no idea how well the girl was connected to her Familiar. In his experience, any other Creature Mage of her calibre should be squirming in agony from the transmuted pain of Elemental Ash corroding one's living flesh. But a Void Sorceress? Would a girl with Void Mana running in her conduits even care for the caress of Ash? Tapping deep into his reserves, he conjured a second set of Hellfire lances, each bearing his hope and dreams, smouldering the air as they smoked with malicious execution. In front of the huffing heir of House Holland, Caliban continued to advance, a living glacier of flesh with a puckering, tentacle-pink orifice in its centre, beckoning Poins with its sussurating, Siren's wail. "Shaa—" "Shaa— Shaa—" "SHAA— SHAA— SHAA—!"

Gwen wondered if Elizabeth Sobel, her predecessor, would have looked more svelte, fabulous and in control if placed in the same predicament. When to her complete surprise, the final battlefield manifested as a sealed mining shaft commonly found in the Murk, her mind had instantly turned to the same tactic the Earthen Wyrms used to devour their prey—to lead with one's mouth and hope for the best. Without delay, she had relented an unearthly volume of her stowed vitality, tapped into Almudj's blessing to supplement her needs, then near-emptied Caliban's internal stores to make the match truly interesting for the last Holland. Her one regret was that contestants couldn't see the lumen-projectors outside the arena, for she would have truly enjoyed the expression Poins must have made when he realised the only way through Caliban was via its puckering, salivating orifice. That was because Caliban's Void-tinged slime formed a near-vacuum seal of the tunnel, so much that were it not for the various vents built into the complex Force Barrier Mandalas, she doubted her "Mongolian Death Worm" would have possessed any mobility. Her only inconvenience was that Caliban's rapid expansion had quickly forced her into a hilariously compromised position against the wall had she not put up a double-glazed Shield to protect herself. However, once she had settled herself, Gwen had time to foment her next move, which was to put a conclusive exclamation mark to the question of what weight she wielded in London. "Ariel—" She called forth her purring, furry Kirin, fully stocked up on her Almudj's Essence over the last few days and choked full of the most vital Wildlands Creature Cores Charlene could provide. "You ready to impress?" "EE—EE!" Ariel proved an eager participant, having spent the whole fight pent up in its Pocket Dimension, watching Caliban hog the spotlight. Now, its glowing horns of solidified lightning glowed with the power of a small power plant in semi-meltdown, ready to deliver its mistresses' displeasure to the man cornered by the business-end of its sibling. With a dainty gauntlet resting on the head of her pet, Gwen willed forth the lion's share of Almudj's Essence, transforming Ariel wholly so that the crowd rose into wild whines of awe-inspired jubilation. Ariel, who was already an impressive chimaera before it took on Gwen's Essence boost, reformed into a radiant demi-Dragon with unquestionable semi-divinity. From its eighteen-point stag horns to its slender, serpentine neck covered with fish-scale patterned fur, it was the closest thing many Londoners had ever seen of a "true' Dragon-kind. "EE—EE!" Ariel pawned the air with its immense mittens, all the while stomping the ground with its lightning-charged hooves, leaving behind horseshoe-shaped imprints of molten silica. The light of the plasma sparking off Ariel's fur to sizzling the Walls of Force was such that the generators near the pane where girl and Kirin hid bulged and warped as the sheer volume of otherworldly mana radiating from Gwen's Familiar seared their observer's weeping retinas. Mid-transfusion, Gwen felt an invisible, empathetically driven bolt of Ash-tinged fire drilling into Caliban, growing until it felt like someone had pricked the inside of her skull with a needle. For a creature with no organs and arguably no nerve endings, Caliban was insensible to pain, which meant whatever Poins was doing had to be doing some real damage to tickle her insides. "Ouch—" Gwen reflexively gritted her teeth as she touched a hand to her temple. A younger Gwen would have grown distracted, but an experienced masochist like herself managed to brush off the pain through sheer force of will. That said, there was nought she could do to dismiss the strange side effect of Elemental Ash, a feeling akin to injecting anaesthesia into her emotional centres. Activating her Link Sight, she saw the vital form of Poins, burning like a miniature sun with limbs, tossing bolt after bolt of dark energy from his hands into Cali's maw like a man angrily feeding Dede breadsticks. With each blast, the numbing sensation intensified, permeating Caliban's body, bleeding the accumulated effect into her Astral Soul. Gwen guessed that the Ash-tinged smoke spears must be one of those prized secretive magics of the Hollands, meaning it was probably a good idea to prevent her opponent from reaching the full potential of his rare art. "Bloody oath—" She fought down her nausea. "Alright, Ariel, it's time to lend Cali a horn or two." She gave Ariel one last pat on the head, then dematerialised her Kirin to recombobulate her Familiar closer to Caliban's mouth, all the while ensuring that an eruption of tentacles from Caliban's howling, angry maw would shield the suddenly-appearing Kirin. "Don't die, Magus Holland." Feeling a little cheeky, she decided to echo the words Thomas had delivered only ten minutes earlier, then followed up with an exclamation that dwarfed anything the Steam Mage had thus far demonstrated. Then, Gwen began the famous invocations her audience had been waiting for in the grandstand, a phrase made infamous by her enthralling IIUC highlights. With deliberate emphasis, her lush lips formed the perfect syllable to begin her spell, followed a few seconds later by the sound of reverberating thunder from down under. Edward Poins Holland felt a buoyed sense of hope when, after six consecutive Hellfire Bolts that drained his Cinder Spirit and deadened his mind, the worm creature's advance was halted, and its undulation dulled. To the observers, the young man was arguably deserving of the reputation attributed to his House, for Poins was a walking avatar of smog and ash, appearing and disappearing as his body displaced between the Prime Material and the Para-Plane of Smoke. Both of his hands, now imbued with the residue mana from his Hellfire Blasts, glowed with smouldering Elemental Ash, igniting the clambering particles surrounding his body as they dissipated, leaving phoenix trails of flaming embers. Had the fiend finally run out of vitality? Poins' mind grew hot with visions of victory as he shook the corrosive particles of ash from his insensible fingers. The girl had fought his brother, and now she had conjured a full-sized Death Worm from Mongolia. Surely, her mana and vitality should have struck rock bottom? If he were to dispatch the worm, would the sorceress then appear? He wasn't in peak condition himself, but he felt confident he had the necessary spells on hand to hinder the bumpkin the moment her pretty face showed herself. His plan was simple, for he would obfuscate her senses with phantoms conjured from Elemental Smoke—then he would Cinder Blast her defences to keep her on the back heel—then, as a masterstroke, he would permeate her Astral Body with enough Elemental Ash to render her senseless. At that point, she should be reduced to nought but a moist oyster on his plate! But what of her retaliation? There was a saying, Poins recalled, that one could not raise Manticore cubs without venturing into a Manticore's lair. Elemental Smoke could not rival Dust for its absolute ability to withstand all forms of damage, but what he did have in abundance was the ability to warp and dodge incoming spellfire. Likewise, while Thomas, his brother, focused on offence, he possessed a more rounded suite of powers, including a Signature defence spell taught by Holland's Captain of the Guard, Smoke Ward—a form of Abjuration that emphasised diverting incoming attacks through a dispersed field of deflecting force shards. These were excellent against consumption-based powers like Void. Additionally, what gave Poins his absolute confidence was his House Armourer's Enchantment of Greater Protection against Lightning, built especially into his suit for the occasion after two months of planning and foresight. And if his offence should fail? Poins had already polluted the surrounding air, or what's left of it, with particles of his and his Spirit's Essence, readying the battleground for a Dire Haze should events turn southward for the never-setting sunset of Exeter. To snatch victory from the jaws of seeming defeat! Could there be a sweeter moment for a heroic Scion of the Hollands? What would his brother do? What would his father say? And to have the girl confess to her willingness to be a marriage candidate? It was a delicious thought, even if the prospect made him a little afraid. "Hellfire Bolt!" The final bolt cratered the creature's face deep enough for him to see its charred, pink interior. To his pleasure, "Caliban" then ceased its movement entirely, making victory feel so close he could almost taste it. Ding! The subtle chime of the Adjudicator's message channel bloomed besides Poins' ear. For a second, Poins wondered if enough Elemental Ash had permeated the girl to make her give up the fight. "Don't die… Magus Holland." Instead, what came across was a passed-on missive that was seductive, husky and sweet all at once, with implications no kinder than a hatchet to his ego. It took Poins another split-second to realise she had spoken the precise words used by Thomas before his failed alpha strike. Instantly, Poins' mind filled with nagging doubt. He would have written off the mockery without his brother's words, but now, he wasn't so sure. What did the girl mean by it? Were Thomas and the Ravenport's heiress in cahoots? They had, after all, known one another since he and his brother were at Eton and Charlene at Cheltenham. Compared to himself, his brother had always been the popular one, the one who the girls at Cheltenham had pined after, and the heir that caught their father's and mother's eyes. Taken as such, was the girl's mockery a warning passed on by Thomas against his ambitions? Poins had been the one who suggested taking the girls on to usurp their wealth and gain their bloodline. Yet, hadn't Thomas agreed to it? Hadn't his brother put the measures in place to take advantage of the Barlow Group's feud? The more he thought about it, the more he sensed a terrifying logic piecing together. Unfortunately for Poins, there existed only a split-second between Gwen's warning and the miniature sun now blooming like an electric flower. More so than ever before, he felt like the baited Dire Bear their father had made them fight in their youth, trapped in a makeshift arena to be pommelled and pelted by Elemental Steam and Smoke, only to regenerate and be subject to the same torture the next day. But even the vividness of that recollection fell suddenly behind Poins as every memory muscle in his body activated to form a deflection field around his Avatar of Smoke. "EE—EE!" Came a cry of dire cuteness inside the glowing halo of scintillating plasma. The Kirin! Poins refocused his thoughts at once. The Void fiend must be spent, meaning if he could defeat the Kirin, then the girl had no choice but to face him in person, exhausted and OoM. "Cinder Bolt!" Poins launched himself as a jet of smoke toward the back most section of the battle arena's makeshift tunnel, all the while launching no less than three bolts at the iris-searing vision of the hazy Draconid. His attacks flew true, but just as his assault was about to connect, a flurry of flesh in the form of tentacles formed a wall of meat in front of his quarry, eating his attacks before falling apart in agonised sections of smouldering, ash-tingled chunks. Poins felt his spine freeze. "BARBANGINY—" There was no need for an open broadcast, for Poins heard the sound as clearly as the ionising air near the Kirin as it lowered its head. There was a brief lull, two blinds of the eye as Poins shifted into defence, then his world turned irrevocably emerald and white. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. In the All England's arenas, the barriers were bolstered by multi-core Aether Engines and imbued with anti-magical Mandalas should the battle Mages grow too passionate in their search for victory. When finally the spell the Adjudicators had been waiting for began to manifest, the All England's technicians had readied every safety mechanism available to the century-old establishment as contingencies. However, when the living, forking emerald lightning struck out in ten-thousand filaments like a distended tree of life and the Divination department's instruments swung past orange into the scarlet, Magister Yvonne Jerribeth knew the audience was in real danger. "Deploy the Anti-Magic field." Her voice cut through the alarms like a hot knife, stern and unquestionable. "Award the match." Her employees obeyed without delay, synchronising movements as they activated the intricate mana-draining Mandala built under the Transmutation layers. By Allenberg's Theory of Planar conservation, it was impossible to eradicate mana itself—though it was entirely possible to deploy Arcanistry in such a way that undesired mana manifestations could be shunted elsewhere, such as into the limbo of the Astral Plane, or perhaps into the Elemental Plane of Air. The decision proved correct, for the Magister could visibly see the Walls of Force warping from the excess energy. Despite the contestant's employment of what could only be an upper-tier Spirit, neither the beast nor the girl had considered mitigating their power output, conceivably because of their confidence in the All England, but more than likely out of neglect. Whatever the case, Magister Jerribeth breathed a sigh of relief when the walls re-established their structure, accompanied by the slow fall of indicators on the Aether Engines' heat levels. "Make the announcement," she said to her staff as she teleported away, her mind still half-lingering on the "compassion" given by Lord Ravenport and full of fury for the Hollands that had compromised her perfect tenure. "I'll personally certify the outcome." It took almost a minute for the mana from Ariel to thoroughly flush from the battle arena, leaving Gwen standing in a field of broken stone and molten debris beside a half-cooked Caliban quivering with delight and a Kirin mewing with haughty pleasure. When her eyes doubly scanned the battlefield and could not locate her opponent, the pit of her stomach dropped. FUCK—was the first thought in her head. Had she overdone it? Had the Devourer of Shenyang officially screwed the Royal Corgi? Just in case, her eyes scanned the arena once more, each pass engendering in her a growing degree of paranoia. FUCK—FUCK—FUCK— Visions of all-out total war flashed across her frontal lobe. Had she atomised Poins? Reduced man into his primordial elements? Perhaps Poins was hiding in a pocket dimension like Jean-Paul? But that wasn't possible either, for all it took was a persistent disturbance like a lightning field, and Poins would be ejected and disorientated—and then doubly atomised. For assurance, she glanced at the sidelines, only to see a jubilant Charlene with both hands balled in a gesture of victory. Charlene's lack of panic calmed her somewhat. After all, Poins wasn't the true heir, or was he? The Exeters have got an heir and a spare, and the "spare" was the spare for a reason. "MAGUS SONG—THE VICTOR!" The declaration from above reverberated, likely hoping that she could acknowledge the fact. Gwen was vaguely aware that the Adjudicator had announced the outcome several times already, though her present worry was more so for the trouble at hand. At any rate, the crowd wasn't clapping, and Gwen could only guess why. "Umm…" Gwen turned her face toward the Adjudicator awaiting her acknowledgement. "If I may ask, good Sir, where's Magus Holland?" The hawk-nosed Adjudicator's eyes locked onto Caliban. "Cali?" Gwen turned to her Familiar. The rapidly regenerating Caliban gave her a look only a half-cooked sausage regrowing its sheep-intestine exterior could manage. "EE—EE!" Ariel protested loudly, pawing the air and stomping its feet. "EE—!" "SHAA—!" "EE—EE—!" Gwen's eyes widened. "HE DID WHAT?" According to the impression from Ariel, the very brave and very decisive Poins knew instantly that he was in a world of hurt, at which point he realised there was only ONE place where he could shelter from utter annihilation. "CALI!" Gwen shrieked despite herself. "Spit it out!" "SHAA—" Her creature refused to comply, or rather, its faceless mien was very expressive in insisting it had nothing in its maw. "God damn it," Gwen growled at her Familiar. "Cali— not now! Spit it out! We need him alive! What if you get sick?" "SHAA—" Caliban shook its head indignantly. Before Gwen could compel the creature with her will, a part of Caliban's healed flesh began to bulge. Poins then thankfully erupted from her Familiar's side and rolled onto the floor with the unpleasant pop of a suddenly rupturing pimple. The impromptu birth made Gwen wince, for the man was covered in Void-tinged slime, and were it for his full-cover armour, there would certainly be a layer of Poins that would remain mingled with her dearest Caliban. "Milord Poins." She gritted her teeth. "Are you..." Before she or the crowd could comment, the man leapt onto his feet and made a fighting stance. The Exeter was even halfway through a nasty sounding invocation when a female Adjudicator materialised in front of Edward Poins with a disapproving glare and a Wand of Nullification in hand that would focus the anti-magic Mandala's power where she willed. Invariably, the crowd's excited low rumble now grew from a quiet thrum to a thundering roar, then to shrieks and howls. Upon seeing the newly materialised Adjudicator, Poins popped his helmet and shrunk the thing behind his sweat-soaked hair to protest his loss. Meanwhile, Gwen could only feel supremely impressed by the man's quick thinking. To hid in Caliban—it was the same thing she had done to the Elder Sand Wyrm, only she had minutes of foresight and planning, while Poins had a fraction of a second. To dive with complete confidence into a creature composed of Void was a feat that no average Mage, even an experienced one, could begin to entertain. For this reason alone, Gwen felt enough respect for Poins to gift him the mercy of dignity. "No, Master Poins, withdraw now and accept your loss. I shall not ask twice." Whoever spoke had both power, authority and very little patience. "The victory is yours, Magus Song." The platinum-haired woman turned to her. From her bearing and a vague impression of her face, Gwen could guess that she must be Magister Yvonne Jerribeth, the Master of the Arena. "Even if Master Poins should defeat you now, I will not certify his victory. You have won. That result is both unequivocal and final." "Thank you." Gwen gave the woman a curt nod, then offered her hand to Poins, who stared at her extended digits as though they were Caliban's beckoning, phallic tendrils. Several more seconds passed before the man could restore the full extent of his faculties, after which he moved with the grace of a struck Golem to take her palm and shake. "You… tried to kill me," Poins intimated, his voice low and private. "I concede, but tell me—was it Thomas who put you up to this?" Gwen's smile froze, more so from confusion than from shock. Had Caliban's interior driven the man insane? Or had Ariel's shock therapy reduced his IQ to the lower double digits? Whatever the case, with the crystalline eyes of the Lumen-casters gazing upon her, Gwen felt it best to ignore the man altogether and to stay away from this particular Exeter in all future interactions. "You're alive, so I certainly wasn't trying." She smiled back with a snarky glint of her pearly teeth. "Had I truly wished it, you'd be trying to find your way out from the Quasi-Plane of Caliban's gullet." "I see," Poins answered cryptically, his face inexplicably relaxing. "Thank you for the honesty, Magus Song." "Sure." Gwen withdrew her hand, then gestured to the podium. "Shall we?" "My brother will take care of that." Poins gave her one last look, his gaze as hungry as it was wary. "Enjoy your victory, Magus Song. So long as you continue to refuse the Militant Faction, I am sure we'll meet again under less happy circumstances." "Then I very much look forward to my future profits." Gwen parried with ease, then turned on her heels to join Magister Jerribeth, who concluded the post-match shit-talk by giving Poins a curt nod. She and the chief referee then rose into the air until they were surrounded by spectators on all sides, leaving Poins' lonely self to retreat to the Exeter's sidelines. When she looked down at her opponent, she felt suddenly struck by a strange sadness, for the Hollands had already withdrawn, leaving only a token House Guards to receive Edward Poins. Was this the intra-politics of these supersized families? Gwen wondered, hoping that she and her companions would never amount to such bitter bickerings, no matter her success. Closer to the grandstands, a platform was readied for the victors, where she reconvened with the mummified Jean-Paul, whose body and dignity was held in place by Aiden Rothwell's Faith Magic, and Charlene Ravenport, whose eyes glanced more than once at the faces behind the panes. Perhaps a little mockingly, John Williams, the NoM pilot, was behind them, cheering on Gwen with big, hyperbolic waves of his hands. Her match, unfortunately, had no crystalline cup nor a platinum trophy to act as its proverbial cherry on top. Yet, Gwen felt as though she was levitating as the crowd undulated with their praises of "Magus Song!" and "Mistress of the Dogs!", together with a subset of spectators howling "Ariel!" and "Cali—Cali—Cali—" Was Evee watching the show? She wondered as she gingerly exchanged hugs with the men, then clasped Charlene's hand. Together, the girls raised their hands to the air, drawing another round of resounding cheers that would be broadcasted around the Mageocracy and its second-tier capitals. "As this isn't the International Duelling Competition, there isn't a speech prepared," the regal-looking Magister Jerribeth explained. She waited until the girls separated, then shook each of their hands as the officiating proprietor of the All England. Glancing at the side of the now absent Exeters, she gave a disapproving shake of her head, then returned her attention to the girls. "Just as well—" The Magister sighed. "Your competitors have chosen a dignified and quiet withdrawal, so it's now up to you. Please address your ardent fans, Magus Song and Milady Ravenport." In the distance, hovering Lumen-recorders focused on the girls. "I had complete faith in Gwen," Charlene gave the screen a rare grin, flashing her teeth and her steely grey eyes, showing the world that not all members of House Ravenport were born stern. "And that faith has been tested and proven sound. In my capacity as a Ravenport, I believe our partnership will continue to blossom for many years yet." The Senior Adjudicator gave an approving nod, then waited on Gwen to deliver her piece. Gwen took a deep breath. The defeat of the Exeters was something she could not have imagined a year and a half ago. Yet, here she was, standing on a podium while the Nobles fled with their pinions between their legs. Reflexively, she wanted to thank her Master, who even now slept the eternal sleep in Sufina's abode, not to mention Alesia and Gunther. She also desired to credit her Babulya, Uncle Jun, Yeye, Richard, Petra and Opa, whose contributions were instrumental to where she stood today. She very much wanted, a little cheekily, to say hello to Percy to embarrass him on an international level. Then there were her mentors and seniors in England, her dearest Lady of Ely, her team of tutors, Magister Brown, and the men and women who made her progress in Void-craft possible. A tiny part of her even entertained the idea of embarrassing Dickie with a wink and a thank you to pay him back for the fright and fear. But to express such sentimentalities now would be a troubling confession, one that would give away her connections and those who were close to her. Instead, she had an image to maintain and a portfolio to cultivate; with the victory here, she would be freed from the desirous eyes of London's high society, transforming herself into their equal, whether they admitted it or otherwise. Thereby, she knew well what to say at a junction as crucial as this. "Thank you, Magister Jerribeth." Gwen bowed her head before turning again toward the crowd and the audience with a similar show of humility, drawing coos of affirmation. "All I can say now—" Gwen raised her voice by a dozen decibels. "—Is that the Isle of Dogs will issue new Ordinary Shares in the coming weeks for Phase IV of our development! Be you NoM, Mage, Magus or Magister, join us today on the Isle as we rebuild London for a better, brighter future! Don't miss this opportunity because it won't come again, at least until our next project!" Understandably, the crowd broke into new waves of hysterical cheering, not unlike a ravenous beast biting the bait out of jaw-clenching reflex. For ones invested in the isle, the Mages were likely overjoyed that their stocks and properties would see a sudden growth spurt. As for the NoMs associated with the IoD, they had little idea what Gwen spoke of but understood that somewhere therein was the implication for more jobs, better employment, and open opportunities. Besides her, Magister Jerribeth stared at her with a dumbfounded expression of disbelief. When the crowd's baying did not cease for another thirty seconds, Gwen turned to her companions with an awkward smirk. "Maybe I should have gone for a more traditional conclusion?" To her shock, it was Charlene who launched herself in the most un-Ravenport manner imaginable, closing the space between them until she embraced Gwen in a big hug with her spindly arms, then affected a smile that could only belong to a psychedelic purple cat from a Demi-Plane. "I wager you just doubled our earnings this quarter!" Charlene's inspirited voice chimed with the jingle-jangle of HDMs. Ravenport's daughter looked toward Gwen, then to the cameras, the toward her again before she spoke once more. "Thank you, Gwen. I know we're mutual beneficiaries, but still, I wanted you to know that I fully appreciate what you've done for me. I struggle to think another aspirant would again manage a debut with so much... freedom." Shocked at her partner's sudden display of sisterly affection, Gwen felt a little smothered by the unusual intimacy. Yet, when the young woman parted from her a few seconds later and resumed her usual, stoic self, she savoured the lingering scent of soft lilac blossoms. "Do you have anything else to say, Magus Song?" Magister Jerribeth gave a slight cough, her undisguised aggravation as cold as her frozen smile at the antics of Gwen and her upstart kin. "The All England is a busy venue, you understand, and there's much to clean and prepare." "Then we shall take our leave, Magister Jerribeth." Gwen bowed toward the venue's visitors once more, as did her fellow compatriots. As they descended to the sound of shattering applause, Gwen hovered backwards to address each of her companions in turn. "Alright, guys and dolls—Are you ready?" "Ready for the future?" Charlene joked, her mind likely already thinking of her quarterly financial report for the Norfolk Fund. "For what?" Jean-Paul was his usual clueless self. Gwen nodded toward Ser Rothwell, who she hoped did not subscribe to a Vow of Alcoholic Temperance. She also nodded toward their new camp follower, the somewhat desperate looking John Williams, for she had questions for the man that only he could answer. "For the after-party, of course." Gwen flashed her Storage Ring, feeling with complete certainty that there could only be one way to conclude their day. "Tonight! Unlimited Essence-Maotai! We drink until we drop! Or burst! Or until Jean-Paul regrows his hair!"

"What are the chances the Barlow Group isn't going to withdraw their bullshit?" Gwen asked the oval table and its assemblage of face-palming, head-aching folks recovering from Maotai. The night had been long, for Jean-Paul had not grown out his hair despite her best Essence and now resembled a naked mole-rat. At first, Gwen suggested that Jean-Paul would perhaps own the new "look", like a cute pug. Unfortunately, now as bald as Bezos, Jean-Paul appeared more reptilian than ever, so much that the casual observer would question his Demi-ancestry. "Charlene! What do you think?" "Gwen, for the love of Evee, lower your voice," Richard remarked with a wince. He and Petra had joined them shortly after they retired to the Bunker, where they had left early from their labours to celebrate the victory of their cousin over the Empire's elites. "We can all hear you, but right now, your words are bouncing around inside my skull like Clarion Calls." "You could always put the twins' incompetence in the METRO." Petra motioned with a casual wave. As one with principally Russian blood and trained to drink professionally instead of responsibly, her cousin was better fortified against magical booze than Richard. "Besides, these things take time, don't they? I doubt the Veteran's Association can 'order' their protestors home like dogs." "I think it'll take a few weeks, so have patience," Charlene's answer emerged from a mound of silken black cloth wrapped around her head to block out the light. "Ooo— my insides feel like a thousand crows taking flight at once." "You young people..." Walken, who had abstained from the drinking and left early for his family, shook his head disapprovingly. He Maged Handed across another jug of water from the hidden fridge, warmed it with a snap of his fingers, then refilled glasses for the sufferers. "Gwen, perhaps you should reconvene later? The Barlow Consortium will take time to collapse, by which time we'll have the advantage in their fire sale." "Alright— alright—" Gwen relented, lamenting that her lightweight companions could not combine workaholic lifestyles with an alcoholic one. Unlike the Dwarves who drank until they blacked out and then returned to work as refreshed as a clear winter morning, her humans were ill-suited to hard-boozing life. Now forbidden from raising her voice, she turned her attention to the papers of the day, delivered by a hungover Lorenzo first thing in the morning before escaping to his office to "sleep off" the overtime. The latest METRO had been printing as early as midnight, having primed the print run prior, awaiting only the details of her victory. On its cover, an unsoiled Gwen stood beside Charlene, flanked by Aiden and Jean-Paul, while somewhere below in a separate panel, there sat the haggard images of the twins in their moment of defeat. Comparatively, there was an image of her in filthy battle armour on the Telegraph's cover, being hugged by Charlene Ravenport and editorialised by the headline "BIRDS OF A FEATHER". On the Sun, there was a flattering but far more terrifying visage of her in full Void-mode, half-covered by her Dark Egg while hundreds of hungry mouths wept from her obsidian shell. This one, Gwen marvelled, had the gall to use the headline, "I AM BECOME DEATH". It was an apt and eye-catching front page, though Gwen wasn't sure who the audience for such an allusion would or should be. Nearer the back pages, she scanned the Editorial section of the Sun, where a Magister by the name of Lawson Ashbridge of the Middle Faction delivered his lauded opinion on the matter of Void Mages. Seeing that her companions continued to resurrect their kidneys, she quickly scanned the article. **The Legacy of the Void** > In 1979, one month after the Invasion of the Indonesian Peninsular and the harrowing victory of the Mageocracy at Singapore city, a Void Mage made history as the first sorceress to conduct a raid of extinction on a Coral Fortress. > > Though the Military had not kept records of the sorceress' exact actions, eyewitness accounts considered the outcome optimum for Great Powers with the luck and resources to constrain a War Mage of the Void persuasion. > > The end to the Coral Sea War was so spectacular, the destruction so complete, that the Mermen Royals from the Seven Kingdoms who managed to flee withdrew their forces and sued for a ceasefire, putting a ten-year halt on the incursion of the Mageocracy's territorial waters. > > Drunk on success and irrespective of the secrecy surrounding the Void Sorceress known as Elizabeth Sobel, the Tower Council of our yesteryears then grew adamant that the "War on Humanity" mandated the use of extreme military means. It was a hasty decision—one advocated by Lord Henry Kilroy, architect of the Tower and its subsequent Councils, from which the Mageocracy had lacked the legal and conceptual legitimacy necessary to measure the methodology of Void users, thereby gifting Sobel far greater moral liberty than should have been allowed. > > As wars grew in human cost in the years to follow, Sobel quickly became an infamous stopgap measure for the Mageocracy's stretched forces. By official counts, under the tutelage of Kilroy, his spouse conducted no less than four hundred separate operations throughout her tenure, all the while unquestioned by military tribunals. > > History has told us how Sobel faired, and now we stand at that same junction. > > Void Magic is not a modern invention. Documents on Void Mages, mainly surviving ones, had existed for aeons in the Mageocracy's records. Sobel's creatures, these "Hydras" that we have all witnessed on Magus Song's Lumen-casted duel, are likewise not unknown knowledge. What differentiates the Void Arcanist from their fellow War Mages, who are often in the thick of battle, slinging spellfire and weathering a host of counterspells and returned artillery, is their unique constitution, one that had to be survived to be useful. > > However, this does not mean that the caster is indomitable. Of all Negative-aligned elements, there is none more prone to self-harm than Void, and this is a proven fact made evident by Elizabeth Sobel's mental decline to madness. Sobel did not enjoy her victories in the post-war peace but had revelled so long in war and mass destruction that she was no longer capable of living in society. Her insatiable battle lust eventuated in her defection to the Others, to Spectre, and inevitably, her cold-blooded murder of Lord Kilroy, a man whose loss had invariably diminished the Mageocracy. > > Gwen Song has now demonstrated the same aptitude as her predecessor. However, in stark contrast to the case of her Master's spouse, the sorceress has left no secret un-probed by Cambridge's most remarkable minds. Thanks to Magus Song, new methods developed by the Mageocracy's Magisters have ensured that almost all Void Mages willing to fall under the wing of the "Void Mage Union" would see their survival guaranteed, ushering in a new era of Spellcraft development. For those who still doubt the viability of Void Sorcery, I must say that… Gwen noted that the rest of the article gave enough facts to appease the public's paranoia but wasn't heavy on details. The Magister, a "Marshall", was a proponent of her craft, though a wary one, a perfect metaphor for the state of her current branding in the public eye. Inexplicably, as she replaced the paper on the table, a surge of tidal sentimentality struck like one of Caliban's vital euphorias. Had she done it? Had she overturned the PR nightmare on Void Mages left by Sobel? According to the papers, she had. The abrupt realisation made Gwen's chest constrict, and her fists tighten with crushing nostalgia. Back in Sydney, when she had first Awakened, the very notion that she could stand in public as a Void Mage was unthinkable. Back then, even a Master of Henry's achievements had been diminished by Sobel's fall from grace, swept up in a tsunami of atrocities into the shit creek of conspiracy. Even now, in her storage ring, she had stowed her little hand-written notebook her Master had made for her. In it, Henry had explained his grand plan to make her lauded, cherished, famous, then venerated by the Mageocracy to normalise her life as a wielder of the Void. And now— she has succeeded—and exceeded all of her Master's benign designs. Not only were Void Mages once more in the public eye, but Caliban would soon be popular enough to warrant an action figure. But where was Henry to applaud her success? Gwen couldn't help but feel as though she had crossed some threshold, only to turn her head and see that behind her were nought but emptiness. Despite living among trustworthy allies, holding enviable power, and possessing more wealth than two lifetimes, She would still wake up sweating at night, dreaming of that strange vision she had in her Yeye's prison. There, in that alternate reality, she had not perished but instead grew into her Void powers as Elizabeth had, culminating in the destruction of Sydney, Blackwater, her Master, her family and her friends, all by her hand. She felt a sudden desire to speak to Elvia—though that longing too, now lost the simplicity it once possessed. "I won't worry so much as to make a face like that—" Charlene gently coughed, pulling Gwen from her internal revelry with a confident smile. "There is no possibility of Exeter the Senior to renege on the deal his sons made in public. If they're truly unrepentant, we shall appeal to the Crown, which would diminish House Holland's ethos so drastically that no amount of Golden Blood would matter. The aristocracy lives and dies by their word, Gwen. Take that away, and you're left with two-bit landlords." "But do you think we can coax them to tackle their debt with more urgency?" Gwen distracted herself by returning to the matter at hand. "Our stock price isn't going to float on magic alone. We need the protests to end so our employees can get back to work. That and sell off five per cent of our soaring float to fund our purchase of Barlow." "I am sure Lord Exeter is working out a deal right now," Charlene's bloodshot eyes spoke with hungover confidence. "I mean, if I were him, I would want the matter resolved as soon as possible so we can all move on. Hell, he's probably talking to the Barlow's management right now, I hope." Gwen nodded. Indeed, once the dust settles and the IoDNC comes to possess Canary Wharf's titles, there will be a significant remodelling of the final phase's plans for London's premier new CBD, the Mages' dream and, as advertised, the "only place to be". London. Westminster. Morrigan observed the unusually gloomy room. Mycroft Ravenport, Marshall of England's armed forces by hereditary right, sat brooding in his ancestor's armchair, his jubilant mood despoiled by a report that had arrived with a set of unanticipated guests. Opposite, grim-faced and dour, sat the stern visage of Marshall Lawson Ashbridge, present and actual Marshall of the Mageocracy's Special Aerial Divisions. Unlike Mycroft, the Marshall was an active military Mage, one whose facial scars were badges of pride, made poignant by a singular, magical eye that had replaced the original taken by the will of God. Adjacent to the pair, the present spokesperson for the Militant Faction, Lord Francis Holland of House Exeter, stood nursing a glass of Mycroft's finest highland whiskey, awaiting his opinion on the matter. "Honoured Sirs." Her honeyed voice, sombre and subservient, materialised in the office of the Duke of Norfolk as a crow bearing a parchment. Gingerly, her Duke unfurled the fabric, revealing a radiant, singular leaf about the size of one's palm, one with veins that glowed with an inner, eerie light. Mycroft cupped the leaf for a few moments, silently feeding it his mana until Mori sensed his mind joining with the trans-Planar link between London and the space-spanning tree at Tryfan. The others shifted uncomfortably. Though all three were adherents to the Accord, her Master's role was far more involved than his compatriots. "Great Bloom," Mycroft audibly voiced his thoughts. "By the Accord, the Office of the Marshall answers thy summon. With me are Marshall Ashbridge and the Duke of Exeter. Together, we speak for the Factions." "Marshall Mycroft, Marshall Ashbridge, and Lord Holland," came a voice that was no longer inside her Master's head but widely audible via some unknowable sorcery on the Llais Leaf. The tone was regal, but the ageless nature of the petal-pink voice inspired in the listeners a longing they had not known existed. "Indeed, Tryfan has dire need of your services." "By the Accord, we are at your service," Marshall Ashbridge returned with care, his magical eye swivelling to scan their surroundings. "Insofar as our duty demands it." "Dearest Bloom, is the matter regarding Shalkar?" Francis Holland, the Duke of Exeter, spoke with a hint of sardonicism. Her Master had scheduled the man for a meeting earlier to extend Charlene's demands, which would explain the hot-headed Duke's animosity. "Did the Elemental Sea boil over as a result of the girl's irresponsible actions?" Her Master shot his lordly compatriot a disapproving look, as did their fellow Marshall. "On the contrary, your Magus Song has exceeded expectations," the rebuttal from the Llias Leaf left no uncertainty as to Tryfan's opinions on the Gwen. "Though our Warden could be less kind about your failed efforts in the equator, Lord Holland. You have extracted the promised wealth, but the region's Planar stability has fallen into utter disrepair." The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. Her Duke did not bother to hide his smile, while Ashbridge merely shook his head. "We would have fixed it had someone not pulled out the rug from under us and absconded with our funds." Francis Holland amazed Morrigan by continuing to accuse him without a hint of embarrassment. "That said, how can I be of service?" "If my Lords would recall," the voice continued. "Many moon cycles ago, Magus Song found evidence of a mass exodus from the Elemental Sea. An entire Brass Legion had evaporated from our southward expedition, easing the Khitani's passage as we sought to contain the elemental rifts." Mycroft and the others voiced their acknowledgement. "Once our Wardens had cleared the way through to the deep Murk, Arch-Warden Eldrin implemented means to track the Brass Legion through their cross-Planar jaunt. A few human days ago, Tryfan received its answer, uncovering the whereabouts and actions of the Emir's Elemental Legion." Mycroft inclined his chin in thought while the other two voiced their enquiries. "This would be Zodiam the Ursine?" Holland furrowed both bush brows. "A dangerous existence to all mortal life," Marshall Ashbridge agreed. "Enlighten us, O Bloom. What did they do?" "The Legion under Prince Zodiam." The voice remained calm, though the Llias' ability to enforce empathic emotions remained in place, giving even Morrigan a feeling of woe and worry. "Amassed an attack on the northern conjunction of elemental crossroads, in the First Seat of Frost." The Marshall and the Exeter gazed at her Duke, whose profession involved intimate knowledge of foreign titles for landmarks. "By which you infer the northern pole?" Mycroft clarified for his companions. "Where the Frost Flower of Lhîweth, may her Bloom be eternal, reigns over the White Reach?" The room grew suddenly silent. "Does the Frost Flower of Lhîweth still bloom? Are Tryfan's cousins of the north safe?" Mycroft continued, his heart pounding so hard that Mori could feel her organs quicken. "We can mobilise within the week if need be," Marshall Ashbridge spoke. "Sixteen Battalions, half of which are Aerial Battle Wings." "You can try to mobilise, but the reality is that we're taxed beyond belief." The Duke of Exeter rebuked the Marshall. "These will be sixteen very tired and incomplete Battalions." "Unfortunately, Emir Zodiam was only a part of the threat," the voice continued, softening as it solicited undue pity from the men. "His forces were joined by Dauphiness Nin Gak of the Seven Kingdoms and a Great Shoal of Mermen. Additionally, the aftermath indicates that the rogue Lich hiding in Siberia had also joined them." "A Shoal! At the pole?" Francis Holland's eyes grew visibly wide. "That's not possible. It's too cold. The Undead I can envision, but a living, breathing Shoal?" "They're there to invade, not to live," Ashbridge interrupted the unbelieving Holland. "Besides, maybe the Brass Legion warmed them up? The better question is, how in the Fire Sea are the Elementals surviving near the poles? They would expend Essence at a rate far higher than they can sustain." Morrigan licked her beaks. The secrets here were delicious beyond belief. "Hence the Lich—" Mycroft said dryly. "The Mermen brings the bodies. And the Necromancers will have their troops—then I assume the Emir can burn the tree at his leisure. I can see it working, milady—but have our foes succeeded? This happened months ago, correct? you are merely surveying the aftermath?" "Correct. For now, I shall inform the Mageocracy that the Frost Flower of Lhîweth still lives and that the Great Oak of Lhîweth still stands," the voice said. "However, the Grove is severely destabilised, and the Frost Wyrm Laelitharian has perished—" "—By the Nazarene!" Francis Holland could not appear to hold back the growing malice in his voice. "Great Lady, if you're preparing us for the Third Beast Wave, please get to the point. Every minute matters if we need to mobilise the entirety of the Mageocracy. We live short and expendable Human lives, but lives nonetheless." "Francis! Hold your tongue!" Mycroft barked down the Duke Exeter. "Great Bloom, please forgive my unlearned companion. As you were saying—the Wyrm Laelitharian is defeated, but the Great Tree stands?" "Indeed," the voice returned. "From what our estranged cousins in the Seat of Forest were willing to divulge, the siege began with a great rush of frail bodies against the Rime Wardens of Lhîweth, an endless tide of flesh and bones that continued for days, exhausting its defenders and their sorcery and piling enough filth against the Great Tree to overwhelm its perimetry wards. In the aftermath, the Necromancers raised the dead, growing into their power with so much haste and vastness that the Lich among them raised a legion at his leisure. This second battle proved far more difficult than the first, utterly draining the Rime Wardens of their numbers—at which point they then had to face Zodiam's rested Brass Legion." The men listened to the simple words streaming from the leaf, doing their best to envision a battle that would have pulverised even the best defence the Mageocracy could mount—a key reason why disruption and diplomacy was a core strategy for the Empire's survival. "The Emir's elemental Essence had only grown since the Fire Sea's opening, and it was there and then that Zodiam expended the stowed power he had amassed for thirty sun-cycles. As with his previous success, a temporary portal into the Plane of Fire formed from the spent Essence of his Legion, momentarily dispelling the Planar Wards our cousins had perfected over millennia." There was a pause. "The concerted effort was enough to draw forth the Great Wyrm Laelitharian, upon whose wrath the Brass Legion was spent, and the Great Undead Shoal dispersed. Though it was neither Nin Gak nor Zodiam that brought low the Great Guardian of Lhîweth." "There's yet another foe? One that can take down a Mythic Guardian Wyrm?" The Duke of Exeter's expression was like a thunderstorm. "And you expect us to throw bodies at this thing?" Morrigan sensed her Duke's mind sifted through the numerous reports he had received over the last six months to a year, perceiving that an answer that had been long-hidden now revealed itself. "Spectre?" he said at once. "Sobel?" Her Duke did not mention the Outcast, the Elf that had eluded Solana's Arch-Warden since before the Empire had made its first colonies. In any case, if Sobel and Spectre were involved in an attempted murder of a World Tree, a rogue Elven mentor could not stray far from the plot. "Your wisdom serves you well," the voice approved of his conjecture. "Indeed, the Emir and the Dauphiness were aided by our old foes from Spectre, with our sorceress acting as the instrument by which they bypassed the Great Tree's defences and thus, lured Laelitharian from the Wood Womb. Fed by the Great Shoal, she battled the exhausted Wyrm, then consumed enough of the Guardian to enforce its temporary retreat." Morrigan instantly thought of Gwen and the report of how she had devoured the Mongolian Death Worm. A Void Mage grew potent with every battle—not so strong as a fully functioning super-structural Tower—but enough to overwhelm a low-tier city. He would love for the Mageocracy to mount an expedition to hunt the woman down, but the cost in lives and materials for such a protracted jaunt into the Wildlands was unthinkable. The Mageocracy had too many fires everywhere and not nearly enough water. "This is all very overwhelming and mythical." The Duke Exeter took a deep breath, then annoyedly scratched his beard with one hand. "But let me confirm something—will there be a Third Beast Tide? I require a definitive answer, O Bloom." "I cannot profess to divine the forever shifting future—" the voice said. "However, unlike the madness of Vynssarion, Laelitharian shall return to the Tree Womb to be reborn. It will take a century or more, but so long as Lhîweth stands, so Laelitharian shall remain sane." "Thank God for that." The Duke turned to Mycroft with an unamused grin. "Nonetheless, we all know that our Militant Faction has been humbled of late. Perhaps the Grey Faction would like to volunteer a portion of its obscene profits this time?" Morrigan could see from the Duke's overt display that the man was very keen to change subjects from the matter of his sons' debt and disgrace to something that would expend the lives and wealth of families other than the Exeters. Yet, despite the man's loathing for the Accord and what the Hvítálfar might represent in the complex geopolitics of the Mageocracy, the Elves rarely raised the stick without presenting an overwhelmingly large carrot. As a result, the Accord was to the Militants like flames to a cloud of Moon Moths. "What would you have us do?" Her Duke spoke to the leaf. "If indeed the foes are beaten back, for now." "Tryfan lacks the means to pursue a protracted campaign." The voice grew stern and regal. "Regardless, we endeavour to aid our cousins in stabilising the region, and you would know the difficulty of such a task." Morrigan watched her Duke glance at his contemporaries. Ashbridge gave him an affirming nod from the Middle Faction, while Holland's silence could arguably be taken as tacit agreement. Even without an actively maintained portal such as in the Fire Sea, the slow-healing of the World Tree would ensure that all manners of Elemental Creatures now flowed from the primordial chaos of their Planes into the Prime Material. "Pruning" of these creations would hasten the Tree's ability to restore stability to the region while leaving them unchecked to breed and fight would prolong, or at worst, create a second Fire Sea, eventuating in a wholly preventable Beast Tide. "I will inform our allies in the central continent and commit the necessary troops from our end as a show of sincerity," Mycroft spoke for the trio present. "Will we see trouble from the Rime Guards?" "Our best Druids are already there—though you will find the Frost Flower of Lhîweth no friendlier than before. Thereby, please take the utmost care in the region and avoid incursions into the Seat of Frost at all costs." The Duke of Exeter scoffed. "Fairest Bloom. Though we are fully capable of reining our Mage Flights, we cannot be responsible for the actions of Rogue Mages." Ashbridge raised a point that her Duke would have brought up himself. "With the opening of so many Elemental Rifts at once, the absurd volume of Crystals growing in the region would reach an astronomical rate, drawing scum from all over the world." "Indeed, and though her Rime Guards are spent, the Frost Flower is fully capable of defending her realm—" the voice returned. "Her wrath in this difficult time would additionally be multiplied by her grief. Her Grove burns, but our dearest cousin remains one of the Eldest, and as such, possess powers within the seat of her home unrivalled even by your Towers…" "That's just great." Holland heavily placed his glass on the side table. "In addition to Spectre, we now need to hunt down and kill the looters. But if we get too close to the looters running after the loot, the Frost Flower will annihilate our troops. Meanwhile, we need to hold back a developing Beast Tide in a Black Zone with no supplies while arresting and killing our kind. All of this is very easy, I am sure, for a Hvítálfar to envision." "The Mageocracy will be amply rewarded." Her Duke refrained from shaking his head as the High Priestess of the Elves affirmed the statement the Holland's patriarch hoped to hear. Thankfully, Morrigan bobbed her beak disapprovingly in his stead. "For the next year, your Mageocracy will receive the finest materials from Tryfan, magical instructors, and our craftsmen will be at your service in Trawsfynydd, and our Hierophant Druids be ready to assist your plantations. As a gesture of goodwill, we will also double the allotment for Rejuvenation treatments." "That's very generous." Her Duke did sound happier upon hearing the seemingly overwhelming terms of trade. "Is there anything else, Dear Bloom, that you wish to inform us?" Against the men's expectation, there was a long pause. "Until the rifts are repaired, and Lhîweth stabilises..." The voice replied evasively. "There will be changes to the challenges you already face, and through these trials, Humanity will learn first hand the importance of maintaining the Accord, more so for your sake than ours. Your commitment, composed of your will and your willing sacrifice, will dictate the conditions of your children and their children's lives." "Is that a threat?" The Duke Exeter stood to address the Llias Leaf, an act that Morrigan found utterly ridiculous. "Should we clap and sing as we send our children to their death?" "Francis! Sit down!" Her Duke forced the man back into his chair with a wave of his hand before turning to the Bloom. "Speak out of turn again, and I'll call in your Faction's outstanding loans!" Mycroft's warning didn't matter, for the connection from the leaf waned, then faded, leaving the three men once more alone in his office, joined only by an eye-twinkling raven. "I assume," Marshall Ashbridge spoke after a minute of contemplative silence. "That the Bloom isn't talking about war casualties? What's going to happen then, Mycroft? Why did she mean by our children?" If Solana were Morrigan's old self, Morrigan reasoned, she would have meant the children had to be offered up as tasty morsels. "When the Fire Sea first opened," Mycroft reminded his militant cousins. "We lost innumerable people and cities. We didn't know at the time, but the portal's emergence had also changed the climate in the region, desertifying the tablelands. You've never heard of the famine there because all of our colonies had been eradicated or evacuated. Every place from Baku to Ashgabat was abandoned." "So?" The Duke shrugged. "The Hvítálfar seemed fine with the Fire Sea wreaking havoc. What makes this any different? We have no colonies on Greenland." "According to Gwen's reports," Mycroft spoke to the growling Duke, whose face turned even sourer as he mentioned the girl's name. "The famine shifted the entire population of Centaurs northward, the Rat-kin southward, and was the key culprit responsible for the instabilities there. Tens of million Demi-human lives were lost and were they not, we would have experienced a localised Beast Tide. Either way, this is a problem that she had profitably resolved for the Mageocracy by opening up grains trade for the Khitani and facilitating Elven crops for the Rat-kin." Morrigan nodded her beaks. She liked Strun, who reminded her of the warriors of old that used to inhabit her isle. "What does the Middle Faction have to say about this?" The Duke of Exeter turned to their third companion. "Trading with monsters? Enriching rats? Building a vermin tide of her own? That's not very Middle Faction, is it now? Lord Kilroy never condoned such a thing, not in my memory. Besides, did the Fire Sea change anything in our part of the world? It didn't. I want to see Mycroft try to convince the public that their sons and daughters will die for the cause of some sprout, one without bearing on our colonies." Marshall Ashbridge appeared to give the matter some thought before he spoke. "Norfolk, you know as well as I that the girl has our support, but Francis is correct in that she may have gone too far. Did you know Gwen had cultivated a religion in her name? There are rumours from the Ordos that she had quite the Faith reading, which isn't bad if we offer her that particular route. I am not going to stand in your way—but know that we in the Middle Faction have high hopes for Kilroy's Apprentice, especially as Gunther refuses to return to Europe, and the alternative is Alesia. I must likewise agree with Francis on the matter of Tryfan's request—we really can't afford a longitudinal conflict, not without drastically taxing our coffers." "The girl is free to act as she chooses." Her Duke regarded the pair, his countenance so genuine Morrigan almost cawed with laughter. "Her friendship with Charlene has no input from me, nor am I in any way involved in Lord Holland's scion's self-sought consequences, humoured as I am at the outcome. And you know my position on the Accord. I am confident Tryfan speaks the truth, even if we're unwilling to commit ourselves. As for the cost—" "Maybe an arrangement can be reached." The Duke of Exeter straightened his jacket. "Mycroft, may we speak in private?" "We—" Her Duke paused for a brief second, his mind branching out across a dozen scenarios and outcomes in a mere moment. Sensing Mycroft's old tricks, Morrigan fluffed her feathers with delight. "—may not. Nor do I wish to waste time on your family, Francis. These are our children's debt and gain, not yours nor mine. We have an impromptu, long-term campaign ahead of us, milords. Let's not allow such trivialities to distract us from duty." As the voices moved from Gwen toward trivial matters of logistics, Morrigan transferred her consciousness from the room elsewhere to the Isle of Dogs, where her favourite Essence spigot was taking a walking with her cousins, soaking up the adoration of her employees. What had the High Priestess of the timeless ones meant, Morrigan wondered, by that Humanity would learn the true importance of the Accord? What would happen if Humanity failed to commit "voluntary" sacrifices to healing the Grove of Lhîweth? What had the weather to do with any of it, and why had the Hvítálfar intimated as such? It was a riddle, one that reeked of secrecy, her favourite treat. Perhaps, Morrigan wondered as her murder spread its wings and dove down toward the girl—someone who had been to Shalkar and came back the Rat-kin's saviour would be capable of providing an answer!

Petra Kutznetsova, Human Rune Smith in training and soon to be Magus, carefully studied her cousin, the Devourer of Shenyang. Since Shanghai, she had known that her Void Mage cousin could not be expected to behave like an average Mage, though no theory and research had prepared Petra for what Gwen had now become—a possibly unhinged person. Despite her academically-aligned mind, Petra felt compelled to make such a judgement because her cousin, the mistress of the Isle of Dogs, Apprentice to Henry Kilroy and future Tower Master, was now conducting a tea party with a gathering of talking animals in a scene reminiscent of her childhood picture books. Prior to Petra's present predicament, Gwen had invited the crew to spend the afternoon relaxing at Mudchute Park, previously a mound of mud, though now transmuted through the power of HDMs into rolling lawns overlooking the Thames, flanked from behind by gleaming glass skyscrapers. The picnic was initially pleasant, with talk of work and their private lives—until the animals arrived. Petra took another gander at her cousin, currently holding an animated conversation with her non-human "friends". Foremost of Gwen's new companions was Dede the duck, an enormous brute of a drake, a born bully now fully capable of committing assault and battery on Cambridge's Mages. Besides the duck, sipping tea and nibbling on biscuits, was a rat wearing jeans and a t-shirt, more capable of murdering Mages than even the duck. Opposite the two animals, Caliban coiled on the picnic bench, listening to the conversation, nodding and waving as it received bits of shortcake from the duck. Gwen's other Familiar, Ariel, lounged beside them, yawning as it groomed itself. After the usual suspects, the sole humanoid member of Gwen's entourage was Lea, who was more interested in the sweets and the freedom of manifesting in the Prime Material. Finally, there were the crows, a whole host of the damned things, each the eyes and ears of London Tower, weighing down the sycamore tree that made the park shady and cool. The murder's representative, an enormous crow Gwen had been feeding, was delivering avian oratory in the middle of the table, conversing with the duck and presumably Gwen in a way only their Spirits could fully comprehend. What worried Petra now wasn't the talking beasties but how their table had been arranged by default. Gwen sat at the head, surrounded by animals—while she and Richard sat on a second bench, seemingly alienated from their cousin. Unlike Gwen's other peers, Petra saw herself as the original "Gwen Researcher", one who had kept a longitudinal observational journal on her cousin. Therefore, Petra understood Gwen's propensity for attracting the strangest beings to her side and her uncanny ability to attract trouble. Despite the endless drama in the Shanghai portion of Petra's journal, Gwen had made friends and forged an unbreakable bond with her estranged family. For London, Petra had expected Gwen to perform likewise, instantly surround herself with a new social circle of high society Mages. Yet, here and now, in the aftermath of her triumph over London's elites, Petra could only shake her head in disbelief that her cousin's London posse possessed nought but a duck and a crow, reinforced with a rat from Shalkar. Where were the Lulans of London? Petra gazed questioningly at Richard, who appeared more amused by the spectacle than alarmed. Of course, Gwen had made many allies and found helpful colleagues like Charlene Ravenport, that balding fellow from Peterhouse, and new patrons like Lady Loftus of Ely. However, none of these connections was akin to Mayuree or Lulu, who would eat a Fireball for her cousin should the need arise. Perhaps, if Gwen's present company were starry-eyed colleagues and superiors, Petra would have written the matter off as the perils of power. However, The Wonderful Adventures of Gwen of Looney Woods was nothing short of ridiculous. Should she release her Spirit to join them? Petra desired to know what the Spirits and Gwen were so heatedly discussing. But unlike Gwen's Familiar or Richard's Undine, her Naga Spirit was an acquisition, more so a tool than a companion. Not only was her Spirit's Ego singularly shattered by the Thunder Dragon that tore it from its body—it was utterly terrified of Ariel and Caliban. "What do you suppose they're talking about?" Petra asked Richard, growing curious as the crow's caws grew impassioned. "The weather? And something about water levels. Mermen, I think. You know Gwen and Mermen." Richard appeared baffled as well. "Gwen had spent the last hour talking about the weather over tea with a table of animals?" Petra affirmed her suspicions, feeling the pit of her stomach sink. Had Richard's ears deceived her, or had she spent too much time studying the Dwarven Runescripts and had lost perspective of what constituted normality? The latter could be the cause, for according to her Magisters at Queen's College, she had made excellent headway in her research. For her certification thesis in July, Petra had planned to unveil a revamped Spell Cube system, which allowed for long term storage and safe retrieval of the retained "spell" at eighty per cent of the original caster's tier even after a year. Now advised by the best, she knew for sure that Magister Wen's original designs would never supersede the ease of vellum scrolls. By the laws of mana conservation, a Spell Cube's sub-optimal ergonomics would never replace scrolls. However, thanks to her work with Gwen's Dwarves, her research could be re-classified as "magical batteries" slated for stationary spell storage and the craft of Golem-making. "And now they're talking about the ice caps." Richard raised a brow, giving Petra a strange look she did not like. "When did Gwen become Cambridge's resident Lecturer of Geomancy? How does she know all this?" "Know what?" Petra furrowed her brows as the crow continued to caw on the adjacent table, intermittently interjected by the duck. "Hold on—" Richard closed his eyes. Petra felt the circulation of mana around her cousin as the air around him grew sodden, soaking his shirt. Richard, Petra acknowledged, was diving into the consciousness of his Undine. Like herself, Richard had come a long way from the ravages of Sydney to where they were now, the blue lawn of Mudchute, a demesne where her cousin was the top dog. "—well." Richard opened his eyes, though both of his pupils appeared clouded by a film of silvery Conjuration. "I'll transcribe, and you try to make sense of it." Deep in her bones, "Mori" Morrigan sensed that Gwen was spilling forth secrets that few would otherwise know, for there was no other explanation for the thrill coursing through her immaterial psyche. "…It is rather more complicated than that because the Afaa Al-Halak is a symptom of the climate change and not the cause." Oblivious to Morrigan's ecstasy, Gwen continued to explain for her ratty companion the cause behind the collapse of the Rat-kin's homeland, a continuation of the explanation she had initially addressed for Morrigan. "It's like a spider web. If even a single string is drawn, the whole thing deforms, changing weather patterns where the anomaly forms, but also impacting climates further away, albeit in declining magnitudes." Earlier, while Gwen relaxed with her cousins, Morrigan had arrived uninvited to attend afternoon tea, conveying a strange and unusual question about Gwen's report on Shalkar. Her enquiry proved fortuitous, for Gwen was in the middle of teaching Strun the Rat-kin, who would return to Shalkar in a month, about the system she had put in place to maintain food security in his homeland. "Okay, let's try this." The girl turned to the School of PowerPoint when Strun ashamedly professed his confusion once more. With some effort, she conjured a globe to represent Terra, the conjunction of Elemental Planes and Humanity's native home, then willed forth a rudimentary map. "We all know the laws that the Dwarves have been touting since before man, right? That heat ascends, the chill descends, and that these thermodynamic forces are responsible for the wind and rain, yes?" "Caw—!" Morrigan affirmed her understanding. Her non-human companions nodded. Strun listened as though Gwen was delivering a sermon first-hand from the horse's mouth. "Okay." The sorceress added a layer of blue to the globe then overlayed the equatorial band with a dash of orange. "This is where you live, Strun, this dot over here. The orange part is the heat during summer—and as the world spins on its axis, we can see the blue because it's winter. The change of seasons, which we associate with the sun's Radiance, brings the wet winter and the hot summer." Having never seen such an exhibit, Morrigan was thoroughly enthralled by Gwen's simplification of Terra, where the sphere and the Elemental Planes conjoin. According to her recall, no one from the Mageocracy's Geomancer Corps has ever given such a concise summation. "Before the Fire Sea, plentiful precipitation annually soaked the grasslands, then flows downstream into the Amu River, which feeds the Ural Lakes and the Caspian Sea. The humidity from the grasslands not only keeps the Khitani desert cool during the summer but also prevents erosion, thereby bringing trees, and thus shade—does that make sense?" Strun nodded, as did Dede, Caliban and Ariel, who liked to copy the Rat-kin. "Good." Gwen used her fingers to add a dab of red, representing the Fire Sea, allowing the colour to pollute the surrounding blue and orange until the whole section appeared like a swelling bruise. "So, what would happen if there's no more cold air here? What if the seasonal winter is negated?" "Caw?" Morrigan raised a wing. "No, not no more rain." Gwen shook her head. "Which is itself an imperfect answer. The correct answer should be that the rain which should have fallen here is now elsewhere, likely causing enormous floods or crazy snowstorms. All that moisture from the land and the mountains south of the Khitani heartlands is still flowing downstream, only that it's all evaporated and gone before it can feed the plants. At the same time, the loss of all those florae would destabilise the planar balance of the region, making it more hospitable for creatures like the Afaa al-Halak, and less viable for folks who relied on the grain-grass, like Strun's folk. Of course, the Afaa al-Halak would then consume the remaining tablelands to expand their territory, meaning the destruction of the aquifer, which means hotter summers—which means?" "Caw!" "That's right!" the girl patted Morrigan's feathers, simultaneously awarding her a droplet of Essence. "More desert! More Elemental Earth and Fire as Elemental Water moves elsewhere. A bigger rift in the planar gash! Even FASTER deterioration of the region. At some point, there's bound to be another flashpoint, meaning the place may become a new home for the Salamanders and the Elementals." "Caw?" Morrigan asked for the consequence. "I don't know," the girl confessed. "I am not sure anyone would know, and if they do, they're certainly not teaching it at Cambridge. I am pretty sure our Prime Material will be fine regardless, only it isn't going to be anything like the one we're enjoying right now. Can you imagine what the weather would be like in Europe if there's a permanent balefire burning over in Russia? All that water from the mountain caps is going to enact some pretty big natural disasters." "Caw?" Morrigan wanted to know if the Fire Sea could expand once more. The girl shrugged. "Not now, not if we can help it unless a bigger Brass Legion breaks through the portal at the Fire Sea, but until the portal's big enough, the region can only sustain so many Elementals. Isn't that interesting? Do you see why your people are essential now, Strun? To Tryfan and the Prime Material. So long as you maintain the region with the gifts from the Hvítálfar, the threat from the Elementals can only grow so dire. And to mitigate that threat, you'll feed the Centaurs with grain from the Mageocracy. Between Rat-kin and the Khitani and the Towers, you'll be able to prune the Elementals, thereby keeping the portal and the weather in check. Hopefully, when the Fire Sea wanes in time, you'll even get your homeland back." "Caw? Caw?" Morrigan brought their conversation back to her original proposal. "Caw? Naw—Is that even possible?" Gwen cocked her head quizzically. "A Portal to the Elemental Plane of Fire where the Para-elemental Plane of Ice is strongest? Even if it is open, how long could it last?" "Caw! Caw—Caw!" Morrigan could only say that it may very well happen. "Ha!" the girl laughed. "Do you have any idea how much ice is up there? Millions and millions of tons of ice, maybe billions, more than any of us can imagine! Even if a new Fire Sea opened up, how much of it could it possibly melt? Not to mention the amount of ice on Greenland isn't even comparable to the sheer volume of water stored in Antarctica." "Caw?!" Morrigan wanted to know if warping the Elemental Nodes at the poles could be applied to Gwen's theory on Shalkar's decline. "Bloody oath it will!" Gwen gestured wildly with her hands, launching herself into a new frenzy of doomsaying. "But you contradict yourself—isn't Antarctica the blackest of Black Zones? Has anyone other than Magister Shackleton ever traversed it? If my history lessons are correct, he didn't reach the centre until the Second Expedition. He had to make a fort and survive a year-long siege from the Ice Elementals when the Diviners in his first expedition got eaten, right? Besides, doesn't the Bestiary state that whole broods of Mythics make their home there, including a White Dragon?" "Caw—!" Morrigan not only knew that there was a Dragon there, she even knew the creature by name. "Anyway, I am not an expert on Astral Theory. Whatever the case, the energy required to subvert the polar junctions of the Planes of Water, Ice and Air would require magnitudes of power we can't access with our current Magitech. Not that we would want to control that power anyway. Why do you ask?" "Caw—Caw—" "You're a very curious bird with very strange questions." The girl's striking eyes regarded Morrigan inquisitively. "Is there something you're not telling me?" "Caw!" "The—the need to know?" The girl grew flustered. "You'd be far more convincing if you weren't a bird—Oi! Where are you going?" Morrigan took flight. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. From the moment the Hvítálfar witch-queen made her offer, Morrigan had felt her feathers tingle, and now she knew where to find the answers. Though the girl knew nothing, her wild conjectures had ignited the root of Morrigan's altar as though it was once more drenched in offerings of heart blood. Long ago, ancient men once whispered to the "Crone of Crows who wove the Secrets." And though Morrigan had since separated from the potent Faith of secrecy and war, she nonetheless instinctively understood that she was on the cusp of some great understanding. And for a being whose psyche was formed of such a thing, there was no ecstasy sweeter than possessing the knowledge that others did not. "What in St Augustine's name is Gwen on about?" Petra asked her cousin, now more confused than before Richard had transcribed the conversation. "The weather. Seemed simple enough to me." Richard shrugged at her with infuriating nonchalance. "Whatever Gwen's interest might be, our present problems are more immediate. Maybe we should resolve the Barlow problems first—get the METRO back on track—and then worry about terraforming a Black Zone, eh? Gwen's not paying us for overtime, you know." "That's not the problem here, Dick. I mean, why does she know this? Did the Elves teach her this—what?" Petra stared at Richard when the man dared to roll his eyes. "Go ask her yourself," Richard smirked. "It's not like she's hiding anything." A moment later, rearranged so that her cousin no longer appeared the Princess of a Russian fable, Petra began the soft interrogation of what she suspected was yet another episode of her cousin putting herself into unfathomable peril. Trusting in the rapport built with Gwen over the years, Petra forwent the pleasantries directly asked what the crow called "Mori" had wanted from her. "It's nothing serious," Gwen happily explained her hypothesis once more. The second time Petra better comprehended her cousin's reasoning, even if the scope of Gwen's proposal anchored firmly in the realm of fiction. "Just because we don't think about it or know about something doesn't mean it isn't happening behind our backs, Pats." Gwen clarified with an air of conspiracy. "I am not a Diviner like the Oracle of Delphi, but you don't need magic to see that a lot of the problems in the Mageocracy can be explained by the changing weather patterns in the Wildlands. Before Shalkar, I wasn't aware of how impactful an Elemental incursion may be. Now I am." As she spoke, her cousin thoughtfully stroked the duck's neck, eliciting something between a quack and a purr. "Pats, relax. I am not saying we should lose sleep over any of this. We have bigger problems, and besides, there's not a lot the Mageocracy can do other than work with Tryfan's directives." "Meaning, if you're right, we're at the mercy of Tryfan?" Petra recited after her cousin. As a committed adherent of Dwarven Runecraft, she was no longer clueless about the High Elves and their role on Terra. The Hvítálfar, whose Dwarven Masters labelled "knife-ears", had always perceived themselves as better than their Elementally estranged cousins and loved to meddle. Thereby, Petra felt great unease that Elves were beginning to feature more and more of late in Gwen's dealings and not Dwarves. "I don't mind them. Sanari was pretty chill, all things considered. Did you know she told me that even if I blocked that Eldrin fellow, she still would have left me the seeds and stayed to help? If you're right, then it's because their generosity can be downright creepy." "That's because they are much more long-lived." Petra felt her anxiety soften. "Maybe we're not seeing the scope of their plans from their perspective." "Maybe," Gwen said. "But you know what's wild? Remember that time I went to Talwaenydd? I bought those dresses, right? I gave the Elf working the shop the money, and she just tossed it on a pile behind her in a basket. I know my shopping, and I am certain that the HDMs in there are from other Mages who had visited in the past, meaning they've got no interest even in the money they've collected. It was more of a ritual just so that we would pay and feel good." "I can see how that's strange." Petra thought about Gwen's gripe. "Right?" Gwen completed her thought. "They're not interested in profit, Pats. Now that's enough to give a girl the chills." As one who had undergone training in Moscow's infamous Tower, Petra agreed with Gwen's wariness. Indeed, the more an adversary desired, the more trustworthy they became when an agent monopolised the supply, be it sex, drugs, or authority. According to her erstwhile Master, no living being possessed of an Ego could be without desire. Therefore a party that presented itself as neutral meant two things. One, she was being deceived. And two—she had not done her due diligence. In the blink of an eye, Morrigan returned to the Raven Roost at Westminster, transferring her principle consciousness from one bird to another until she passed a visage of her likeness etched onto a wooden sarcophagus, alighting finally at the catacombs of knowledge. Now bathed by sterile light, her eyes opened once more, finding herself in a grand hall so vast that even the casual observer could guess at the spatial magic used to maintain its immenseness. Below her, as always, a thousand Diviners in drab tweed and leathery brown stomped through a maze of shelves, stocking its indexes with data collected from the Mageocracy's domains. The room reeked of mana miasma, for in recent years, most of the incoming information had been transcribed onto data slates, allowing even mortal Diviners to aid in the great project of clarifying the going-on of the Mageocracy's multi-continental realm. Morrigan refocused her mind. Materialised into a murky avian apparition, she flew past the magically cooled data-scape into the ancient vaults below, entirely indexed by hand, with tens of millions of scrolls, scripts, notes, files, memos and annotations going back to the time of the Argent King. Within its lightless crypt, Morrigan now traversed, wading through a sea of secrecy, relying only on the tatters of her eidetic recall to find her true north. Earlier, her favourite Essence Vessel had convinced her that the Elements were up to something—and that something had to do with the Seats of Frost at the axis of Terra. For Morrigan, the clue wasn't in Gwen's untested proposals but the implication therein. In the present state of the Mageocracy's policies regarding the Black Zones, Beast Tides were classified as the consequence of explicit and sudden actions, such as the Undead War, the emergence of the Fire Sea, or the spontaneous insanity of Vynssarion the Black. These were observable catastrophes, all of which forever altered the wind and rain. According to Gwen, Beast Tides, especially spontaneously occurring ones, may just as well result from changing climates. And according to what she had gleaned from Tryfan and her Duke, such subtle changes in climate could very well be the result of willful malice. However, unlike the mundane, short-lived members of the present Mageocracy, Morrigan's memory was long and old, older than even the Empire's most sagacious Magi. After delving through six storeys of catalogues, Morrigan stopped in front of a pigeon hole half-smothered with dust. Gingerly, she willed forth the records within, composed originally by a Nordic Mage before the time of the Towers by the name of Styrkar Arrhenius. Quickly, Morrigan confirmed the contents—an annotation of the purged proposal made by Arrhenius, insisting that the Axis Mundi—nodes where the Elements conjoin, could be coaxed through manipulating the most plentiful Element on Terra, "Water". It was an opinion that was well-regarded. However, for Arrhenius, his infamous doomsayings soon made his position untenable. Even as Humanity made its way around Terra plotting colonies and expanding territory, Arrhenius proposed that Terra was not meant for Humanity's destiny manifest, but the Mermen. "The Elementals shall inherit the Earth!" was the famous saying that turned the Magisterial community against Arrhenius, leading to the censure of his research. Nonetheless, the Mage had left an impression in history, as well as the prophecy that should Humanity fall— the remnants would survive in a "water" world. For this reason, Arrhenius argued, if he were one of the Seven Kingdom's sovereigns, subversion of Terra's planar balance would be his principal goal. With her first reference stowed safely away, Morrigan came upon the second piece of evidence two rooms above. Unlike Arrhenius' unsanctioned opinions, Lord Stewart Collins of Reeds was a Geomancer of the Mageocracy's heartland, a respected Magister, and a chief researcher of the Black Zones with tenure from before to after the Great War of Undeath. Lord Collins, taking advantage of the desolation sowed by the Undead Tide, recorded alterations to weather patterns in central and northern Europe due to the planar instability caused by Negative Energy. Interestingly, Lord Collin's warning conflicted with that of Arrhenius, who was convinced the oceans would rise and the Mermen would reign. Instead, the Magister observed that unseasonal winters over the Seven Kingdoms would catastrophically impact food chain systems utilised by the Mermen, thereby triggering Beast Tides inspired by desperate Kingdoms looking to shed their excess citizens. Thereby, Collins warned that a "foe" with enough commitment could wipe out Humanity, not through direct combat, but by proxy against the natural world. Like Arrhenius, Collins' words also fell on deaf ears. Then, for reasons unknown, his research was never again published. The final piece of information Morrigan possessed of note was from a New World Magister, a recently perished Charles H. Hansen, Senior Lecturer of Geomancy from Stanford University. Unlike his predecessors, Magister Hansen possessed the advantage of Spellcraft long since matured after the Beast Tide, supported by evidence collected over two decades fighting the global catastrophe. In the end, Hansen concluded after engaging in "meta-analysis" of the Beast Tide and the Coral Sea War that there must exist parties actively manipulating the Prime Material's climate patterns. In yet another "phantom" publication that saw widespread censure outside of the New World, the researcher made the outlandish claim that Elves and their World Trees directly impacted the Prime Material and that alteration to these "nodes" of the Axis Mundi would see Humanity prosper over Terra's Elemental denizens. Unlike his predecessors, Hansen, a resident of the New World, initially saw widespread support in his native nation. Yet, like his predecessors, Hansen quickly recused himself after publishing his work, disappearing entirely from academic life. Of the report Morrigan now possessed, the obituary stated that Hansen had wanted to reignite interest in his theory, only he grew obsessed enough to venture into the Wildlands alone. When finally a party stumbled upon his beacon, the only part of him that was not beyond Divination was his old dog tags. It came as no surprise for a being like Morrigan that the man's narrow "truth" did not take on. In Europe, Elves and men had partnered from before the epoch of Anno Domini. Likewise, in regions like China and the Indian subcontinent, the very notion of uprooting Land Gods who in actual fact controlled the weather would see Hansen lynched and hung by a terrified mob. And as for the events that had occurred in Greenland, where Lhîweth burns and the Wyrm Laelitharian rots—Morrigan was beginning to sense logic in what appeared to be a fruitless and costly campaign. As an appendix to her data dives, Morrigan concurrently collected reports of anomalies surrounding events of the last decade, pairing the spotty logs with piecemeal records of weather patterns in the affected regions. Her evidence remained insufficient, but for a collective consciousness wrought of secrecy such as herself, Morrigan knew she was on the orgiastic cusp of a forbidden discovery. All that remained was to barter her findings for her Duke's flesh. The act was a ritual that restored the waning motes of her decaying power and fortified her psyche, buying her time. For so long as she survived the tyranny of time, one day, Ravenport's mortal line will cease to be. Then, The Morrigan, Crone of Crows and Weaver of Secrets, shall once more fly free to wreak havoc and feast upon the offerings of her knowledge-starved sycophants. Deep in thought, Mycroft Ravenport, Duke of Norfolk, paced the perimetry of his office, balancing a dozen threats to the Mageocracy. Hours ago, Ashbridge had left for the Palace to report to her Majesty, who would then trust her Dukes and General to deal with the Mageocracy's worldly affairs. The same applied to Holland, who retreated to rouse the Mageocracy's reserves after leveraging his aid for a favour. After the fiasco at the Niger Delta, Mycroft wondered if it was even possible to persuade the Noble Houses that they should feed scions into another expedition—though this time, with Solana's guarantee of profit and treasure, it was difficult to see why a Faction starved of currency would refuse. What's left to Mycroft now was the question of leadership, for the head of the Northern Expedition into Greenland, a Black Zone without any infrastructure, would reign by martial law and be unchallenged until their hour of return. Usually, Mycroft possessed a small trove of candidates to draw upon—but their employer, Tryfan, had made the matter infinitely more complex. The Greenland Expedition, Mycroft suspected, was not one to send the men home by Christmas. By The Accord's parameters, the war would not be over until the region was wholly stabilised, which meant the complete and total Purge of Fire Elementals, Undead, and Mermen from Lhîweth's domain. Meanwhile, there was every possibility that Lhîweth may attack the very Human Mages who came to help them, and the Mageocracy not only had to grin and bear the loss but apologise should they damage the land surrounding the Great Tree. The situation itself was as absurd as they came, for Mycroft could imagine the uproar if he had hired gardeners to fight an infestation in the rose garden, only to have his wife execute them when they misstepped on the good turf. But what's the alternative? Could they leave the infestation untreated? For his generation of Humanity, the consequence wasn't so dire. Dead roses. A ravaged Eden. And arboreal anarchy where straight hedges and shaded lanes once reigned. But what of longitudinal neglect? The worrying thing was that neither Mycroft nor anyone else had an answer. In the days before Spellcraft, the Mageocracy held scant records going past the Victorian Epoch of Enlightenment. To add insult to ignorance, each war and Beast Tide invariably destroyed more volumes of journals or erased indexes so that knowledge, so that even if one existed, verification was impossible. "Caw— Caw—" There came the sound of a crow rapping on Mycroft's door. "Come in," Mycroft spoke absentmindedly as the crow descended in a flurry of jet-hued feathers to assume the humanoid likeness of his supernatural aid—The Morrigan. "Dear Duke." The sultry voice of his bird sounded well-fed. "I come bearing delectable secrets." "You do?" Mycroft packaged away his present thoughts for a later hour. "This better not be another rumour attending to one of her Majesty's wayward children." "Oh, this is far more delicious," Morrigan purred, her dark eyes sparkling with delight against her pale cheeks. "I spoke to the girl of her experiences from Shalkar, and she has told me of a correlation between Beast Tides and the weather." "Truly?" Mycroft decided he would rest his mind with an amusing distraction. "Tell me, what did the girl say this time? What secret did she inadvertently reveal?" "Tis not the lass but I who possess this secret," Morrigan informed her dear Duke. "Do you wish to know why the Elementals are assaulting the Great Tree of Lhîweth? If you would pay the price, then Morrigan would gift you with an answer." Mycroft regarded his Spirit with a critical eye. As per her contract, she could not deceive him with falsehoods, though Morrigan was free to present the truth with as much guile as she wished. If so, and if indeed the Spirit possessed the wisdom to see past the constraints of the Accord so at least he knew what his men were dying for, then he would gladly pay for her service. "Fine." Mycroft materialised a crystalline blade and slit the tip of his finger, allowing a bead of blood to swell forth. Morrigan approached, her eyes primal and wild and her pupils enlarged. Without ceremony, she placed his finger so that the string of blood that now escaped fell into the gap between her hot lips. A second passed, then Mycroft felt his vitals falter in the wake of their contractual obligations. With haste, he withdrew his hand, leaving a streak of crimson to run past Morrigan's lower lip and across her chin. How like the goddess in the Celtic engravings she now looked, Mycroft observed. Morrigan's was an Ego that had existed since the age of wild men, savages who sacrificed their flesh and blood to unnamed Spirits like Morrigan so that she could bless them with answers to questions they did not know existed. Calmly, Mycroft softened his breathing, reminding himself that though the woman no longer caked herself with offal offerings from Druidic supplicants, her very Essence continues to be constituted from the raw, unadulterated terror of a Humanity that cowered in crude forts and hid in caves from roaming Fomorians. "So tell me." Ravenport wiped his hand on a white, silken handkerchief. "What do you know?" "I know where Spectre will next strike, assuming they haven't done so already—" The Spirit spoke through teeth that were gory and bloody, her white bosoms rising and falling from the invigoration gifted by Mycroft's blood. "I know what they wish to achieve and what they would engender." Mycroft's heart grew strained with sudden paranoia. "Where?" "Antarctica!" The crow-Goddess of old war and death and secrets spat with triumph. "They seek to destabilise the Great Tree of Illhîweth in the same manner as Lhîweth! The Elemental Sovereigns cannot force their Legions into the Prime Material so long as the World Trees stand, but they can push each boundary to the extreme! And most importantly, they can push your kin toward destruction, even without war, thereby crippling The Accord and with it, Humanity's tenuous hold on the Prime Material!"

Rakiura Purple Zone. New Zealand. Unbeknownst to many, the little-known inlet of Oban sits on the southern tip of Aotearoa, on an island that the Demi-God Māui used as the anchor for fishing up the north island. The modern Geomancers of the Mageocracy, who deemed it necessary to rename the tongue-twisting island chain "New Zealand", did so while well aware that the north island may have been a Leviathan of unusual size. The Prime Material was, after all, where the flotsam and jetsom of the Elemental Planes naturally ended up. Therefore, a perishing Leviathan dying when it emerged into a plane with insufficient buoyancy to sustain its colossal body wasn't impossible. Perhaps the tale of the islands being the carcasses of mythical Leviathans could explain why Te Waka a Māui, or "Māui's Canoe" that made up the south island was prone to producing a greater variety of magical produce than any other colony under the Mageocracy's reign and served as home to enormous hosts of Demi-human beings. Oban sat on the smallest isle, Rakiura, later renamed "Stewart Island", after the Victorian cartographer who mapped the region. In the present day, two significant Human settlements exist on New Zealand's shores after the Beast Tide—Auckland in the heart of the north island, and its sister city slightly south, Wellington. Its third settlement, the city of Christchurch, beautiful and wondrous it may have been, was unfortunately relegated to human history by the Beast Tide and now exists as a fortress serving races without amicable relationships to the Humans up north. It was from Oban, an inlet on Rakiura's east, that Divination Station WETA1077 now sent its complex string of warnings towards its mother station in Wellington. For almost two days, its station Master, a Senior Geomancer of no import who had chosen a remote job because it allowed him to focus on his Ice Magic, could only watch in awe as the spectrometric readings of the South Sea shot from their usual range into the utmost extremes, then stayed there. At first, the Geomancer was confident the sudden surge of every reading meant his instruments required new calibrations. Though his Spectrometer was Dwarven-designed and German-made, the snow, wind and sleet so common to Oban were not kind by any measure, sparing not even the rocks that rolled down the escarpment under which the station hid. With his mind made up, the Geomancer had decided to see what would happen with his own eyes. After all, with every needle going haywire, he had no idea what he should even report. An hour later, he had his answer in the midst of making tea. First came the sound, a heavenly echo that rolled like solid thunder, moving as slow as molasses as it washed over Oban's shores, so oppressive that the shielded station felt as though underwater. When the sound did hit, the transmuted concrete of Oban station shook as though a jar of fruit abused by a belligerent child, sending every item not bolted down to rain down on its sole inhabitant. In a daze, the Geomancer had dug himself from the debris to make his way back to the Spectrometric reading room. There, he no longer needed the readings to know that something terrible and terrific was occurring across the ocean. Immediately abandoning his tea, the Geomancer forced himself to record, then compose a Message to Wellington station, one that would warn them of the impending horror to come. Fifteen minutes later, from the vantage of his seaside office, the Geomancer saw a great plume begin to build on the horizon. Even from his privileged position, the curvature of Terra's vast globular distance made the scale of the dust stack impossible to estimate—but for him to see it from Oban, there was no doubt as to the stratospheric pollution taking place. Then, the sea began to shimmy. Not surge. Nor crash. But recede. As the tide flowed impossibly backwards, it exposed the shallow denizens of the South Sea. Stricken fish, confused clams, suddenly exposed crustaceans the size of houses and bewildered Mermen who traded fish with the Geomancer for grain—all were left exposed to the frigid air of Oban. The Geomancer knew then that the sea would return with the crushing wrath of ten Leviathans within minutes. It was there then that the Mage, whose name was known only to the Wondrous Energies Technical Academy based on the coast of Wellington, made a choice. In one scenario, he picked up the emergency Boots of Flight and legged it, likely making it a hundred kilometres before he could find a fishing vessel to take shelter. In the other scenario, he shepherded the Message device, calibrating its fluctuations in the Elemental Planes, then stayed with the station until the inevitable happened, praying to Māui that he had enough HDMs left for the Message to reach Wellington. The Geomancer chose the latter. When one's home was the Purple Zone of Rakiura with its view of the limitless ocean and a backdrop of endless Roc nests, Wyvern hovels and other Elementals, the minuscule nature of his existence was never a matter of doubt. But now, having chosen to be the better man, the anonymous Mage felt that perhaps, this one time, he would have made a difference to Humanity, or at least, the lives of his forgetful colleagues in Wellington. A few minutes later, under his trembling fingers, the gauge showed the station's mana reserves nearing depletion and that the Message, as far as he could know, was still sending. All that was left, the Geomancer supposed—was to be at peace and relish the sublime, unfathomable power of the natural world. WETA. Wellington. Magister Maka Kawhena, Academic Director and principal Geomancer at the Wondrous Energies Technical Academy, was woken up by his bright-faced assistants. "Something's happening on Rakuira!" the youthful faces yammered, explaining that there was an immense elemental surge of sorts. Kawhena remained unfazed, for here was Aotearoa! A land of Halflings and Titans! A land where on Wednesday, one could experience a sudden surge of Elemental Fire so close to Auckland that the ground would shake—after which the faculty went back to lunch. Oban was their southernmost station, constructed in the unpopulated Purple Zone with a skeleton staff of one. The reports from Oban had rarely contained anything of interest, and over the years, Kawhena had near-forgot that the place even existed. "What's the matter now?" Magister Kawhena broke the crust from his eyes, stowed his research papers with a swipe of his Storage Ring, then yawned to dispel his fatigue. "The readings are off the charts!" One of the students waved the script back and fro. "And I think… Oban's gone." "Gone?" Kawhena's mind instantly grew clear at the unfortunate news. "Give it here." His eyes scanned the script. The readings, as it were, were "off the charts", not as a figure of speech. The Elemental Spectrometer readings from Oban Station's final transmission was of such magnitude that the numbers were beyond the scope of its Divination Engines to compute. Had Oban itself not reported its destruction, the Magister would have foremostly considered the readings an error. "Anything else?" The Magister asked his students, despite knowing that the Divination Station was too isolated and weak to transmute vocal Messages or Lumen-casts. Nonetheless, if he took the readings to be accurate, then Wellington would very soon encounter an unfathomable trial. The students understandably shook their heads. "Sir?" One of them must have noted his facial expression. "Are you ill?" Kawhena touched a hand to his forehead. He was sweating, he realised. In mid-January, Wellington was prone to heatwaves, but as February marched in, the temperature usually peaked in the brisk twenties and dropped into the lower teens. "Come with me," Kawhena decided to inform Auckland Tower at once, true or otherwise, that was his duty as Chief Geomancer. "We're going to the LR Message chamber. We need to—" The building shook, as did their bones. A clash of raw, relentless thunder rolled across the sky over Wellington, so powerful that deep inside WETA's reinforced academic building, dust from the ceiling fell across the Master and student like fine, powdered snow. "What was that?" One of the students said, perhaps finally realising things were about to get real. "Thunder?" Another remained optimistic. "No, not thunder," Kawhena said aloud. A scholar of his tenure knew very well the weather forecast for the next week. Likewise, his student should have known that no weather phenomenon manifested as a single thunderclap. _Ding—DING—DING!_ Before the Kawhena could station his train of thought, a stylised chime for urgent notifications blossomed beside his ear as a burst of red mist. Putting the output on public, Kawhena activated the incoming Message. "Kawhena here." The Magister kept his voice level. "What's happening?" "Sir." The voice from the other end was from his Apprentice, a Magus Geomancer from the Akaroa Outpost, sheltered in a volcanic inlet. "I just received pings from our buoys south of Oamaru. There's a tsunami currently moving northward toward Timaru. It should reach our station in twenty minutes." "How bad?" Kawhena asked. "We're getting ready to evacuate," the voice replied. "From our readings, it's travelling at close to three hundred knots and moving at a depth of about a hundred meters to fifty meters. It should reach Wellington in the next eighty minutes." "Anticipated wave height?" "Uncertain. I'll report as soon as the primary crest passes the outer rim of the station." "Anticipated damage to the substation?" "Catastrophic is my guess. Thankfully, the spontaneity and speed of the Tai āniwhaniwh indicate this to be a natural occurrence, likely from tectonic movements in the south. The fastest Leviathan we've recorded can barely manage fifty knots without its brigades of Mermen, so it can't be an invasion." "Understood. Pass on the warning to Auckland. With preparation, the Tower should be able to minimise the damage and organise the city's defence. Very well done, Magus Everett." "You've taught me well, Master." "I don't recall teaching you flattery." Kawhena wanted to smile, but his facial muscles were too rigid for feigning hope. His Senior Apprentice was an experienced Geomancer. If the young man's calculations remained true, then the sea wall and the reinforced Shield Barriers south of Wellington would not be nearly enough to stop a tsunami of this magnitude. "All of you, come with me to the observation room," he informed his students, then mentally punched in another Glyph into the active Message spell. "Ena, Ruhi, go inform the militia. Moki, confirm the bad news with the city guards. I'll contact the Tower. Ahi, go help organise the evacuation." The call took half a minute to finally make its way through the rudimentary Divination Towers that snaked across the north island, past the Halfling settlement of Hamilton, then Auckland. The delay, frustrating as it was, was the best their Frontier could manage. Unlike the first-tier cities, having middle-tier Diviners manning Divination hubs was a luxury they could not afford. "Maka—" The voice that answered him was calm. "It's good that you've called. We've all heard the commotion. How bad is it?" "Paladin. I regret to inform you that Oban's obliterated," Kawhena said. "There's a Tai āniwhaniwh wrapping around the north coast in the next sixty to eighty minutes going three hundred knots. We'll take the brunt of it, but enough of it will reach Auckland to make reinforcements... complicated." "The cause?" "The readings indicate a spontaneous natural event." "… I see," the voice of Auckland Tower's premier Battle Mage, Magister Te Wherowhero, sounded relieved. "Nonetheless, I suspect we shall require aid from Sydney and Melbourne. I'll mobilise the Tower in the meanwhile and have Whetu organise the reserves. Master Hildenbrandt will officially request our Halflings allies at Hamilton to ready relief supplies for Wellington. Likewise, we'll spare what we can for your defence. Stay safe, Maka." "You too, mate," Magister Kawhena allowed himself the luxury of speaking informally to his old friend and colleague. "I am confident Wellington will survive and rebuild, just like Sydney." In the lobby of WETA's academic hall, the arriving Kawhena addressed the hundred or so of his colleagues who had by now emerged from their labs for the observation hall, the designated meeting place for emergencies. Altogether, there were only three Magisters and something south of forty Magus-tier casters in the entire city of Wellington. Kawhena's saving grace, he supposed, was that only a hundred thousand NoMs serviced the port city, a stark contrast to the milling million Kiwis in Auckland. Nonetheless, with the sirens blaring and the population well-trained against natural disasters and Mermen incursions, he had no doubt any citizens with good sense should be able to find shelter, or at least escaped to higher ground by the time the Tai āniwhaniwh made landfall. All that was left was to defend Wellington from the residual tidal surges as best as they could, then hope to Māui that no Elder-tier Elementals had decided to take the opportunity to tour their hapless settlement. Within ten minutes, as had been drilled dozens of times before, Kawhena split WETA's Mages as best as he could. Then, while making for the observation room, Kawhena took the readings from Oban and studied the numbers. Only a dozen pages managed to make the leap from Oban to Wellington, making the cause of the disaster woefully unclear. One graph, or whatever could be transmitted, indicated an overabundance of Elemental Fire in the hour prior, reaching a peak of some twenty-six thousand per cent of the yearly average. At the same time, Elemental Earth in the region showed growth of some fifteen thousand per cent. Likewise, Elemental Ash, Smoke, and an assortment of flame-aligned elements also inundated the chart, causing a depression in the spectrometric volume of Elemental Water, Air, and Ice that dominated the region. For an area possessing ninety-nine per cent water, ice and frigid air, Kawhena too would have doubted the validity of the instruments. In hindsight, the numbers matched a sudden volcanic eruption, though the total lack of build-up before the detonation was a matter of great suspect. Regardless, the origin of their present woe could only come from one source. Mount Erebus. For aeons, the dormant volcano had remained a bastion of Elemental Fire against the all-pervading cold. When it last erupted in '97, Kawhena had been a Magus studying in Auckland and was lucky enough to be selected for an expedition to witness the eternal battles between the Magma and Ice Elementals that reigned in Antarctica's northern Black Zone. Still, Kawhena felt an unwelcome queasiness. If the Tai āniwhaniwh caused by an eruption in or near Erebus was enough to wipe out Oban station, then how large must the blast be? With a heavy heart, Kawhena did his best to match the readings to a mental image of the sky-rending ash cloud now spreading over the white linen snow of the Antarctic—transforming the infamous seat of pristine frost into a wasteland of choking ash. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. What did such a thing portend for the days to come? Regrettably, as a Frontier Magister and administrator, Maka Hawhena could honestly say that he had no idea. Mycroft Ravenport received the report of the eruption of Mount Erebus no less than an hour after Auckland Tower's mobilisation. His first reaction was to suppress the deeply felt suspicion that Morrigan's conjecture was correct and that Spectre's next target required an over-extension of the state's forces. Already, he had sent forth agents from the Sixth Cabal into the Wildlands of the southern Frontiers. But that was a week ago. And despite the vigilance of his agents, there would be a few weeks before he received a full report. The delay was frustrating but necessary—for regardless of their zealotry for threats against the Mageocracy, no Human instruments existed to monitor the south pole beyond Spectrometric Stations on Falkland Island and Oban. And now, both were gone, and the Antarctic Black Zone was presumably on fire. In a less complicated time, were he to call upon Morrigan's record-searching expertise, the crow would croak that magma bursts were a dozen-a-decade affair, and they occurred without rhyme or rhythm, or at least one that the Mageocracy could discern. Against such "known" tectonic anomalies, the Mageocracy had well-built insurances in place. Ironically, certain settlements existed solely to survey such regions. For a well-shielded Frontier, a volcano wasn't just a source of danger but a source of immense resources, for whether caused by planar disjunctions or simply the natural flow of elemental energies in flux, every destructive aftermath left behind countless new HDM growths ripe for the picking. For this reason, regions like Auckland may lack in Mages and manpower but rarely lack infrastructural investments. Had Mycroft not received Morrigan's warning, the eruption should have been a cause for celebration. Once Auckland and Wellington endured and was in the recovery process, Mages could be ferried from Singapore and the coastal cities of Australia to mine the newly exposed wealth. Though utterly inhospitable, a well-armed expedition on a fully equipped ice breaker barge could penetrate the South Sea, then serve as a temporary operating base. There or near Erebus, once the warring Elemental Monsters were "Purged", the acquired materials and HDMs would be split between the Mageocracy, its Commonwealth colony, and the mercenaries hired by the Tower to do its bidding. Unless something catastrophic occurred, such as a sustained Mermen Tide or the awakening of something ancient and opinionated, all parties walked away satisfied and laden with riches. However, the dangers were real, and so were his lack of men. Ashbridge had already summoned the available manpower the state could spare at a moment's notice, meaning the Royal Docks were presently loading the HMS Argus with Golems, tents, supplies and materials for the temporary command centre off Greenland's coast. To summon as many men again for a second Breaker Carrier, but this time for the underside of Terra, was not only improbable but potentially unprofitable. Thanks to a certain newspaper, the losses sustained in the Niger Delta had the Militant Faction blushing for shame, meaning the Grey and Middle Faction had to unsubtly encourage their privateering cousin utilising garish promises and upfront reinforcements, like tossing meat to a ravening Manticore to steer the end with three mouths toward one's foes. Nonetheless, Mycroft's appointment meant he MUST make a recommendation to parliament. At the same time, his suggestion had to attain rapport with all three Factions of the Tower—and pass muster with the Crown. His only reprieve was that he needed not juggle Factional considerations to find a capable Commander, unlike the Fire Sea expedition. As the matter occurred nearest to Auckland, the Commonwealth's treaties naturally left the organisation of relief and recovery to the closest Tower and its Master. London's dispatches would operate under Auckland, even if in name only. In a simpler time, Mycroft may not have bothered sending Mages at all, not when HDMs and supplies were sufficient. The Paladin of Auckland and Gunther's old contemporary was Magister Te Wherowhero, an Earthen specialist with a wealth of experience going back to the Beast Tide. Under his care, most of the north island's terrestrial Demi-humans were allies of the Tower and could count on their aid. Likewise, Auckland would call for assistance from Sydney and Melbourne. On that front, Mycroft could predict with absolute confidence that The Morning Star would take the opportunity to repay the kindness Auckland had exhibited three years ago. Across the miasma-choked air of Westminster, the dull echoes of Big Ben's mechanisms announced the time. Rubbing his eyes, Mycroft took a moment to vent his annoyance at the tyrannical march of Big Ben's heartless tolls. His original plan a week ago had been to spare an evening for a toast with Charlene, or at least a gesture of congratulation over a luncheon—but now, he could barely recall when he last had tea without the interruption of reports. Once the discomfort in his eyes faded, Mycroft considered his options. Any work in Antarctica required the attention of a well-suited Magister from the Shard. One he did not have. There were candidates—but these were haughty men and women with little regard and even less respect for the sovereignty of their southernly Commonwealth compatriots. On the surface, they had no trouble processing the grand scale of the Mageocracy's assumed fairness. Still, Mycroft knew these Magisters better than themselves, especially when given a fully-equipped research vessel equating a mobile mini-Tower. For a Magister to accrue accreditation and succeed in his assignments, help and favours were inevitable. A clean and uncomplicated Purge required complex networks borrowed from their sponsors. Correspondingly, to terraform a section of an Orange Zone into a pacified Green Zone, mountains of HDMs had to be poured into the building of Shielding Stations, roadways and to attract NoMs and labourers to settle into a newly "recovered" Frontier. Most importantly, failure almost always accompanied such successes, meaning political buffers had to be erected through gifting profits and favours to ensure that the Magister's evaluation emerged favourably. Conversely, the "Down Under" region of Australia and New Zealand was just a little too far from the bountiful bosom of the green isle in the north to remain in its sphere of control. That was why Henry Kilroy had exiled himself after the violent ex-communication of his wife. Likewise, that the Towers of Europe had given the man a wide berth for almost three decades meant the Empire's ex-penal colony had affected an assumed independence. That and the region's war leaders were Wherowhero and Gunther Shultz. Paladin Wherowhero, a renounced "king" of the Maori and a shaman-turned-Magister, exhibited only ambivalence for the Mageocracy's promise of "common" wealth. As for Shultz… Mycroft was sorry to say that a man whose prowess was used to categorise the War Mage tiers could arguably do whatever he wished. Around two decades ago, when Kilroy announced that he would take Gunther with him to reclaim the eastern coast of Australia, it was not outrage that the Mageocracy had expressed but a shared sense of relief. Thanks to Shultz's bloodline, a dozen domains across both the Kingdom and the continent had felt threatened by his inevitable claim to power. Therefore, the making of Gunther Shultz into the Tower Master of a perpetually besieged mining colony was the most remarkable outcome anyone could have imagined, leaving many in awe of Kilroy's generosity. That was why Shultz's proposal to rebuild Sydney as a tier 1 city in the south had not only been met with applause, but every Faction had pitched in to keep the man busy and forgetful of his birthrights in Europe. "Morrigan," Mycroft called for his Spirit. The crow-woman manifested at once. Of late, Morrigan had rarely left Mycroft's side as matters in the north continued to unfold. "What's the girl doing?" "Making use of the NoM Artificer from MIT," Morrigan answered happily. "Trying to get her grubby mugs on Golems?" Mycroft furrowed his brows. If the girl started building Golems in her Print Works, the Fifth Cabal would be very interested. Once the girl had her Tower, she could manage it as she wished—but for now, for what possible "private" use could a War Mage have for Custom Golem casings? Morrigan looked up with a smug look of mischief. "No, Master. She's working on the Llias Leaf. The NoM says he may be able to replicate some of its functions." "Good, as long as it isn't Golems," Mycroft spoke on reflex, then slowly allowed his exhausted mind to catch up with the surprise and irritation suddenly swelling his temples. "… Gwen's doing what now?" "Our 'Mistress of the Dogs' is trying to dissect the Hvítálfar magic associated with the Llias Leaf," Morrigan's lips were so red with excitement that for a moment, Mycroft mistook the colour for blood. "She's trying to glean its secrets by having the NoM approach the Elven Glyphs. Something about using similar Dwarven Glyphs as a medium." The Duke of Norfolk pictured his daughter standing next to Gwen at the All England. Charlene was such a good girl, he thought to himself. All his little bird desired was to overturn the old power pyramid to benefit more of the Mageocracy's citizens—and gain power for herself in the process. It was a very admirable goal. Why couldn't Kilroy's Apprentice also be a good girl like Charlene? A part of Mycroft wanted to teleport to the Isle of Dogs and slap the Llias Leaf from the girl's hands, then strike her thrice on the head with his raven-headed cane. Another part of him, the logical portion he valued more than his health and life, told him that the Llias Leaf was a gift from Tryfan to Gwen and that Tryfan was more than capable of protecting its secrets if it so desired. Therefore, mindful of his feelings on the Accord, the Duke of Norfolk poured himself a cup of cold tea, swished the bitter liquid in his mouth, then swallowed. In all honesty, sending the girl down south felt absurd. She was too young, too inexperienced, and far too talented, a terrible combination when the desired outcome should be "predictable". If, by chance, the girl made "Shalkar" happen in the Antarctic Black Zone, would the Great Tree of Tryfan spontaneously combust? But that didn't mean he had a better candidate in mind. If Antarctica turned out as Morrigan had suspected—would sending Gwen not be a stroke of genius? Mycroft reminded himself that the girl was indeed an Apprentice of Kilroy, a man instrumental in establishing the current Accord and that Kilroy's history with the Hvítálfar was as thick as sheaves under the World Tree. Thereby, if she did make unhappy contact with Illhîweth, Tryfan should step in to prevent an escalation. As for the Mermen—Mycroft recalled the girl possessed a deft hand at dealing with Mermen. At worst, he was confident Gunther Shultz would personally attend to the girl's blunders. With his confidence bolstered, the mindscape of England's Lord Marshall began to entwine the strings of cause and consequence. The Shard MUST send an expedition, one that involved a Breaker Carrier, to the northern tip of Antarctica to observe the rapidly changing conditions there. At best, the discharge at Mount Erebus was a natural occurrence, meaning Auckland and the expedition could excavate a Dragon's hoard of HDMs and Creature Cores, then retreat to the safety of the Shield Walls. At worst, if indeed Spectre was involved, then the girl would be wholly motivated to Void them, and should she prove insufficient, The Morning Star would teleport to her aid together with the Scarlet Sorceress without a second thought. Likewise, should the matter grow dire, the Tower Master of Sydney had already amassed enough HDMs from the sale of the Leviathan's offals to move his renovated Tower across the South Ocean. When Mycroft tried to envision Gunther Shultz appearing as a blazing sphere of pure Radiance above the endless snow of Antarctica to rain down god rays of absolution upon Spectre's agents, even he couldn't help but affect a secret smile. Terrifying as Sobel could be, the Mageocracy never did lack in giving as good as it got. But of course, Kilroy's youngest was still a student. She may not act like one, nor behave as such, or possess the same limitations as a regular Magister candidate, but Gwen was, without a doubt, an undergraduate of Cambridge. Yet, many Mages had distinguished themselves during the Beast Tide in his generation despite their status as juniors. Later, a great many of these ambitious men and women, Mycroft included, went on to reclaim Humanities waterlogged cities, settling themselves into the new political fabric of the Commonwealth. Thereby, it was thanks to a great many antecedences that The Shard possessed no problems bestowing the necessary titles—and Mycroft doubted it would shy away from the same liberties today, so long as the girl performed. Presently, the girl already had Shalkar under her name. Should Antarctica prove more than a milk run, and assuming the girl succeeds—Mycroft sipped his cold tea. The transition from a Magus to Magister required certified contributions to the Tower, the Commonwealth, and Humanity itself. Two tours—and the gains to show it—was more than enough to attain such a title, regardless of her academic achievements. An undergraduate Magister? An undergraduate Tower Master? The paradox made Mycroft's temple throb—but at the same time, he couldn't help but feel a tiny and expectant flutter of the heart. For now, he would ask the girl to volunteer with a coalition of the willing to Wellington. And as she accrued credits and continued her lessons, he would put the mechanisms in place for a second expedition to the south. As for the leader of the expedition... Now that Charlene had debuted into the political world. Wasn't it natural for a good father to put his best daughter forward? Sydney. The Tower. Gunther Shultz, Morning Star and Tower Master, calmly ate his burnt eggs, crushing the charcoal between pearly teeth to ease its passing with bitter coffee. From his open kitchen, he could see the entirety of Sydney's harbour, now ten times the size of its predecessor and entirely a man-made construct excavated from the bizarre formations of the Leviathan's hollowed-out carcass. His wife, the always lovely, consistently fiery Alesia de Botton, readied herself for work, entirely forgetting the garlic bread in the oven and the spilt packets of raw bacon still sitting on the counter. There were spent eggshells as well, inexpertly cracked, still on the cooktop, and a burnt pan sat unwashed in the sink, crying out for redress. Many husbands would find the scene disheartening, perhaps even annoying enough to cause a minor scuffle or disagreement. Gunther did not feel any such need. For a man of his prowess and responsibilities, he felt that the minutes he would spend around the kitchen cleaning up after a wife who could not but insisted on cooking was a rare bliss. The one regret that assailed him when Gunther looked out over the peaceful harbour and ate Alesia's half-cooked, over-cooked, or uncooked meals, was that his Master wasn't here rolling his eyes and teasing Allie. The clock chimed. Another ten minutes, and he would teleport back to reality. Gunther knew with absolute certainty that such idle days of domestic bliss were merely a pacifying drug to will away the time while something direr brewed. If it pleased Alesia to play the housewife while she could, then he would play the role of a mortal husband, one who wasn't responsible for the five million lives up and down the east coast. He quickly swallowed the last of his burnt egg-on-toast. Two days ago, the news had arrived in the form of a Tower-shaking boom with uncertain origins. Hours later, Gunther received an urgent message from the Tower Master of Auckland, hoping that Sydney and Melbourne might give them the necessary aid to repel the Mermen Tide now that the immediate threat of the tsunami had passed. Shortly after, Sydney and Melbourne had entered a state of emergency, activating coastal defences and powering up their Tower Cores to repel the tidal waters. Melbourne reported minimal disruptions and damage thanks to its inlet locale. Much to Gunther's pleasure, Sydney reported a complete containment of the flood water thanks to its new infrastructure and Leviathan-powered Shielding Stations. As for the original victims of the unexpected disaster, Wellington's collapse was sufficiently suppressed by overworking the Shielding Generators, sacrificing a few outlying engines to create localised maelstroms feeding the incoming tide into the Elemental Plane of Water. As a result, the city centre had been preserved at the cost of losing seventy-five per cent of its resonator capacity and thirty-three out of the forty-five Shielding Stations in the Cook Strait. The city's sea wall had been overwhelmed, though not to such a degree that the harbour districts were unrepairable. Likewise, though the lower sections of the Wondrous Energies Technical Academy were flooded with debris, the recovery period still fell within the limitations of time and HDMs available to Auckland. What worried Te Wherowhero was what came next. A tsunami of this magnitude often travelled deep and long, meaning every Mermen Shoal between the South Ocean and the Tasman Sea would be alerted to the fact that the closest human settlements, Wellington and Auckland, would be understaffed and under defended and that the dreaded resonating crystals would likely be out of sync. For the Seven Kingdoms of Mermen, one of which lay northward in the Coral Sea and the other east of New Zealand's coast in the South Pacific, there was no reason NOT to assail the weakened settlements. By mobilising its Tower, Auckland should be able to repel the Mermen Tide—but Wellington, with its breached defences and lack of manpower, would have the impossible tasks of a botched evacuation or an improbable city defence. To Gunther's knowledge, a worse-still scenario was the usually amicable relationship the Maori shared with the coastal Mermen who freely traded with the city. Would the half-million of these former "allies" defend the city? Or would they flee? Or, more likely, would they join the "Great Shoal" making its way toward the inundated coastline? Wellington needed aid, and the support had to be swift. As the Tower Master of Sydney, he couldn't just upend his work and leave for Wellington, not to mention the Auckland Frontier wasn't his to govern. What he could spare was a Senior Mage Flight and Sydney Tower's rising star—Alesia's "Little Scarlet", which, together with Melbourne Tower's contributions, should significantly bolster Wellington's military potential. "When are Yue and the boys leaving for Auckland?" Alesia caught his wandering gaze, then read his mind. "Tomorrow," Gunther recalled the girl who barged into his office demanding to be let in on the Mage Flight, explaining that she had to fight for her mates across the ocean. "Jonas is returning to Sydney as we speak. He should arrive tonight. Billy's already reported to the barracks." His wife nodded. "Do you think it's anything serious?" "A tsunami and a Mermen tide not serious enough?" Gunther joked. "You know what I mean." "I don't know," Gunther confessed his ignorance, something he loathed. Of all the pitfalls of the Frontier, he hated the lack of LR Message devices and reliable Divination Towers the most. In that regard, the vast distances between Australia's cities made the lack of readily accessible information exchange particularly painful. As for the continent's interior, he currently possessed no hope of tapping its resources. "The report sent to London says that the eruption was spontaneous and without magical interference, though I don't think it's reliable. Oban was the closest Spectrometric outpost, and it's so distant from Antarctica that we could fly for two days and not see a hint of the shoreline." "Alright. If all we have is ignorance—" Alesia's expression suggested she was trying and failing to imagine the distance. "— then is the problem far enough from Sydney to ignore?" "We might not have a choice." Gunther's voice held a rare trace of misery. "Erebus is almost four thousand kilometres away from us in a Black Zone with no shelter or supplies, inundated by Elementals from the primordial age. Short of burning every HDM we've squirrelled away and flying the Tower over the ocean, no presence Sydney can muster will make a difference. If Melbourne and Brisbane joined us, we could put together an expedition, but that would take almost a year, not to mention we lack the warships. Also, do you recall Master saying that the Hvítálfar has an outpost there? A Great Tree of rime and frost that extends from the Prime Material into the Astral? Maybe there's even a Mythic Frost Guardian? Who knows? Without burning HDMs we can't spare—ignorance is our only recourse." His wife shrugged. "Well, whatever. It's not like Yue's going deeper than Wellington. Will London be sending a team to Auckland? Our parochial rulers usually do, don't they? We're still a part of the Commonwealth, after all. They'll have a meander, then loot the town in the name of aid." "I am sure London's 'generosity' is on its way." Gunther nodded. "They'll pass through Sydney. Who do you think they'll send?" "Some musty old dog who won't even give me the time of day," Alesia predicted with a smile. "You won't stand for it, right? Gunther?" "Absolutely." Gunther broke into a smile as well. "How dare these imperial hard heads not know of the Scarlet Sorceress?" Alesia's laughter rang across the spacious living room. "Will Te stand for it? The Shard isn't going to let matters go if there isn't much to loot." "Then they'll receive nothing," Gunther agreed with a grin. "Paladin Te Wherowhero has my full support. I'd love to see who dares to challenge our judgment. I'll make it worth their while, but mark my words, London won't receive a single HDM more than the effort they bring to Auckland."

The Bunker. The Isle of Dogs. Gwen listened with utmost attentiveness to the torrent of jargon vomiting from the mind of Magus John C. Williams, catching the butt-ends of formulas she had picked up between her Enchantment, Conjuration and Transmutation classes. As far as she could make out, the young man had already convinced Petra that he was the genuine article. Comparatively, Pat's Dwarven teachers, such as Danmurim the Glum, believed the sandy-haired American to be a _Vadam_ New World Magitech heretic. "No-no-no, good Master—At the Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy, my colleagues have already proven the existence of Eisenberg's Cosmological Constant," the man was red-faced as he brayed on, unwilling to concede, yet wary of the Dwarf's mace-like tankard. "With it, our arcanists have made enormous strides in unravelling the Linguistic Equilibrium, the Liminal Astral Dilemma and the Elemental 'Ouroboros' Paradox. For this reason, I am confident Magus Song's request has a real possibility of success." "I understand what yer saying." The Dwarven Runesmith turned the stein in his hands. "What I am saying is yer dreaming if yer thinks of our Runic Syntagms can be in anyway interchanged with 'em Paradigm Scripture of the knife-ears. Us paired with Human sorcery—maybe—after all yer stole enough to establish yer School of Enchantment, but the knife-ears' Treant wash? Yer dreaming, lad." The ongoing debate had started a week ago after Gwen relented to allow Williams access to the Dwarves. Unfortunately, the result was a theoretical tug-of-war that had continued every evening at the Dwarven Bar just below the Bunker. For a bloke that had wanted to learn from the Dwarves, William was not at all shy about giving advice based on the latest and greatest from the "New World". Strangely enough, though the Dwarves grumbled and scoffed, they nonetheless accepted the youth human "Engineseer" into their midst. When she asked Petra, her cousin said Hanmoul's kin saw the Golem-crafter as a "Craftsmen", which meant his racial credentials were no longer relevant. Comparatively, Pats herself was merely regarded as a "Journeyman", a fair dinkum assessment for a lass still perfecting her "Path". As a result, Gwen herself had decided to put Williams to the test. A day earlier in her office, the NoM from the Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy had laid out his entire resume, citing that his extensive work on Golem interfaces could help her simplify the operation of Dwarven machinery for use by her non-magically aligned employees. To show his gratitude, the Artificer offered, he would aid Petra in creating a conduit device so that NoMs working in Golem Suits could also interface with her Alternative Spell-Storage Solution Cubes. Both of the man's proposals were sound enough for Gwen to grant William's dearly wished access to her Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth allies. That and her interest in John's accreditation in creating "interfaces" for Magitech. As someone with comprehensive knowledge of how something seemingly innocuous like "User Interface" keyboard and mouse was singularly responsible for transforming the computing industry in her old world, she had to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Thinking of her next project, Gwen opted to entertain the possibility of showing Williams something for which she had yet to find a willing researcher—the Llias Leaf. To date, she still had no idea if the Llias Leaf could be dissected and studied, as even the Magisters in her immediate circle were of two minds. Most believed in leaving the damned thing alone—while a vocal minority urged her to study the Elven device as much as possible before it was "confiscated". In Gwen's view, if the Hvítálfar genuinely needed Humanity as valuable allies in "pruning" the Prime Material of every aphid and grub sucking out its nutrients, then they shouldn't mind her grifting so long as the Promethean outcome was beneficial to all. When she passed the leaf to Williams and explained her theory behind the Llias Leaf's functions, the Artificer had kicked into gear as though a crank-shaft had been forcibly joined to his spine. With trembling hands, the researcher had scratched out a dozen connotations and denotations she could barely comprehend, then assured her of his confidence that Elven Scripture, which was merely an alternative form of sorcery, could be deciphered. The catch, Williams appended after his heady enthusiasm passed—was that she would have to bring the Llias Leaf to Boston. According to the NoM, his colleagues in Cambridge, Massachusetts, had proposed a "Glyph" language akin to arithmetics which superseded cultural, racial and species-based boundaries. The study of this theory and its subsidiary outcomes was what bore fruit for William and his colleagues' derivative "Semiotic User Interfaces", a design that allowed NoMs to understand better the functions of magic underpinning Magitech Items. Petra had then shown the man her Spellcubes, inferring that she too was in the process of simplifying spells for better utility—to "share" spells across Schools of Magic. After that, Dwarven artisans were brought in, and the debate on the semantics of cross-species arcanistry ignited like the Engine Core of a Balefire. "Nonetheless, I believe we can help Magus Song." The NoM remained unswayed by her Dwarven engineers. "Break new ground—that's what we do in the New World. If Jonathan Gilt had stopped his work on the Ether Engine because we tamed enough Magical Beasts, then there wouldn't be Americas as we know it. The Institute's pride rests in us sitting on the cutting edge of Magitech. Did I mention our motto?" "Aye, _Mens et Manus,_ it's a good one." The Runesmith grudgingly nodded. A Dwarf speaking Latin, Gwen inclined her chin. Now she's seen it all. "It's right proper Dwarven, lad. I give yer that. Yer sure there are no Dwarves in yer part of the world?" _Mind and Hands_ , Gwen translated internally. Had Williams not boasted about his college every other conversation, she too would have thought the motto as thrifted from Dwarves. For a nation who chest thumped with pride whenever someone name-dropped Gilt or Ford, she was more so surprised the motto wasn't _Nummum et Manus_ —coins and men. "Maybe a few communities here and there," Williams said. "But no, nothing like undercities back home. The Murk in our part of the world is... hostile to habitation." Before Gwen could ask, her train of thought was disturbed by the flickering of a lumen-caster playing the news not far from the corner of the bar. "One second, fellers," she interrupted the conversationalists, then gestured for the barkeep to turn up the volume on the BBC report. A few days ago, she had been shaken by the report that a tsunami warning was issued for Wellington and Auckland. And now, just as her mind wondered if Yue might help their mates in New Zealand, a familiar figure appeared, then disappeared from the Lumen-caster's projection. "Australia prepares to send aid to Wellington in preparation for the Mermen Tide," reported the scroll at the bottom of the screen, depicting a well-used vessel docked not far from the recently restored Opera House. "HMS Parramatta" was the name of the supply freighter, and it was through a long zoom of the military Mages boarding the ship that Gwen caught sight of Yue's unmissable silhouette besides that of Paul, Taj, Jonas and Billy. According to the BBC presenter, the supply ships would rendezvous with the now airborne Auckland Tower. From the Tower, the reinforcements from Sydney will be assigned to the direst regions around Wellington. In addition, there was another ship from Melbourne, a joint-operations vessel with volunteers from Adelaide, though their mission emphasised reconstruction over recovery. Seeing her friend on the Lumen-caster was an almost surreal experience. Less than half a decade ago, they were just kids in Blackwattle. After their first camp, Yue had very proudly struck out her best features and announced that she would be a Battle Mage and an officer in Sydney's Militia. Now, not only was Yue a central card in Gunther's deck, she was quickly taking over the role Alesia used to occupy. Furthermore, according to Richard, the reason why Alesia never took over the part of "Paladin" after her husband was that Yue would occupy that role. For the "tier 1 Sydney" Gunther wished to rebuild, an ethnic-Australian Battle Mage with an NoM mother and no Clan or bloodline heritage was a perfect candidate. Gwen felt an instant and ardent desire to venture out and join Yue. With Yue's barrages and her unrivalled ability to clean up an organic "Beast Tide", the "dynamic duo" could have the Mermen beat, and Wellington cleared within a month. But she had her projects here, from the Isle of Dogs to the acquisition of Barlow. And According to Brown, there would soon be a line of Gracies awaiting her Essence Tap—once the other universities finalised a roster and greased Cambridge's leadership. "Thanks." She nodded to the Dwarven Barkeep. The Lumen-caster dimmed once more, its volume decreasing inversely to the rousing post-work relaxation of the Dwarves working in the Bunker. When Gwen returned to the conversation at hand, Petra and the NoM were again going hammer and tongs against an unconvinced Danmrium the Glum. Monday. Gwen returned to Cambridge to attend lectures and check notes with her tutors. She still had more to learn in Astral Theory and Spellcraft, meaning her brain was a hot mess of invocations and incantations by the afternoon. At the courtyard to Emmanuel, she sat with her duck and Familiars, meditating away the accumulated stress. It still puzzled her why Dede was ever-present in the duck pond whenever she returned, considering that the duck never missed a free meal in London. Then again, according to an eye-witness, Dede could fly fast enough to form an "umbrella" of air with its beak as the pin-point. Mid meditation, she was hailed down by Charlene, who invited her to tea at a local cafe with a private balcony overlooking the spring gardens. Charlene ordered a bottle of white from the cellar to pair with the afternoon tea; the girls made small talk, then poured out the amber liquid into generous bell glasses to air. After Gwen demolished both serves of sandwiches, her business partner moved from the topic of Mermen Downunder to the real reason behind her visit. "You've been tapped to reinforce Wellington." Charlene's grey eyes glinted. "So have I for an associated mission. You'll be going first, and I'll need you to join me as soon as you're able." Gwen's surprise was genuine, but with her knowledge of "Dickie” and the Militant Faction, she quickly garnered the rationales behind Charlene's helpful forewarning. "Is this my second trial?" "Yes, this will be for your Magisterial Application," Charlene affirmed her suspicions. "For the first portion, you'll be responsible for how you wish to reinforce Wellington. I expect you'll be given free rein. After Shalkar, you've more than proven yourself." "That was because I was going at it alone in Shalkar," Gwen pointed out. Charlene chuckled. "That was an unexpected development. This time, it's all on you." "How so?" Charlene pursed her lips for a moment. "It's a part of how the Magisterial evaluations function. In the first 'trial', you're tested for your ability to adapt and your ability to lead. Your resources are given to you, as are the men and women necessary to achieve your goal. Of course, you passed that trial with flying colours because you managed to achieve the impossible—and without borrowing a single Mage from Meister Bekker's retinue. Of course, there were the Rat-kin you tamed, and most importantly, both Tryfan and the Ordo Inquisitors had vouched for your actions. Whether that upped your evaluation or lowered the score, I wouldn't know. Personally, I'd wager your baseline was so high that any penalties would be made redundant." The high praise from Charlene, someone Gwen genuinely respected as a business partner, was enough to make her blush. "As it stands, you've got another year and a bit until you have enough academic credits for graduation. Like myself, however, you're expecting more than just a desk or battlefield job at the Shard, so our achievements need to possess more nuance." "Nuance?" "Yes. Even though I finished with the highest honours at Cavendish, I have no use for an unadorned Tyrian-ribbon Magistership. As a Ravenport following in my brother's and Father's footsteps, I need more than just recognition from the Shard. Does that make sense?" Gwen understood. She was already aware that Charlene had been building her "brand" with the Exeter incident. The Ravenport was using her, but both the process and the outcome had been one of mutual gain, particularly the NoM Golem-maker who was promising her the world. "So this time, I need your help, and I'll give you as much help as I can manage—if you are willing to help Wellington, then aid my mission." "Absolutely," Gwen concurred. "I do want to help Wellington. And I'll lend you a hand." She did not mention that she couldn't wait to see her old mates from Australia and New Zealand, either of which would be motivation enough to venture to Wellington. "Thank you," Charlene answered with relief. "You're a charmed existence, Gwen, both to the Mageocracy and myself. At Shalkar, you've demonstrated something only a Tower Master could do—the transformation of a potential Black Zone into a food-producing region with the output of a Green Zone. When you do put on the mantle of Henry Kilroy, your exploits will have their place in the refreshed textbooks." "No need to keep buttering me up." She squirmed under Charlene's unyielding gaze. These nobles may spend all day waffling, but they were damn good at making a girl feel a million HDMs. Still, the greater the flattery, the harder the request. Charlene laughed, masking her mouth with her dainty lady's fingers. "Alright, I'll get to the point. Do you know why your second trial affords the candidate free rein?" "I could guess, but please enlighten me," Gwen said seriously. "Very well. Let me give you an example of what I did for my second Questing Credit session. You've heard of the Strait of Gibraltar, yes?" "I have." "Good. So, about a year ago, our military base there had to intervene when the Gigantes Demi-humans of the mainland decided they no longer wished for French colonists from Tangier to fish along their coasts. God knows why, as the Elemental Giants don't eat fish—anyway, we have a base there—the infamous 'Tower of the Rock' beside Gibraltar. When the Gigantes started an impromptu military action against the Tangier fishermen, we couldn't just let it happen, not when Paris sent in three Mage Flights to 'negotiate'." "Wow." Gwen could only imagine the scene of giants lobbing Stone Missiles the size of semi-trailers at passing trawlers trying to take advantage of sardine shoals the size of islands. "When Father asked, I 'volunteered' for a mission in the Strait. Though I was a part of the diplomatic corps, I was allowed to act alone, as you had in Shalkar. I had a few of my friends from Cavendish with me, but I also borrowed a contingent of the Raven Guard from Father, and I brought a Tower Raven as my advisor. When I got there, I managed to stave off the French Mage Flight by having the Raven Guard keep the peace as Mori helped me gather information on the locals. While the main Diplomatic Corps kept the negotiations going, I uncovered that the Gigantes' displeasure was stirred by Rogue Mages who had made it to the mainland from Tangier and were raiding their settlements then escaping out to sea." Gwen listened. Charlene continued after a sip. "I asked Mori to send a Message back to London, requesting a means to track down these Rogue Mages. I figured they were trading the gems and metals they stole from the Gigantes in Tangier, and the Grey Faction has an unregistered market there. Folks owing favours to father got in contact with their Grey Faction counterparts working for Tour Montparnasse, and a few days later, Mori gave me the names, faces, and likely locations of these Rogue Mages." "Nice." Gwen's awe was genuine. "I then arranged a trap for our Rogue Mages, inviting both the Gigantes representative and Tangier's senior administrator to observe. As expected, the Rogue Mages fell into our laps—rigorous questioning ensued, and both sides were satisfied that neither had intended the hostilities. What's more, we even found links to Spectre, whose agents were purchasing these rare materials from the pirates in the region." "That's amazing," Gwen replied. "But—" "What does it have to do with you being assigned to Wellington?" Charlene grinned. "Well, here's the thing. How much help do you suppose I managed to call in during that fiasco?" Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Gwen combed through her memory. "Mori—your Raven Guards—and folks from the Grey Faction—" "Yes," Charlene affirmed Gwen's forebodings. "We're not in Cambridge to be scholars, Gwen. For future Lords of Parliament and aspiring Tower Masters, we need to demonstrate our political, economic, and social connections as a part of the trials. These are not things the Shard can provide for you. Each Tower Master—or Lord of an assigned demesne, MUST possess individual means to provide for their region." "I think I understand," Gwen said. "Do you?" Charlene tilted her head. "Alright, If you're going to Wellington next week, what can you bring with you?" Gwen carefully considered her choices. Charlene sipped her tea, enjoying the private balcony's floral ambience while nibbling on a sweet tart. "Right—" Gwen replied somewhat sheepishly. "I can bring Richard and Petra. Golos, Ariel, Caliban..." "What? No Gracie? or Jean-Paul?" To her shame, Charlene snorted. "You need to start using your connections, Gwennie." "I couldn't possibly ask Lady Maxine or Lady Astor or Meister Bekker." Gwen shook her head. When she saw Charlene roll her eyes, her irises lit up. "Maybe 'Daddy' can help? He owes me one still." Charlene took ten good seconds to swallow her tart without choking in an unladylike manner. The future Duchess sighed. "Gwen. You've got folk that OWE you explicit favours they're all too eager to pay back: folks who love to drink and sing and folks who live in immortal trees. Do you get me? I am already promising you help, so forget about my father for now. Besides, he _has_ helped you by giving you this opportunity to carry out your trial in a familiar part of the world. Imagine if someone assigned you to the Niger Delta." "I should be thanking him?" Gwen raised a sceptical brow. The young Ravenport gave her a weighted stare. "Moving on. If you can only bring Richard and Petra, you may as well go at it alone. You alone have that privilege as a Void Mage. But then what? Will you be the 'lonesome' Tower Master? The infamous one-woman-army as Sobel had demonstrated? The Shard isn't going to like that." "Alright, what if I _bought_ a Tower." Gwen made a sudden pivot. "Like they do in America. According to Williams, their Frontier has corporate-owned Towers clearing Orange Zones at all times. America is a big place, and so much of it awaits Humanities' enrichment." Charlene made a sour face. "Firstly, you're not THAT rich—yet. Secondly, is your idea of a _Tower of peers_ a profit-driven corporation with a revolving door membership? That's how they do it in the New World. Thirdly, would you prefer to be beholden to the immeasurable greed of shareholders instead of a government with clear-cut boundaries? We're old fashioned, but at least we're guilty when putting profits over people." "It's a joke." Gwen put up both hands to ward away Charlene's criticism. "I think we both know I've laid down enough roots here. Just imagine how Gunther and Alesia would react if I told him I abandoned the Middle Faction and started a Corporate Tower in the New World." "Speaking of _roots_ ," the way Charlene repeated her metaphor made Gwen suspect the Ravenport was taking advantage of her innocence. "The Ordo Bath would probably lend you a hand if you asked." "We only have a passing acquaintance," Gwen confessed. "I mean, I could ask Elvia. Do you think the Ordo would send representatives to Wellington?" "Not unless you asked. The situation there isn't catastrophic, at least not immediately," Charlene said. "I doubt your Brother-in-craft would send Yue Bai and The Scarlet Sorceress' old squad if Wellington is collapsing under the weight of a Mermen tide. Geographically, Auckland and Wellington make for a great buffer against threats from the South Sea. Losing the cities would doubly burden Sydney's battle lines." "That's a bit cold-hearted." Gwen furrowed her brows. "Lord Shultz is the best of us." Charlene shrugged attractively. Gwen noted that the youthful Ravenport was her best when putting on a Godfather persona. "Now, back to you. Shall I be plain?" "Alright." Gwen supposed there was no harm in listening. "Be plain." "Before I begin, allow me to say that I always perform my due diligence," Charlene said. "So please take what I am about to tell you as a compliment instead." Gwen motioned for her fellow mistress of the isle to continue. "Firstly, you have reliable allies in Myăma in the form of the royal family there. Reports from the newly built Yangon Tower state that you're also working with the local patron, Lord Ruxin, scion of the Winged Mythical Dragon. Your Planar Ally, Lord Golos, is the youngest pureblood child of the Mythic, correct?" Gwen nodded. "That's one connection you can call upon—for instance, the assassin sect from Manipur, which serves the royal family and the Dragon. They're no Raven Guard, but their utility should exceed the questionable loyalty of middle-tier mercenaries you may hire from the Shard. Is that good advice?" Gwen had to admit that Charlene had a point. "Good. Next, from China— your grandfather is now the—" "Forget China," Gwen interjected. "I don't wish to bother Uncle Jun or Ayxin, or Grandfather…" Charlene studied her for a brief second, then moved on. "May I include Lulan Li? She's graduated, and the Pudong Tower was clear in expressing her loyalty toward you." "Lulan is okay," Gwen conceded. "But she's got circumstances within her Sect and the CCP." Charlene made a snort. "Ask Lord Ruxin to send her over. You think anyone in the CCP is going to contest a local land God who controls a major trading partner over a measly Sword Mage?" "Fair point," Gwen conceded Charlene's acute observation once more. "Lulu could be extremely useful." "Right. Forgoing your other resources in China then, let's talk about the Debt of Haj-Zül," Charlene smirked. "Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth may have paid back the Mageocracy's debt in reopening the low-ways, but the debt remains. As someone who has studied Dwarven lore, I can tell you that their Deepdowner, Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt, scion of Varekan-Kül, is thinking of you every time she raises a stein of beer. Until your debt is repaid in full, every member you've saved is going to be losing sleep." "It can't be that bad?" Gwen raised both brows. "I've told them it's repaid." "The Debt of Haj-Zül repaid when they FEEL it's repaid," Charlene said. "You saved a Deepdowner's life." "…Are you telling me she has to save mine?" Gwen said. "That's a fair stretch." Charlene rested her chin on a knuckle. "Good God, Gwen. If I had saved Hilda's life—Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth would probably be a new electorate added to Greater Wales." Gwen chose not to doubt the young Duchess. "Finally, ignoring the favour of Lady Astor and Lady Loftus, there's Tryfan. I don't know anything about Tryfan or your connection to them, as that's beyond what Mori was willing to divulge. However, it doesn't take a Magister to know that you're connected with them in the same way your Master had been. They sent out a Hierophant of the Seventh Circle to help you in Shalkar. Do you know what that means?" "You mean Sanari?" Gwen asked. "Is this Seventh Circle a senior rank?" Charlene shook her head. "I don't think we Humans have the necessary context to conceptualise the Druidic tiers accurately. However, I should remind you that Lady Sanari is older than the earliest existence of the Mageocracy. Her prowess as a Druid might not have the destructive potential of an Elementalist Warden—but she IS capable of feeding London—or starving it—with the Great Tree's aid." And she's a goddess when it comes to foot massages; Gwen was almost tempted to add that tidbit but allowed Charlene to continue her grandstanding out of charity. "—And she's one of the select Hierophants in Tryfan's Cabal who can travel far from the Great Tree," Charlene finished. "So yes, if you ask Tryfan for a favour, they'll send someone. And if it just so happens the favour you're asking is going to help the cause that must not be named—then all is in balance." Charlene reached for the petite fours in the top tray, then lined them up one by one on Gwen's plate. "So let us recap—The royal family of Myăma, the Yinglong's scions and this Lulan Li they're teaching on your behalf, the Dwarves next door, and the Hvítálfar from Tryfan. Oh—the Ordo Bath, though you're right in that it's better if they came to you. Look, your collection of allies is making me jealous, Gwen Song." Gwen took a deep breath. "That's quite the list, but you still haven't told me why I need them. Wellington is just the beginning, correct?" "Yes." Charlene lowered her voice. "Between now and October, the Shard will mount a second polar expedition akin to the one currently leaving for Greenland. Due to staff and material constraints, ours will be a recon-in-force with the potential of escalating into a full-blown campaign. House Ravenport and the Grey Faction will be providing the manpower, and I will be tapped to be the head of the expedition to build my credentials." "The poles?" Gwen cocked her head. Why did Charlene's mention of the "poles" sound so familiar? Charlene read her mind. "Yes, you're partially to blame. You've been teaching Mori, or so I've been told, that Beast Tides can be caused by changing the weather. You said that the poles are the easiest way to amplify disaster events." "Er…" Gwen allowed a dollop of fresh cream to fall from her stunning lips. The sheer reality that someone in this world had believed in her borrowed climate change assumptions was gobsmacking. Also, there were folk in London who would consider the words of a talking crow? _Holy fuck_ —was Mori secretly the Prime Minister of the United Kingdoms? "No, it's not what you think. A while ago, we received a warning from Tryfan not to take any events happening in the poles lightly. Greenland, Father suspects, could very well be the opening volley of an attack similar to Sydney or London." "What's in Greenland?" Gwen did not recall any such news. "You're related to that as well," Charlene explained with patience. "Do you remember that massacre you found in the Murk under Shalkar? The missing Brass Legion? It seems they somehow made it to Greenland..." "Christ." "And your Master's old mates were likely involved." "… Spectre?" Gwen suddenly lost all appetite. Two earth-shattering realities had revealed themselves in between Charlene's innocent suspicions, and now they were crushing her between both tectonic plates. Her first shock came from the assertion that both of Terra's poles were undergoing some sort of traumatic Elemental event. The tsunami at Wellington had ruled the news of late, and though the Mageocracy did not publicise the source, there was no doubt that it had emitted from the South Sea. Her next skull-numbing horror came from the S-word, which came burdened with the understanding that the "revenge" that had weighed on her mind since Sydney had unexpectedly come knocking—or rather, the expectation was that she would soon be actively pursuing it. A secret part of her felt thrilled— Another part of her—consisting of the minute sensibilities remaining from her past life, was screaming at the insanity of it all. _Revenge!_ And not just a moral or a fiscal one, but an opportunity to tear her foes limb from limb with her sweet little hands. And not just in defence—but to hound her foes down to the edge of the earth, then drive them face-first into the pale ice to see how well their life-blood froze. "There's no guarantee of anything yet." Charlene had waited for her composure to return before speaking. "The anticipated scenario is that this is a natural event and that we'll be hauling a Breaker Carrier's worth of HDMs home from Erebus. The more ominous scenario is that the Elementals had anticipated the event and that we'll have a long fight on our hands." Erebus—Gwen nodded. A volcano had gone off. That would explain the tsunami. If anything could move a good chunk of ice from Antarctica, it would be that. "And the worst scenario?" She asked. "That would be Spectre finding a way to unite our foes and that none of this is the natural ebb and flow of the Prime Material." And the _unspeakable_ scenario, Gwen extrapolated internally, was that Spectre had figured out they could shift the Elemental composition near the poles to breed "general" chaos across the globe. If true, it was a plan worthy of Bond villains. By their very nature, her "Commonwealth", this world's "United" Nations, and the "Coalitions" operated only on mutual gain. Compared to the grandness of a singular threat rising against Humanity, there was nothing Humanity could do if every nation must measure the threat to their interests against a global one. From what she knew of politics, dozens of nations might even see the event as an opportunity to finally best their betters or usurp their lessers. Her only solace was that for now, from the looks of how things are developing, the Lord Marshall of England was putting his HDMs where his suspicions are by funding a state-sanctioned expedition with crystals from the Norfolk coffer. Unfortunately, from the sheer fact that Charlene would be leading the tour, the Duke's commitments were far from firm. If indeed the situation was as bad as she imagined, Gwen had no doubt the Mageocracy would bankrupt itself to send Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane and Auckland's Towers southward. However, the sheer political, financial and social capital required for such an endeavour was the kind that existed only in hindsight. Knowing the wilful ignorance of men, Gwen deeply suspected that even if she were her Royal Highness or the Bloom in White, she could not convince the Mageocracy to strike a phantom menace preemptively. But what else could she do other than her best? "I'll go," Gwen said with a tone of finality. "You're right. If there's ever a time to call in all my favours, now is the time." If Charlene was wrong, then the worst that could happen was that she would have to rebuild the favours she had accrued for her future Tower. But if Ravenport's hunch and her hypothesis were correct, no future profits would matter. Across the table, Charlene sipped her tea, presumably unaware of the tempest tossing through her head. Could Charlene understand just how crazy the consequence of inaction could be? Did Charlene, the "leader" of this expedition, even understand what she could be uncovering? What would Dickie do if Charlene were to return, not as the Nike, the goddess of victory, but as the pestilence-bearing raven of ill omen? Would Mycroft downplay the facts? Silence the truth? Or would he stew in Prufrockian agony while the Mageocracy debated about what to do, wasting away each crisis with endless cups of tea and ices? By St Evee, Gwen silently mouthed a blasphemous prayer. Let her be wrong. A crisis does not wait. As Charlene had anticipated, Gwen received her directive within forty-eight hours. Together with herself, Cambridge would be sending a contingent of Mages as her liaison and support staff, but she was otherwise left to 'arm' herself. Comparatively, Charlene's expedition could not leave until the Royal Dockyards could outfit another Carrier-class Ice Breaker and train its crew of Mages and NoMs. Six months—or five at best, was the official timetable given to the participants of the South Sea Expedition in October. In that time, Charlene would use the influence of her House to gather capable, loyal Mage Flights, afford them all the necessary training and equipment, and readjust the fiscal outlook of the Norfolk Fund to suit the needs of a longitudinal mission. The timetable suited Gwen. Despite her secret agony, she knew it would take time for her allies to commit their forces. Within the last two days, she had visited her closest allies, Talwaenydd for Tryfan and the Guild Hall under Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. At Talwaenydd, she was received by the familiar face of Sanari, who informed her that Tryfan does not war on behalf of mortals. Its Wardens, as the title implies, will only fight to defend "their" Great Tree. When Gwen vocally illustrated the potential disruption to the natural order Tryfan held dearly, Sanari patiently informed her that though Tryfan cannot offer troops, they could help in other ways. "More seeds?" Gwen felt the weight of the new pouch of seeds in her hand. There were only a few in the leaf-sewn purse, but they were heavy. "We have not asked you to return the Llias Leaf," Sanari had stated with her usual serenity. "And we are continuing to support Shalkar on your behalf. As well, when you arrive, we shall commune with the Great Tree of Illhîweth on your behalf via the Llias Leaf." The ambiguous reception wasn't what Gwen had anticipated—but that may only mean that her and Tryfan's mutual debts weren't deep enough. Conversely, Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth was a fresh gulp of fire-ant mead. Abjuring all euphemisms, she had told Whurforlüm Ironførge that she wished to collect on the Debt of Haj-Zül and that whatever forces the Dwarves could spare may face everything from upper-tier Elementals to agents of Spectre like Elizabeth Sobel. Without a second thought, the Guild Master relayed her request to the Hammer Guards' barracks and the Ancestor's Hall. That same night, Gwen received her Dwarven tally. Every Hammer Guard she had rescued during her expedition had volunteered, and Hilda had ordered to release their equipment, as well as blessing them with the permission to leave the Murk. Including Hanmoul, she would have forty-two Golem Engines canvassed from three Iron Legions at her beck and call—as well as two Runesmiths and one Engineseer manning a Fabricator Crawler. Gwen's feelings of gratitude made her throat sore. Thanks to her time among the Dwarves, she understood that it was more than lives she was asking from her allies—she was asking them to leave the Murk, to travel to a foreign place with alien strata of rocks—and potentially die there. But great gratitude needed no words, so she merely promised to have Charlene arrange their transport when the time grew near. On Wednesday, she received from Lady Loftus the okay to contract her allies from Kachin, Manipur and Nagaland. The permission wasn't so much for making the request but for the aftermath of transporting Frontier mercenaries on a Mageocracy military vessel. She then contacted Marong and Mayuree. Unlike with her Elven and Dwarven allies, Gwen took great patience in explaining her theory involving Beast Tides and the possibility that forces unseen were manipulating the weather. Marong listened with complete seriousness, then informed her that his Master, Lord Ruxin, would hear of her caution, assuming he wasn't listening already. Mayuree, however, expressed her doubts. "Have you heard of the Oracle of Delphi, Gwennie?" the girl wreathed in gold asked over the LRM projector. Gwen indeed heard of the Oracle, whose title she now knew was Pythia. "If the threat is against humanity itself," Mayuree said with a tone of doubt. "Shouldn't we be receiving an official notice from the Oracle?" In all honesty, Gwen did not have an answer for her friend. "Maybe the South Sea incident isn't as dire as I proposed," she said after a moment. The Oracle had given plenty of warnings about other natural disasters, but apparently, the South Pacific was beyond the Temple of Apollo's far-seeing Divination. "But it isn't as though the Oracle warned London about a Red Dragon or had given my Master a heads up about Sobel. She might be a coal canary to some, but I don't intend to put my stock in prophecy." An uncomfortable silence descended. Gwen could tell both of her friends were "climate sceptics". "Sorry." Mayuree lowered her eyes. "Don't mind Mia," Marong interjected by placing a hand on his sister's gold-wreathed shoulders. "You asked, we'll deliver. That's all that matters. We'll have everything prepared within the month, and I'll let Lord Ruxin know you've requested the aid of Lady Lulan and that Lord Golos may be away for an extended campaign." Gwen thanked the pair then terminated the Message device. Her recruitment drive had ended for now. Any more, and Charlene's Breaker Carrier would struggle to justify the sheer volume of foreign troops. She had felt tempted to ask Elvia— only Elvia was the last person she wanted on that ship if they managed to encounter Sobel. By the evening, Walken would prepare the bare necessities for her Storage Rings, and Dick and Petra would meet her at Heathrow once their inventory was ready. Finally, she entertained the idea of calling Gunther to tell him that she was coming—then decided she would prefer delighting her Siblings-in-craft, then sitting them down for a very long talk. Would her Brother-in-Craft take her seriously? Despite being flooded with overflowing evidence, her old world never took action against the looming spectre of Climate Change. If so, what could she, a mere War Mage, do to convince this world when Humanity was neither unified, nor the apex species on Terra?

By Thursday morning, the Mageocracy's token reinforcement of administrative and support Maguses took their positions in Heathrow to await the arrival of the Magister-in-waiting nominated by Cambridge. By all accounts from the Shard, Auckland would be fighting to keep the circling Mermen Shoal from landing, while Wellington would be mired in a battle of attrition until Auckland or its allies could spare the men and resources. Most of their team members were older students, elected by their professors from Oxbridge's cohort to serve the Mageocracy's interminable trials, some natural and most man-made. A few were graduates picking up their final Questing credits for the trimester. Others were Maguses looking to pad their resumes before officially leaving the university for a government position. Presently, their de facto foreman was an experienced Magus from House Ravenport, sent by her mistress to ensure the others remained helpful and subordinate to their leader. By her orders, the team had arrived fifteen minutes earlier to await the pleasure of the young lady who would lead the small group of nine. "Magus Campbell." One of the men standing to attention beside the pre-activated ISTC portal raised a hand. "May I ask a question." "Be at ease, Hughes," Magus Aria Ravenport-Campbell replied by raising, then lowering her hand as though she controlled the lever to their anxieties. "What is it?" Like others in her House, she possessed the classic bone structure of the Ravenport's bloodline—grey eyes, dark hair, and a gaunt frame that accented her cheekbones. Like the Duke of Norfolk himself, her appearance gave observers the impression of inorganic geometry, particularly when paired with her rigidly starched pantsuit. She could sense that the men and women under her command were nervous—and this was good. "When shall we expect 'Magister' Song?" "There's ten minutes yet. Even if Magus Song's tardiness is as legendary as her prowess—we're still ahead by an hour. If you're bored, read the METRO—the Front Page will inform you that our leader is a busy woman." The young Magus chose to remain mum. Aria shared that silence, for she knew that the sword and shield to their fact-finding mission was none other than the Devourer of Shenyang. For years now, the Devourer's infamy had been making the rounds, first through the Isle of Dogs, then through her Magisterial achievements on the Isle of Man, Wales, then Shalkar. Though the public initially knew Magus Gwen Song through a scandal involving her lord and House Master, they soon renewed their perception when the Devourer consumed the Barlow Group, created the IoDNC, then crushed the ambitions of House Exeter on national broadcast Vid-cast. Regardless of her age, Gwen's achievements commanded respect, even by the standards of London's haughty egos. The team's apprehension and concern, Aria suspected, was also born from the habitual reading of the Telegraph and the Sun, insinuating that Magus Song was an inheritor of "Deathless Kilroy's" Sanctioned Necromancy—and that her Caliban creature consumed, then enslaved the souls of Mages crushed under her stiletto heels. Finally and absurdly, each student of Cambridge had been told that Magus Song would be guarded on this particular mission by the Terror of Emmanuel, "Dede" of the Pond. The odd Mage from London Imperial might find the scene comical, but of half of the Oxbridge alumni present, being waylaid by a duck and having to give up fistfuls of HDMs as the world watched in sympathetic mockery was a trauma tattooed onto their bones. _Ding!_ A Message from House Ravenport bloomed beside Aria's ear. "The Provisional Magister is here." The Magus nodded at her peers. "Mages! Look lively!" A flash of silvery Conjuration from an adjacent platform announced the arrival of their leader and her troops. The first to appear was a duck, the very same that made Cambridge's Maguses quake in their oxfords. "Quack—!" The duck toddled from the ISTC array, then waddled among the men with the air of a drill sergeant. Next came a svelte figure they would have mistaken for the Devourer but for the academic air and braided auburn hair. Aria recognised the woman as Magus Petra Kuznetsova, a scholar of Dwarven Glyphs with notable contributions hailing from Queens College. The third arrival was known to Aria and the others, and his familiarity manifested in the dozen first names he called out, including Aria's own. The Spirit Mage was a frequenter of the College's endless bars, one famous for his Spirit and his "Shouts". In both knowledge and deed, Richard Huang was a senior Magus in all but name, well-known and well-liked on the campus for offering jobs from the Isle of Dogs. To Aria's knowledge, Richard "Dick" Huang could have graduated if he had taken up his professors' commendations—but chose to remain at Cambridge until such time that his cousin, the Devourer, also graduated. The final figure to materialise was the Devourer herself. In life, Provisional Magister Gwen Song appeared less imposing than on the Vid-casts, younger and more youthful and without the oppressive bearing of a seasoned murderess. To Aria, her features were regal, an exotic mix when paired with the vivacious unruliness of the Downunder Frontier. She walked with guileless ease among the men, which, combined with her uncommon comeliness, made her observers want to lower their guard. Aria's informal impression was aided by Gwen's "costume", which consisted of a broad-brimmed summer hat, a maxi dress that bared her white shoulders, and what looked like sandals. "Goodness." The Devourer's expression was mirthful as she slipped past Aria, then stepped onto the elevated platform. "Am I late? I did set the mustering at eleven-hundred, correct?" "Yes, ma'am," Aria replied. "By your request, we're eager and ready to leave for Auckland." "I did explicitly state to wear suitable attire for summer," the sorceress spoke as her gaze swept through her peers, each with collars mounted firmly to the chain, asserted by ties and elegant pins. Aria quickly glanced at the Devourer's companions, noting that Richard wore a sporting jacket over golfing polos, while under Petra's laboratory coat, the scholar was wearing something suitable for springtime. The duck, without a doubt, was buck naked. "Where we're going, it is the late _Australian_ summer. If the heat doesn't get you, the humidity will." Gwen reiterated. "And unlike London, our 80's ISTCs have relay delays baked into the system. Past Shanghai, we'll be at least an hour in Singapore, a few more in Darwin, then Cairns, then Brisbane, then _finally,_ the _S_ ydney to Auckland leg. You'll be awake for the next twenty-four hours, so get comfortable. Consider these hours your final chance at leisure. Once we're on the ground, it's Mermen and field rations until the port is in the clear." "We have the necessary Enchantments, Ma'am," Aria informed her highness, partner to the future Duchess of Norfolk and, according to her mistress, a woman whose fame would resonate throughout the Mageocracy's domains. She recalled that the Devourer did indeed recommend suitable weather wear. However, not one of them had wanted to meet their commanding officer while wearing shorts, sneakers and polos. The Devourer cocked her head with a half-grin. "Where we're going, the HDMs you'll be burning could keep a family safe from Mermen and do many things more helpful than running cooling Glyphs..." She paused. "...but then again, maybe that's why you've all been tasked with this tour of snobbery to see how the other three-quarter lives. No matter. Carry on." Aria's first instinct was to protest that she had served as a vanguard in Ireland and an assistant administrator in the Algiers for six months, unlike the novices behind her. But her new mistress' sardonicism was valid. The men and women in front of her were all born with crystal spoons and bloodline blessings and had attended Eton or Cheltenham, then Oxbridge. Some had seen blood, a few had "seen things", but none would have had a fraction of the experiences the Devourer had imbibed in her rise to the top. "Anything to report before we sally forth? Aria?" The sorceress asked Aria by invoking her name. The intimacy told Aria that Gwen and Mistress Charlene had been in close contact. "All are accounted, Ma'am." Aria made a half-salute. "We're ready to reinforce Wellington!" "Alright then—" the Provisional Magister gave them all a beaming, confident grin. "Hold on to your guts. We've got a _long_ way to go!" Wellington. Somes Island. Two kilometres from Fort Hinds, Yue Bai, "The Little Scarlet", coldly observed the spectacle of Wellington's eastern coastline turn from ultramarine to dull algae. The last of the Shielding Stations, what's left of the array, had taken first blood—then spontaneously imploded as the pseudo-Krakens crashed into the concrete installations, toppling both resonator and crystal. With the stations gone, the bizarre thrum that made her Astral Body tingle ceased, as did the shimmering ripples of mana warping the spotlights from Wellington's inland harbour. Across the sound, flashes of spellfire from the Wondrous Energies Technical Academy erupted across the headland, landing just short of the shore. Where the long line of spinifexes ignited, her enhanced eyes could make out the long shadows cast by the first Mermen to land in Wellington in two decades. At the same time, parts of the landscape came alive, crushing, swallowing, and throwing the Mermen against the jagged shore. She recognised the assailants as the short, stunted locals, bodily akin to bipedal, four-foot mudskippers with bulging eyes and fat, humorous silhouettes. Without proper armaments, they were usually friendly and docile—and had traded with the city. Now, whether by coercion or choice, they were the first wave leading the Mermen of the deep sea. "Poor bastards," Jonas remarked as the explosions rang out, sending bundles of scorched bodies flying every which way. "What a life, to win the lottery of surviving the spawning pool only to become spell fodder for the real spell fodder." Yue possessed no sympathy of any kind for an invader of mankind's sacred cities, but she did agree that these mudskipper Mermen weren't worth the mana in her veins. Even if they did reach Wellington, the damage these Mermen could do was near-negligible. Still, armed with what looked to be coral tridents and other implements from their deep-order cousins, they remained a threat to the NoMs hiding in the tunnel bunkers beneath Wrights Hill, as well as the Wand-wielding Wellington militia. "There—" Billy bracketed a section of the incoming tide with a minor Illusion cantrip, drawing a square over Yue's field of vision. "That's the shock troops. They look organised, likely a splinter-Shoal from the main one near Auckland." "Shit," Paul joined the Diviner. "So it's true then? A Prince is leading this particular Mermen Tide?" "What's the bounty on one of those?" Yue smacked her lips. "I bet Master could find some uses for the Core." "I think even Lord Gunther will break a sweat taking down an Elemental Prince," Taj warned her. "We don't even know what species it is. What if it's a Kraken?" "Let's hope this doesn't turn out to be a 'Great Shoal' once the fireworks start," Raj said with a sigh. "Not even burning all the HDMs in Auckland's reserve will be enough to repel one of those." The group turned their eyes back to the boiling sea. By now, the half-hundred Sun Globes released from Wellington's WETA peninsular was messing with the Mermen's dark vision. For reasons of physiology, the Wave Witches that accompanied the Shoal almost always conjured forth fog and rain, which the globes then offset. In this way, non-offensive "Radiance" was itself a viable tactic against the Mermen, for many species of the more powerful bipedal aquatic folk were hypersensitive to both heat and light. That was why Mermen generally attacked at the dead of night, taking what positions they could to retreat with the tide, leaving behind hardened crustacean units as defenders. Yue wrinkled her nose. Already, her company could smell the scent of scorched fish wafting across the sound, smelling like mouldy wood mixed with seared slime and rancid fish oil. "I do love the smell of cooked seafood in the morning," Paul mimed an old saying of Alesia's. "Stop wisecracking and focus on the Mandala," Yue gave the command, her dark eyes glimmering with the reflected light from Wellington bay. "As soon as the main bodies join the fight—we turn the damn bay into that place Gwennie visited on new year's." "The Fire Sea?" Billy added helpfully. "Damned right." Yue crushed the ball of purple fire dancing in the palm of her hand. "We'll make Allie proud." Alesia de Botton was not a happy woman. First thing in the morning, just after she had washed up after morning exercise with Gunther and was ready to attend to the task of setting fire to her husband's problems, a Message had arrived from her hubby, asking that she receive the cabal from London. For several seconds, Gunther's suite in the uppermost section of the Tower fell under an immediate threat of renovation until Alesia recalled that they would have to live outside the Tower in the event of such an inconvenience. To receive the snobs from the Shard? By herself? Had these knobs asked for her specifically? She had people to incinerate! Monsters to explode! Dens to ignite! What was Gunther thinking? And how could her hubby allow it? The mana inside her wanted to teleport into Gunther's office and burn—but that wasn't what a good partner would do—and Alesia was meticulous in managing her temper around Gunther lest her whims cast a wedge between them. Her husband, she knew, was under enough pressure, and God forbid that she would add to his workload. Therefore, with fiery eye-shadows wreathed in angry hues of scarlet and her hair wore loose, Alesia awaited the bastards from London in her official garb, a scarlet dress jacket with gold collars. One by one, the Conjuration Glyphs lit up, spun into place, then connected with the Divination Glyphs in Brisbane. Sydney's new equipment had been well-used by now, but it was still mint enough to give off a stink unique to newly inscribed Glyph-runes. Just the same, the stonework under her booties thrummed as the incredible energies required to displace matter through the Astral coursed, distorting the Dwarven Lores of distance and space. A flash later, the team from London arrived one by one in their arranged spearhead. First came a duck. A very pretty duck—but a duck nonetheless— "Mother ducker…" Alesia did not immediately recognise the enormous duck as the one in her memory of LRM broadcasts with Gwen. All she could think of was that the Mageocracy had grown so arrogant that they couldn't even be bothered sending Magisters. A cascade of sparks ignited from her flaming hair, setting the guards on edge. If that duck isn't a Polymorphed Master Transmuter, then she would slow roast the damned thing over an open fire! "You there!" She called out to the waddling monstrosity. "Are you—" This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Thankfully, Gwen grinning like a shot fox was the next thing she saw. _This little hussy!_ Alesia's head made the connection at once. No wonder her husband was being so secretive! Oh, how she would make him pay! "Alesia!" Gwen quickly broke ranks and ran down the dais toward her, as a Sister-in-craft ought. Only now did Alesia recall that Gwen had recruited a duck—only in her memory, Dede was sleek, graceful and cute. As Gwen came closer, Alesia's expression turned from unmitigated anger to pleasant surprise, then happiness. She couldn't help it—for such were the honesty of Alesia's innate emotions spilling from her heart. "I've missed you!" Gwen drew around her, and Alesia reciprocated by hugging her sister tight. "I as well." Alesia breathed out. "You should have told me." "We were in a hurry—and I thought you'd enjoy the surprise." Gwen laughed, then gestured to the rest of her team. "And here's Richard. And you remember Petra, right?" "Alesia." Richard nodded. Petra bowed her head. Parting from Gwen, Alesia nodded back at the cousins, her hair still trailing tiny motes of ember. "Just to confirm, you're the Magister from London, then?" "Provisional-Magister." Gwen flashed her pearly whites. "How's that? I outrank you now, Magus De Botton. Where's my greeting?" Alesia snorted. "You're looking for a spanking, Magister Song. Anymore of your arrogance and your men shall witness a sight for history books." "Allie, you hurt me." Gwen touched a hand to her heart. "My one and only Sister-in-craft! How could you?" "You rascal! Come here and receive your punishment!" the Scarlet Sorceress commanded, and the Devourer obeyed. The two embraced once more, their arms entwining as their figures kissed. The pair remained entangled for a few seconds, just enough to allow reality to sink in, then parted with all misgivings forgiven. "There's _so_ much I have to tell you and Gunther," Gwen said, her expression quickly growing anxious. "I think we'll need a night at least to go over the details, and then we have to digest and verify the facts—" "That won't be a problem," Alesia interrupted her as more Mages from London materialised behind her Sister-in-craft. "Are those yours?" "Technically, yes," Gwen introduced her to her Lieutenant, Magus Aria Campbell, appending that she was a member of House Ravenport. "Aria here will be in charge of the crew from Cambridge while I perform my duties as a War Mage. Half of them will go to Auckland, while the other half will come with me to Wellington." "You're going to the Front then?" Alesia asked. She hadn't expected much help from London, but if they sent Gwen—then Sydney's sister cities had better fortunes than Sydney a few years ago. "Of course. Where's Yue now? And how's the situation?" Alesia recalled the reports. "The Shoal reached critical mass forty-odd hours ago. By now, the fighting should have started. If I know Yue, she'll be in the thick of it." "Then I will leave immediately," Gwen said. "Stem the tide first, then I'll portal back and discuss my findings with you and Gunther. Yue would probably want to know what she's fighting as well, eventually, at least. The intelligence is urgent— but it isn't something we can resolve until equipment and transport arrive from London in the next few months." Alesia gave her sister a flattering look. "You've matured, Gwen. Those sound like some hefty weights on your shoulders, the kind our Master used to carry." "I am doing what I can." Gwen smiled. "Can you clue me in on what the problem is?" Alesia felt her curiosity burning a hole in her chest. "What are we fighting in reality?" "Later, Allie—now's not a good time," Gwen insisted. "It's a very complicated issue, and much of it I can't verify." Alesia shrugged. "Right. Wellington it is. So, from our latest reports, a split Shoal of Mermen currently sits east of Wellington, where the shallows meet the deep blue. Presumably, attacks by stragglers separate from the Mermen Prince's command structure are testing Auckland's defence. As for the south, if the Mermen assault begins this evening, then I'd say Wellington could _really_ use your brand of aid. As for Yue's location—look for the Fireballs when you get there." "Right, I'll head off then," Gwen confirmed her choice. "Magus Campbell will lead the Cambridge Mages to Auckland. I'll open the path with Richard and Petra in Wellington." "A three-man team?" Alesia looked Gwen's cousins up and down. "We should be alright," Gwen assured her. Alesia turned her eyes toward the smirking Richard. "Looking good there, Dick. You've done well in London. _Specs_?" "Abjuration Five, Conjuration, just Seven, and a few other tricks," Richard shameless boasted of his achievements. "Of course, it's all thanks to Gwen." Alesia raised a brow at Petra, who relented under the Scarlet Sorceress' gaze. "Enchantment Seven," Gwen's cousin reported with a flush of embarrassment in her cheeks. "That said, I've brought along a full complement of Spellcubes." "You could do with a CQB Specialist and an Illusionist." Alesia thanked the two but preferred to give the kids plenty of warning. When she was their age, she had also thought herself invincible—though she had her Master to save her in place of modern-day comforts like Contingency Rings. "Was the Gracie girl too green? I guess you can crutch with Cali—" "QUACK—!" her praise of Caliban was interrupted by a forgotten member of the Cambridge posse who had wandered off in search of food. "Dede will help as well." Gwen patted the returned duck. "He's one robust feller." "Quack!" The duck lifted an enormous, multi-hued wingspan. Alesia could tell the duck was strong—and if indeed this was a duck fed on the stuff produced from Almudj, then even a five-man Questing team from London would have its hands full trying to contain its malice, much less kill it. "Fine, fine," the Scarlet Sorceress conceded that the duck was a troublesome customer. Her next remark was directed at her sister's specific preference for fashion regardless of the occasion—something for which Alesia herself was guilty. "Are you headed to war wearing that?" Gwen chuckled. "I've got the Big Bird suit, remember? I'll change once we're on the ground. Before we engage the Shoal, I'll need to bring a siege engine, and he can't be summoned while we're in the vicinity of a Tower." "Ah—" Alesia could picture the brute in Gwen's imagery. Of all the strange creatures in Gwen's circle, she liked the lizard the best. "Now that I'd like to see." "Hopefully, we'll get a few vid-casts in." Gwen grinned with glee as she strolled toward the second ISTC array. "You know, Allie, I have quite the following in London. What do you think? A weekly battle report of Wellington with images and stories from the ground—wouldn't that get the blood boiling? Once things are less dire, I'll transfer a few reporters over. Maybe Lorenzo would like a summer holiday." Alesia had almost forgotten that her sister now apparently owned a propaganda arm of the local media in London. "Maybe?" she said. Publicity was Gunther's domain. Her job was to incinerate his problems. "When you get there, Magister Hildenbrandt is likely occupied," Alesia warned as Gwen's team mounted the second dais. Unlike the rest of Australia, Sydney's ISTC arrays were the latest imports from London and could be fired up within minutes. As for Auckland, the receiving end was currently burning a decade's worth of HDMs. "You'll be under the jurisdiction of Te Wherowhero, the Paladin of Auckland. He's an old friend of Gunther, so be respectful of his wishes. If Te needs you somewhere, do that before linking up with Yue. My Apprentice can take care of herself." "Of course," Gwen assured her Sibling-in-craft. "Tell Gunther I said hey—and when I return, to make time for us to have that long talk." Alesia's gaze of motherly concern grew infinitely soft as the ISTC turned quicksilver, sending its collection of Mages once more across the Astral, leaping through space toward their final destination. Watching Gwen's nonplus war-face disappear, She sighed inwardly. To think the terrified girl she picked up would now be the terror of the South Sea. When the history books mentioned this part of Auckland's history, what would they say of Gwen? And indeed, what would the entry say about herself, who found Gwen in a party, trying not to get groped in Kirribilli? Wellington. Fort Ballance. Magister Maka Kawhena, Academic Director and principal Geomancer at the Wondrous Energies Technical Academy, was never a dedicated War Mage. Like other Magisters of his profession, his contributions had been in recovery, rebuilding, and stabilising Green Zones between Wellington and Auckland. Occasionally, he had been called out to assist in a Purge but never before had Kawhena been personally thrust into a scenario where he and his group of academics became personally responsible for the life of the fifty-thousand or so citizens now sheltering in Wrights Hill. Thanks to his designs, the city's walls and defences have held, even if it wavered in tune with the undulating tide of bodies crawling up the coastline. A reasonable man would have fled. Kawhena instead swallowed the despair like the bile in his throat. Should Wellington fall entirely and its militia consumed by the Mermen Tide, there was little hope that the women and children would be able to hold off the crab-clawed shock troops or the Marid Wave Witches who would flash-flood and drown their loved ones, then feast on their brains and livers. A part of him hoped that Auckland would send a portion of its militias south or that the Halflings of Hamilton could offer their aid. That was wishful thinking. Compared to Wellington, even a partial collapse of Auckland would signal the death of more citizens and the destruction of far more critical infrastructure than his satellite port city. The Halflings were likewise peaceful, pastoral folk, unsuited for open warfare against a race that saw Humanity and each other as sources of nourishment. They would bring food, HDMs and medical supplies—but only in the case that Wellington held its ground and that their convoy didn't become fish food. "Sir!" a cry from a colleague alerted the contemplative Magister to the dangers of excessive rumination in the middle of a battle. "B-27 reports surge of Mermen on the left flank! Crabmen and what looks like a Shell Priest! Sector B reports their Wands are low. Requesting recharging and refitting." "Received." The Magister placed both hands on to the console. From the vantage of the shielded WETA "Cave" overlooking the harbour, Kawhena activated his latent sorcery, allowing the motes of Earthen mana entrenched within his conduits to kiss the Mandala resting under his fingers. Though not a Tower, Wellington was nonetheless founded on a mana node—meaning until WETA was overrun, Kawhena had "earthly" control over what remained of the landscape surrounding the central port. That was the source of their confidence and why Auckland still delivered what help they could spare. "Earth Shape!" The syllables of invocation came hard and fast on his lips, concluding with a simple command. The projected map blinked into non-existence as the mana surge from the command station sunk into WETA's sub-systems—giving life to the distant landscape. Not far from the newly risen walls separating the academy from the Mermen tide washing over Wellington's shores, a spontaneous landslide erupted from atop Breaker Bay, bursting forth untold volumes of boulders between the size of busses and bungalows, casting down a violent cascade of concrete offices that once overlooked the sound. Within seconds, the collapsing cliff crashed into the clambering Shoal of Mermen, sending thousands, perhaps tens of thousands skittering into the dark, not only shedding the cliffside of its parasitic climbers but drastically narrowing the shipping canal. When finally the map blinked back, a winded Kawhena saw that the moment was ripe, and there would not be another opportunity to crowd so much confused fodder in one place. "Signal Magus Bai," he informed his aides. "Our militia needs time to adjust to the slaughter, and we need a moment of respite to replenish mana and catch our breath." "Aye, Magister!" his aide Messaged the militia below at once to clear the waterline. Across the bay, a signal flare blossomed over the cloudy water, casting a hundred thousand shadows over the half-submerged Mermen awaiting their turn to feast. Kawhena's eyes turned northward toward Somes island. The burden now rested on the shoulder of Magus Yue Bai—the rising star of Sydney. Word had it from Auckland that Alesia de Botton's only advantage on the girl was being hand-reared by Henry Kilroy himself, while Bai was a student of his students. However, with access to near-unlimited resources and the gift of a Nightmare Spirit, her prowess arguably exceeded the humble Scarlet Sorceress when she was just twenty. Now, Kawhena bore witness to the validity of those rumours. Ignited by the flare, a riotous Mandela bloomed like a crimson lotus, illuminating the dark bay with the eerie glare of a blood-soaked moon. The assault on Wellington's shores ceased at once, for no creature whose ancestors once hailed from a domain of water could withstand the terrifying allure of cataclysmic Elemental Fire coalescing overhead. As the first Mandela wilted, a second came into being, more complex than the first, joined midway by a third, shedding squalls of fireflies, tearing the Prime Material to make way for the incoming catastrophe. To a learned scholar like Kawhena, each signalled the expenditure of a Creature Core Wellington could not afford and would never have the opportunity to stockpile, speaking of the generosity of the Master of Sydney. Below the strategic sorcery, Marid Wave Witches launched themselves from the quicksilver water, willing into being spontaneous water sprouts with the width of semi-trailers. Others Magical Monsters likewise turned their watery talents toward the radiant sunset, hoping to extinguish its caster. Most fell short. And those that reached were dashed by shields of stone or transposed elsewhere. Such was the advantage of Humanity as beings of elemental balance weaned on land, water and air. Comparatively, for most of the denizens of the deep, air was murder, and walking without buoyancy was pain itself—meaning they had no means to access the logistics of trajectory in a place without water. A dozen breathes later, a fourth Mandala appeared, instantly evaporating every ounce of moisture within a half-kilometre of the caster. "Remind the men to shield up," Kawhena reiterated the order. "Looks like Magus De Botton isn't one to mince words…" The final Mandala faded. Flashes of scarlet lightning abruptly dashed across the moonless sky, followed by a crashing deluge of rolling thunder so close that WETA shivered on its foundations. A tail appeared from a crack in the heavens, showing the initial formation of a flaming tornado at least twice the size of the water sprouts willed into being by the Marids. As the column descended, Kawhena could sense the Elemental Water thinning rapidly, causing the Mermen to experience a sudden and inexplicable existential despair. Without hesitation, the Wave Witches fled. They could have countered the spell if they worked together—but nonetheless chose to abandon their allies. Kawhena quickly adjusted his expectations. As unified as the Shoal might look, it was never anything more than a coalition. A Wave Witch occupied the stratum of priests, with limited numbers and immense powers constrained to their watery domains. A dead witch would be reduced to the Essence of elemental energy, wasting centuries of work. In juxtaposition, Mermen shock troops pushing forward the original indigenous inhabitants were no more significant to a Mer-Kingdom than the Mudskippers. If given enough feed, entire legions could be spawned and armed within a decade, making the loss of even ten thousand Crustacean soldiers merely a matter of inconvenience. With the unimpeded progress of Magus Bai's spell, a temporary Fire Sea rapidly began to form as multiple tornadoes of swirling volatile Elemental Fire touched down in the bay, heating the waters below and setting fire to abandoned portions of the coast. Within minutes, the rapidly retreating Mermen had trapped themselves against their fellow invaders, damming the receding tide of bodies panicking against the howling firestorm. "Shape Earth—" Kawhena hardened his heart and collapsed the Fortifications at Hind's Point, allowing a second landslide to flow down and encircle the Mermen invaders, wholly trapping the bulk of the invaders within the bubbling bay. From WETA's top floor, he coldly observed that Wellington's foes were being cooked, that their dark chitin was turning red as their bodies popped and cracked, growing inert even as frantic limbs clambered over friends and allies. But they would find no solace in the bay, for the deepest water lay closest to the port, and there the barrier wards and the militia with their electrified Wands was the most numerous. "Is… is it over?" One of Kawhena's Apprentices, his brow rich with excited sweat, asked with eyes begging for hope. "Have we won?" Kawhena could only discard his heartbreak as he gazed upon his group of youthful Maguses too used to the decade of relative peace. "The first wave is over," Kawhena confessed with a wry smile. "Here is where our battle starts." Even for Tandy, a creature that had once ruled a domain within the Plane of Fire, the four-layer Rite of Elemental Invocation was too much. While Jonas exorcised the Elemental Ash from her body, she panted and huffed, hoovering loose motes of Elemental Fire inundating the air, hoping to rapidly restore her Spirit before the Mermen returned with a vengeance. "I should ask Master Gunther for more Creature Cores," she spat, her spittle pink and viscous. "That was fucking awesome." "So awesome you almost went the way of Alesia," Jonas complained. "Why am I even healing you? I thought bullshit like this was behind me now." "Nah, I reckon you love it." Yue protested protrusively, punishing her tank top's limits, causing Jonas to retract his protests with a series of rapid stutters. Unlike her peers, she was unarmored for the sake of the Ta moko adorning her exposed skin, which needed open air to absorb the ambient Elemental energies. "Ma'am," Billy dimmed his Arcane Eye as he faced her. "They're regrouping past Red Rocks, about two kilometres out from the headland." "How's the bay?" "Magister Kawhena has enclosed the inlet. He's fusing Hind and Breaker Hill as we speak." "Good man." Yue smacked her lips. "That'll give them time to clean up." Billy's eyes swept the flaming bay. "This place is going to stink like bad soup very quickly. Wellington will have to pay for major purification rites." "Better than losing the port." Yue shrugged, evaporating beads of sweat from the glowing Ta moko on her neck and shoulders. "Alright, let's land for the moment and rest up. Jonas, Taj, Paul—help the locals. Billy and I will take up spotting over at Ataturk." "Yes, Ma'am!" The men obeyed as instructed. Yue lowered her eyes toward the turbulent, glowing bay as she descended, her nostrils taking in the sharp stench of _misto de mare_ simmering below. Her spell was fading, and the survivors who had hidden beneath the bodies of their mates were now emerging from the floating carcasses like ghoulish Undead, clambering over scarlet shells and snapped limbs to avoid the still hot but non-lethal water. A few of them made clicking hurrahs. A few others howled and hooted, waving their limbs like gleeful schoolboys from Sydney High on a hilarious holiday to the Green Zones. As a Battle Mage, Yue felt strange respectful toward these viscous Mermen, who were, in her eyes, murderers, looters and invaders of the first degree. Yet, they were so adorably innocent and simple, these monsters who would eat their kind without judgement to survive, including the spawn of their rivals. For the Mermen, death was merely a lull in the monotony of enduring a merciless food chain, and therefore any chance at murdering land mammals was seen as generous, hearty, and whole-souled fun. And they would not retreat—unlike Humanity, there was no return to prose-filled Halcyon days of peace and respite for the sea-folk, whose every day consisted of surviving the fish-eat-fish world of their Kingdoms, for whom the fight to consume another and grow strong was the only path forward. "Billy," she commanded her second. "Yes, Magus?" "Mark those targets." Yue circulated Tandy's violent Essence, her Ta moko growing white-hot, then blue and ashen as her Nightmare awoke once more. "Get me close. I don't intend to waste mana on extended range Fireballs."

Following a token greeting from the swamped Tower Master of Auckland, Gwen was assigned to Te Wherowhero, who took his pick of seven Mages from Gwen's entourage, including Aria. She was then left with Petra, Richard, and two of her seniors for Wellington—Caleb Ross and Jaxon Reid, an Illusionist and a Transportation Specialist, both inexperienced in combat but promising in utility. After thanking the second team and leaving tasks for supply delivery with Aria, Gwen returned to the Auckland representative tasked with moving them out of the Tower's resonance range. "Sis, I still can't believe you're a Magister. When we were in Sydney, you were an Acolyte." "Bro, I can't believe you somehow got taller." The man she spoke to was none other than the boy once assigned to her school competition in Sydney, the larger-than-life Whetu Tikitiki O Taranga. In the years since, the giant had blown past seven feet and had the girth to match, becoming a veritable home-grown avatar of Māui. Like old times, the two embraced, giving Gwen the feeling of a kitten being hugged to death by a Greater Ursine. When they separated, Gwen extended a hand. "Provisional Magister Gwen Song of Cambridge, London, under orders of the Shard, reporting for Wellington." "Magus Whetu Tikitiki O Taranga, of Auckland, assigned to the defence of the Auckland Frontier." The two clasped by grasping each others' wrists, then introduced their teams. To Gwen's delight, she recognised the Ta Moko Enchanter, Opi Raharuhi in Whetu's group, who greeted her with a heartfelt "Kia Ora!" "Shall we fly and talk?" Gwen gestured to the landing platform distending from the Tower's interior. Compared to Gunther's ambitious semi-superstructural Tower in Sydney, Auckland's flying fortress remained firmly rooted in the frugal 80s, when Oceania first introduced Shielding Stations and ley-line Towers. With an overall shape akin to a ballistic missile with a hat-dome top, Auckland measured barely one-tenth the size of Sydney—which was reasonable, considering that the entire Frontier's population was scarcely one-fifth of Australia's south coast. The ISTC array in Auckland was situated nearer the top, taking advantage of the height to broaden the clarity of Divination signals, meaning Gwen now stood in the outer circumference of a giant disc from which the defenders launched artillery-class sorcery, as well as sent and received Mage Flights. Whetu and his team accompanied Gwen's small group to the staging zone. The fighting in Auckland had thus far remained skirmishes and ambushes, but the Mermen Shoal visible from the flight deck was no less a spontaneous geographic formation parked in the Tipaka Moana, the gulf separating Auckland from the South Pacific. "How's Wellington?" Gwen asked as they approached the flight deck. There were facilities for herself and the crew to change into their battle garbs. "Have you heard from Yue?" "Yue saved the city, pushing back the Mermen there last night," Whetu informed her with a sigh. "As of this morning, the sea-saw along the city's cliffs continue. During the day, the Mermen won't launch an all-out assault. Are you disappointed?" The news of Yue's arse-kicking undid the knot tightening in Gwen's chest. As much confidence she possessed for Yue's abilities and Alesia's contingencies for her Apprentice, she knew the dangers of assaulting a Merman Shoal without her particular skill set. "With what?" Gwen said cooly, then cocked her head to regard her old companion. She had to cane her neck, for Whetu's enormous face was at least a head and shoulder above her own. Now in his prime, the Punamu Abjurer was a gentle and sentimental giant whose bearing was made doubly more impressive by the snake-like Ta Moko covering his body from his lips to his wrists. "That I am not with Yue, and I need to leave yous as well," Whetu's tone reminded Gwen of a scolded puppy. "I had promised to protect all of yous." "That was in high school, Whetu." Gwen laughed, slapping the man on the back only to feel like she'd just struck a wall of carved jade. Nursing her fingers, she gave the small of Whetu's back a gentle rub instead. "Simpler times, eh?" "Yeah, those days were sweet as." "Well," Gwen reminded the man. "Other than the Sobel thing." "Keen." Whetu shook his head to agree. They soon arrived near the change rooms. Gwen would love nothing more than to eat a pot of mussels and catch up with Whetu—but alas, Wellington was on the verge of being overrun. "Righto—" her gaze swept the open vista of Auckland spread out beyond the disk's edge. The city was as hilly as she'd recalled from her past life, only here, each headland was illuminated with the brutalist visage of concrete-clad Shielding Stations. As Whetu followed her eyes, she pulled back her long hair and twirled the raven coils into a flat bun. "Just one more question," Whetu asked, his eyes moving across her shoulders to her side. "What is it?" Gwen asked, wondering if Whetu liked what he saw. "Is that..." The giant grew contemplative. "Is that a duck?" North Island. Twenty kilometres south of Auckland, the sound of rolling thunder across a cloudless sky gradually dimmed as Gwen and company came to a halt. Quickly, they landed on an empty hilltop on a secluded rise named Pōkeno. The selection was based on their inland route to Wellington, a sweet spot far enough away from the Halfing settlement of Hamilton and equal-distant from either coast to safely conjure Golos. Very quickly, Gwen marked the area, laid down her ingredients, then made the familiar Mandala with help from Richard and Petra, who were now old hands at supporting their cousin. Petra could complete the Mandala in record time thanks to her multi-headed Spirit, even working solo. With the Cambridge Mages and a duck standing guard, the three finished the Greater Planar Ally within three-quarters of an hour, then loaded the operant Glyphs with crates of HDM "offerings". Above, Dede's eyes grew orange with envy. Following the rules of the pond, however, the drake understood its place in the pecking order. Therefore, without complication, once the passage of supernatural thunder and crashing lightning encircled the Mandala and turned the once-green hilltop into no man's land, Golos, Scion of the Yinglong, descended upon ancient Aotearoa. Golos appeared larger than Gwen recalled, possibly reaching a good twenty meters from snout to clubbed tail. His growth only stood to reason, for the Wyvern had been bumming it at Ruxin's bachelor pad and crashing in Huangshan with access to Ayxin and Ruxin's old nesting haunts. With so much resource aiding in the Wyvern's growth, Gwen could only blame his maternal bloodline for not providing her Gogo with forelimbs and innate Draconic sorcery. "Quack!" "Lord Golos," the others greeted her ally. "Gogo." Gwen patted her lizard's chest, marvelling at the beauty of Golos' blue-white scales. "You ready for some fun?" "Calamity—" The lizard returned her greeting with a strange expression. "Step aside." Before Gwen could ask why Golos looked constipated, the Wyvern inwardly coiled its serpentine neck and assumed the pose of a cat hacking up a furball. "Christ, what—" Gwen's eyes widened into the size of hen's eggs as the Wyvern flatted itself against the sizzling Mandala, planted both wing-claws against the ground, then began to regurgitate an enormous… something. "Is Lord Golos alright?" Petra materialised a few Restoration Spellcubes, likely thinking that the Wyvern had damaged its internal organs mid-transit. "Indigestion?" Richard observed with sympathy. "It happens to the best of us." Cambridge's Mages dutifully took notes. Gwen stumbled back as Draconic-acid washed over her Da-peng leather booties. Whatever made up Golos' eye-watering breath could only be said to be magnified a hundred-fold by the gush of yellow liquid oozing from his feeding orifice. "Quack!" Their duck protested the sorry state of a creature it saw as a rare superior. The Wyvern ignored the duck and persisted in his masochistic act of unhinging his jaw, appearing like a snake regurgitating an egg in reverse. With a final grunt, what looked like a steel coffin emerged, its surface marred and scarred by his digestive acid. _Clunk!_ The steel _something_ landed, pulverising the charcoal landscape. "For you, Calamity." Golos nursed his neck. "For me?" Gwen could only guess that perhaps, Golos wanted to bring her a gift. If so, why not put the thing in his Storage Rings? Before she could ask, a series of taps came from the coffin, then— _CRUNK!_ The coffin's lid flew open, struck from within by a shapely pair of emerging calves. A moment later, the doll-like figure inside dizzily pulled herself upward. Gwen's jaw dropped. Richard whistled. Petra's expression grew contemplative. Cambridge's Mages took notes. "L-LULU?" Gwen could hardly catch her next breath. "LULAN? You were inside—THAT?" She looked toward Golos, her mind a riot of possibilities. Lulan was inside Golos? INSIDE A THUNDER WYVERN? WHAT THE FUCK? Could a Summon Planar Ally be used as an ISTC relay? Or was that merely because Ruxin willed it? At any rate, is it even possible that a Human Being could survive such an excursion through the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lighting? It wasn't as though Golos hadn't sent her men before through the array. Or… was that the purpose of the steel box? "A gift from brother." Golos' voice transformed from a hoarse croak to his usual confidence as his torn throat rapidly healed. "He says to bring him gifts from the Seats of Frost to repay him." Rushing toward the steel coffin, Gwen grasped the calloused hand of the swordswoman and pulled her close. Lulan did not smell any better than the phlegm Golos projectile vomited, but Gwen couldn't care about that now. "Lulu," she said softly. "Can you hear me?" The light of cognisance slowly returned to Lulan's eyes. "Saviour—" The swordswoman tried to smile. "I am sorry I stink." "Quack!" "Why..." The confusion returned to Lulan's eyes. "Why is there a duck here?" Before Gwen could explain that ducks were for all occasions, the girl pushed herself abruptly from Gwen's arms, forming a posture not too different from when Golos had first arrived. "Oh, Christ." Gwen mouthed. If there's another fucking “gift" _inside_ Lulu _._ She and Ruxin would have words! Did the Dragon think her friends were Matryoshka Dolls? Thankfully, Lulan only evacuated the entire contents of her stomach over Gwen's one of a kind battle armour. "Pats!" Gwen called for their medic. Petra produced both a healing injector and a Restoration cube, then after a second, a Cleansing cube as well. Richard and Lea helped with fresh water to wash off the gunk on Lulan, hosing down the surrounding area befouled by Golos. Eventually, Lulan was relieved from her coffin, cleaned up, then restored to relative health. Now that her Wyvern and swordswoman had established their bearings, Gwen stood between the two with a hand on Lulan's shoulders and another against Golos' knee. "It warms my heart that you're both here," she said after a moments' thought. "That said, I can't advocate for Golos' oesophagus as a means of transport in good conscience. Lulu, you could have just used the ISTC arrays, you know? What's money if you travel safely? You know we have a lot of that these days, right? Couldn't Ruxin just Glyph you up with Dragon magic? Who told you to use the _Golos Express_?" "ISTCs involved too many complications and paperwork." Lulan, still pale, gave her a look of pride. "Lord Ruxin said I needn't follow the rules of mortals and that if I wanted to join you as soon as possible, simply ask Mistress Ayxin." "So, Ayxin put you up to this?" Gwen huffed. "She taught me how to construct that." Lulan pointed to the coffin. In Gwen's eyes, the steel casket was what it resembled. "Are you sure Ayxin meant it _literally_?" Gwen asked. "I mean, she _is_ a spatial sorcery user, but..." "Mistress Ayxin said that I'd be welding a coffin, yes," Lulan concurred. "I asked Lord Ruxin, and he said it was a brilliant idea, better than what he could manage." Gwen looked toward Golos with questions. A shrugging Wyvern was a sight to see, though Gwen was less than impressed. "Strewth." Gwen chose to banish the matter for now, for the day was wearing on and nearing noon. "Okay, let's assume they meant well. How are you feeling, Lulu?" "Good enough to fight." Lulan grasped at a space beside them, then to Gwen's wonder, materialised a gleaming blade of patterned steel. "I've learned a lot in the last few years. Lord Ryxi taught me everything from our Sect since before the Yuan Centaurs razed our temples. I've also picked up useful skills from the remaining four Sword Sects that he thought was useful. AND I've perfected the Panzerschreck you taught me—although Lord Ryxi said the name sounded like Lord Golos choking on fishbones—so he named it the _Falling Star Sword._ Oh, Ruì misses you too, though she's crazy busy with Lord Ruxin's appointments. We've expanded the Tonglv Holdings now, and the local government's more or less falling in line thanks to Professor Ma..." As Lulan delivered her report, Gwen studied her illegally immigrated companion, perceiving that Lulan had grown a little taller, though not by much. From what Gwen could see with her Divination, Lulu's Heart of Iron was wholly tamed by the uncorrupted Sect-magic Ryxi had gifted as a favour. On a more aesthetic level, Lulan had lost the puppy fat on her face, making her once youthful mien more mature and aggressive. Her hair was kept long and folded back in a ponytail—possibly as a tribute to when she, Lulu and Petra had enjoyed themselves visiting Peaches' performances. "Gwen," Richard interrupted the stream of consciousness from Lulan with a polite cough. "Wellington awaits." The reminder restarted the engine of anxiety that had cooled with Lulan's unconventional arrival. "Of course," she asked for Lulan to keep her updated while they flew, passing her one of the dozens of spare Message Devices made by her Dwarven artisans in the Bunker. "Do you know our mission, Lulan? Gogo? Did you inform Lulu?" "I know. We're exterminating Mermen." Lulan's face broke into a grin, echoing the very same on Golos' face. "I'll protect you." "And I am hungry for fish," Golos' protest announced his perfect candidacy for unbridled mayhem. "You said there would be more fish to eat than I could count." "Oh, the buffet's gathering southward as we speak," Gwen assured the Wyvern. "Richard, how far are we now from Wellington?" "Four hundred and twenty-four kilometres inland," her cousin replied. "But now that Lord Golos is here, shall we entertain a shortcut?" "Yes, we should take the coastal route," Petra concurred. "Magister Song?" One of the Cambridge Mages raised their hand. "Wouldn't we be beset by random encounters if we go outside the Green Zones?" "We would," Gwen agreed, then gestured to the imposing form of her Wyvern stretching out its spines. Golos' spiked-club tail was of especial interest, for its bristles contracted and expanded like a living thing. "Caleb, Jaxon, you fellers ever experienced Dragon Fear?" "I have." Caleb's complexion paled. "I was in London during the er… incident." "I have not," Jaxon confessed. "Is Lord Golos going to show us how it's done?" "Indeed he is," Gwen confirmed their worst suspicions. "Don't worry. The nausea isn't so bad if the aura owner isn't trying to eat you." "That way, we should be in Wellington before sundown," Richard confirmed their new coordinates on the map. "An hour to mana-up and pre-buff should be more than enough." "Quack!" Dede also gave his two LDMs. Having received her assurances, Gwen snapped her fingers, materialising another gift from her Draconic business partner, the Omni-orb. "Ho," Golos remarked with appreciation. "Brother's gift." "We're _going to Welling to find Yue,_ " she declared to the orb in translated Draconic. It wasn't how its divination worked, but Gwen felt that vocalising her intentions seemed to bolster the orb's accuracy. "Go!" With the agility of a Golden Snitch from a money-printing franchise, the Omni-directional Orb lifted into the air and began to drift southward. Gwen adjusted her orientation toward the direction indicated by the orb. "Ariel!" "EE—EE!" Her Kirin materialised. "Caliban!" "SHAA—!" A gruesome and faceless Da-peng birthed from a slit in space-time. "Dede!" "QUACK!" the duck quacked. "Gogo!" "Calamity. Get that thing away from me—" Golos drifted a safe distance away from the Da-peng with every feather on his neck bristling. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. "Dick, leave Lea on overwatch and put our beasties into formation," she said to her majordomo. "Pats, Jaxon, Caleb, you're with me. Lulu will run rear guard. How's your Flight magic, Lulu?" "I can keep up," Lulan replied without ambivalence. In the next moment, the Sword Mage materialised an enormous blade twice as long as herself, resembling the world's most dangerous surfboard. She hopped on. Cooing, Cambridge's Mages took notes. Under Richard's directions, the Familiar, pet and Mage party organised itself into a spear point with Golos as the tip. _Yunnie! We're coming!_ Gwen told herself silently. _Don't Fireball us._ "Alright!" she declared her intentions to the group with Clarion Call. "Let's go save us a city!" Wellington. WETA. Magister Kawhena understood very well the Mermen were grinding them down. Since the early morning, the Mermen had renewed their harassment, sending troops of chitin-covered Crabmen and Fishmen buffed with air-breathing sorcery to scale the cliffs overlooking Lyall Bay, attempting to flank the city from the South Sea. With WETA burning HDMs, the Militia could abjure the foe from their shores with minimal losses by hiding behind spontaneous barriers, retreating to higher ground, and forcing the Mermen into kill-lanes. Without Kawhena transmuting the landscape around Wellington's ley-node, entire patrols could be wiped out by the superior physicality of the armoured sea-soldiers, becoming vulnerable to the bolt-throwing hybrids who wielded anemones that shot bone-spines laced with nerve-toxin. And so, Kawhena's team continued to work throughout the day, never resting, beset by one encounter after another. After more than twenty hours, their mana was untouched—and the ley-node beneath WETA remained stable—but the spell fatigue assaulting their brains had grown significant enough to cause mana-feedback in the junior staff, incapacitating the poor sods for days, if not weeks. Therefore, he had fallen for the Mermen's ploy. It was a cheap strategy, but a strategy nonetheless. That was the unsettling thing about a Mermen Tide led by notable personage from the Seven Kingdoms. The Sea Lords may not understand the extent of tactical limitations outside of the ocean's three-dimensional scope—but their disregard for Mermen's lives was more than made up for misconceptions. "Are our Militias holding their zones?" Kawhena asked an aid. "Magister Addison reports eighteen of twenty-four battlegroups are still in operation," the junior Magus reported, struggling to stay awake. "We lost contact with squads eight, fifteen and twenty-one entirely." Nodding, Kawhena hid his alarm from the young ones. "How's Magus Bai's team?" "They're recovering mana after Purging hostiles near Miramar." "Where the Fairies live?" Kawhena pinched his brows. "The Wisps didn't evacuate after all?" "I think they'd prefer to perish with their Grove." "Right." Kawhena pursed his lips. Far be it that he should worry about the Demi-humans. "Any news from Auckland?" Te had pledged help. But would that help arrive in time? Before the junior Mage could answer, a Message spell bloomed beside the Magister's ear. "Te?" Kawhena felt the weight on his shoulders loom like a swinging guillotine. "Tell me there's good news." The voice that came across was at once pleasant and relaxed. "Brother, there's good news indeed! Of course, I had to confirm before informing you, lest our defences are misallocated. You've got your reinforcements! Guess what the Shard sent Wellington?" "A Combat Flight?" Kawhena wondered if he'd dare to hope. "Lead by a Magister? Dare I ask if they sent an Ordo Purge Team?" "HA—!" The laughter from the other side of the Message Device was enough to relax the nerves of all the younger Mages present in the makeshift war room. "They sent us Magus Bai's roommate!" "You're taking the piss, Te," Kawhena protested. "This isn't the time for jokes." "Before sunset—look to the horizon due north," the Paladin's voice rose in volume. "You must tell me how quickly the Mermen flee!" "From who?" "From Master Shultz's sister—" The Paladin's voice took on the cadence of a passion-fueled Haka. "—That's right, brother! They sent us the Devourer of Shenyang!" Wellington. Titahi Bay. "I see the city," Gwen reported to the team, taking advantage of her Essence-tempered vision. "Any closer, and we're bound to be discovered. How are our Divination signals? Can we get anything across?" "It's spotty. I am shocked we're not getting full signal even this close." Richard double-checked his Message Device. "I think we've been spoilt by living in London for so long. That said, Wellington knows we're coming—and it isn't as though we could be mistaken for Mermen reinforcements. The main thing is Yue, ha. She's not going to greet us with a Fireball, right?" "We'll keep the broadcast going," Gwen affirmed her unequivocal desire to see Project Legion functional and put to use. "And yes, I'd love to surprise Yunnie, but let's not surprise Yunnie." "Alright, as planned then." Richard nodded. "Lea, if you would?" "Sure thing!" The Undine appeared suddenly beside her, twirled, and split her ultramarine hair into four separate Lake Sprites with slim, petite figures and vaguely human faces. The plan was for Gwen's bevvy of beasties to douse fires near Wellington's struggling Militia. Before he had to leave, Whetu had left the group with a map of Wellington's dugouts and battle lines, which for a city small enough to be observed from the air, should be easy enough to discern. Still, Gwen felt it best if Lea could direct her quintet of avatars to keep an eye on her creatures. Of her monstrous foursome, Golos would be fine alone. Caliban could fight until it was banished, though when pitted against "meat shields", the Void beast could likely riot until the last morsel. Comparatively, though Ariel's lightning worked wonders on fish, she felt it best to assign Dede to protect her pseudo-Kirin from becoming swamped. Petra, Jaxon and Caleb had the task of contacting and coordinating combat with WETA, first informing Yue of her arrival, then aiding the construction of Teleportation Circles as a contingency. As for herself, she would form a Combat Team with Richard and Lulan playing interference while she performed what the London's papers had dubbed "The Dark Womb", despite her METRO dubbing the spell combination as "The Dark Egg". For the battle to come, she hoped to sow enough chaos among the Mermen with her Void lampreys to disrupt the Shoal's coherence while taking advantage of the fact that most Mermen were incapable of aerial combat. "Gogo? Dede?" Gwen turned to her pets for proof that they were ready. "Finally!" Golos' scales crackled with lightning as visible ripples of Dragon Fear distorted the air. That was another of the Wyvern's insurances. While Golos could be overwhelmed by numbers, that number first had to survive the crush of their fleeing friends' armoured bodies. "Their Essence is junk, but Ruxin said that quantity is a quality." "Quack!" Gwen had no idea if ducks could salivate, but Dede sure as hell was making a good effort. "Watch out for the Mermen leader and their magic users," Richard warned against her and her pets against boisterous confidence. "You're not fighting the Triffidus. These are creatures with complex societies and ancient civilisations. Pull their whiskers hard enough, and you're bound to summon something capable of giving us trouble." "I wouldn't worry until we can thin out the Shoal," Petra delivered a point of insight. "Remember what I told you? The Mermen fight like we Russians do in the Old Country. We send waves of conscripted NoMs to colonise the Wildlands while the Mages sit back and wait for our foe to exhaust their mana." "Ah yes, the Path of the Old Country, if only Humanity could spawn a thousand young a season, per female," Richard snorted. "But enough of that—because we have Lord Golos! Milord Wyvern, if you could be kind enough to show us how it's done?" Gwen's impatient Wyvern needed no prompting to execute the ultraviolence to come. With a mighty blast of air that sent the Mages reeling, the Wyvern launched itself forward, forming its silhouette into that of a forward-pointing spearhead. As a breathing thunderclap, Gogo flew forward and downward, his neck framed by a suddenly appearing and disappearing cone of air, shrieking toward Wellington as a white-hot mote of Dragon Fear, giving Gwen the strangest sensation of controlling a fish-eating, Core-shitting living airstrike. Rongo Winiata, a native of Wellington and a one-time participant of the IIUC, put himself in the front lines to ensure that the NoMs could safely wield their Quasi-magical implements. A working battle group, he had explained to the hundred-odd men and women under his command, was a product of symbiosis. With the Mages alone, the casters would be quickly overwhelmed by the oncoming crush of shelled bodies. Likewise, without the Mages to break up the rank and file of the crustacean shock troops, the NoM Militia would be filling gaps with new bodies every few minutes. At a time like this, Rongo wished more than anything that their Frontier city could have invested in Golems like the ones he'd seen on the Chinese Undead Front. As a Mage, he could amass spells with far more complexity—but he was still one Mage in a team of five, while a well-protected Golem unit could be refitted and rearmed for firing by a couple of NoMs within the hour to wreak havoc to half of Wellington's coastline. And if Wellington had _two_ Golem units attached to each Militia? And if they had Magister Kawhena funnelling their foe into tight-quartered kill zones? Would they even need reinforcements? Rongo shook his head. He quickly banished his wishful daydream and checked that his mana had recovered. He was the most senior Mage in his unit, and he had to keep a clear head. He was on his second injector already, and there were three more hours until sunset, when Maka and Timoti Wikiriwhi, the Magma Brothers, would finish their meditation. "Erina—Rangi—with me! One more push! Keep them off the NoMs." Rongo's Ta Moko flashed cobalt as he leapt into the air, kept afloat by a surge of water commanded by his Taniwha Spirit, the Great Whale Shark tied to his ocean-fairing ancestors. At his mental behest, clarified mana tore through his conduits, materialising the overabundance of Elemental Water brought by the Mermen. "Tidal Surge!" The Mermen soldiers clambering blindly up the escarpment were struck by a sudden wave of white water, tearing them from the transmuted concrete and dashing those with softer bodies against the spiked exteriors of the shock troops below. Erina followed with Fireball and Scorching Rays volleys, picking off the stragglers closest to the man-made wall on the harbour. At the same time, Rangi erected barriers of stone whenever their foes launched tridents, spikes, and sometimes fish at the Mages. Behind the seawall itself, Rongo's support Healer mended groaning NoM militia members maimed by the barrier breach prior in the day. Not far, their final member, a Ta Moko Enchantress, maintained the dwindling array of Wand-implements used by the NoMs. Rongo's crested wave reached an apex—then rapidly dwindled as his mana surge waned, unable to sustain the attack. When he landed, winded and dizzied from the continuous expenditure, he unhappily realised that most of the monstrous silhouettes had remained. Had his spell gotten weaker? Rongo wondered Or had the Mermen brought more substantial reinforcements? Either way, he was about to learn a lesson from his Master firsthand: never leave a gap for a foe to exploit. He hadn't meant it, but he had been fighting since the morning, and he was bloody buggered. Thereby, he could only curse when a crustacean with a crested crown like a Roman Centurion tossed a subordinate toward Rongo, catapulting the akimbo crab toward him as a living, flailing cannon ball. Rangi was quick on his shielding, intercepting the crab. Unfortunately for Rongo, he knew exactly how much the damned things weighed and that the first crab would merely be one in a volley of dozens. What's worse, despite the blue ichor prettily painting the semi-sphere barrier, the crustacean that clambered off Rangi's shield was twice as mad. Before Rongo could activate a Jump or an Expeditious retreat, the creature had already taken a swipe at the Evoker, scoring a flesh-mangling gash across Rongo's bared chest, bypassing his innate Water Shield with minimum effort. "Rongo!" Rangi's voice called out. "Watch out!" Rongo couldn't hear his mates over the sound of howling blood in his head and his own foul-mouthed explicative. He fell. A few seconds passed as slow as molasses before Rongo's world returned to normal, realising that he had not activated his escape spell or triggered his Contingency Ring. Instead, he was on the floor, ass-down and face-up, staring at the sky. SHIT! Rongo tried to speak, but he could hardly catch his breath. The fucking crab was over him now, dripping blue blood and waving its Māui-damned limbs in some victory dance. _Rangi!—Erina—!_ he tried forcing his voice out. _Get behind the NoMs! GET—_ _CRACK—!_ Rongo's world turned white. For a blooming second, Rongo was sure he had ascended into a higher Plane, for every muscle in his body had involuntarily tensed, _and_ his bowels had threatened to release the Earthen Hounds. When he painfully turned his head, his muscles buoyed on pure adrenaline, Rongo saw past the fresh-gauged cavity in his pectorals to see... Rongo had no idea what he was seeing, though having fought the Crab-men for a day, he knew that they were capable of _shitting_. And now—a whole legion of the bloody things had just shat themselves blue and brown. "RONGO!" Rangi reached his side. Together with Erina, they began to pull him bodily backwards, dragging him by the shoulders. Above Rongo, his clawed foe remained frozen, unable even to twitch. Fighting mortal injury and mental disorientation, it took Rongo a dozen meters to finally find out why the Crabmen were frozen like fish-dinners. "Is that ours?" Rangi asked. "Or are we bunged?" Erina was too terrified to speak, and Rongo knew the reason. There—above them—hovering over the sudden descent of innumerable piles of reflexive faeces—was a Wyvern in blue and platinum. And the crazy thing— And the _craziest_ thing— Was that he recognised the damned monster! "HMM…" came the rumbling of a familiar voice from the armoured flying fortress looming over a thousand Crabmen too terrified to shift limb or claw. "... a good appetiser." The Wyvern opened its mouth. Its sadistic, sunset pupils transformed into twin pools of molten plasma. There was a sound of sudden thunder. An abrupt blast of heat and light. A simultaneous singing of Rongo's exposed body hair. Then Rongo's world grew peaceful, blessedly knowing well that Wellington and his buggered body would see the dawn of a new day. Northward of Golos' landing was Wellington Quay, once the crown jewel of the city's economic zone, now a wasteland of overturned ships and freight equipment. When the Mermen came again, they emerged in the thousands, using the blasted ships from the tsunami for cover, climbing, clambering and scampering from shade to shade until they made landfall. Unlike the Crabmen assaulting the main harbour head-on, these were the surviving locals, lead by a true denizen of the deep—a loyal attache to the Elemental Prince Shyvaphyr, seventeenth in line to the Coral Crown. Anarr was the name of the attache assigned to the fodder, and he possessed only one job—to herd the cowardly Mudskippers to death or glory. Hailing from the rare and noble Clan Ocellatus, Anarr was equally capable underwater and in the murderous air. Blessed with a gift of Essence from his Prince, the Eel-kin neared eight-feet standing on his transmuted dorsal fins, not accounting for his enormous maw, which weighed down his upper body and gave him the likeness of a bunched-back, bipedal toad. "Faster! Attack more! Crush the air-suckers!" Anarr swung his serrated Coral Sword, sending ripples of Elemental Water outward to stimulate the Mudskippers, likewise informing them that should any flee or escape, he had them marked for feeding fodder. In the distance, beyond the crushed lines of bobbing boats, flashes of Human magic pushed his men backwards. Thus far, Anarr was thoroughly unimpressed with the progress of his coastal cousins. As their terrestrial kin called it, the prime Material was seen by Anarr's lord and masters as a grand prize. To those in the deep, Terra existed as an inexplicable conjunction of the Elemental Planes, a place inundated by influences from the Plane of Water and, therefore, the Mermen's natural second home. To Anarr's superiors, here was a neutral world rich for colonisation and plunder, gifted by the Elders of the Deep. Yet, much to their chagrin, the other Elementals were also keen on taking a fragment of the whale fall. Furthermore, the indigenous population on Terra not only saw themselves as the watery globe's rightful rulers but had the gall to nourish themselves by hunting the children of water! Of course, Anarr's kinfolk ate one another—such was life so long as one and one's dinner weren't too closely related—but to have finless creatures biting into the sumptuous flesh of a fish-folk? That was gobsmacking. And what was worse was that here existed land creatures that flew through the air—and _hunted_ kin in the sea! What an aberration! A travesty of existence! The first day he walked on the surface, Anarr had made his new sycophants retrieve these "Birds", as the Terrestrials call them. There was a plague of the fiends flying above the Shoal, meaning to bring them down required an effort. Unhappily, other than a vague saltiness, Anarr could only say that he was disappointed. He later tried the eggs of a creature dubbed an "Albatross" by the local kin and dozens of its screeching larvae. Those had been nourishing, and Anarr had immediately demanded a dozen be delivered into his gullet. "QUACK—QUACK—QUACK!" A series of orifice-quailing barks made Anarr physically recoil, stirring him from the succulent recollection. Anarr looked up at the sky. There was an Albatross approaching, one clothed with the splendiferous hues of the highly prized Mantis-kin. "Hah?" Anarr huffed, spraying spittle from his fanged maw as he hollered at the nasty thing. "Have you come for your children? Fish-eating fiend?! You're too late! For they rest now in the merciless gullet of Anarr of Ocellatus!" "Quack?" The flying beast banked hard, descending in a rapid spiral. "I want to eat that thing!" Anarr gave the command. "Mudfins! Attack!" As his troops converged, the quacking fiend began a rapid descent, appearing larger and larger until Anarr's throat felt parched by the dry air. _This Albatross is a true Monster!_ Anarr thought. A Kraken-kin of the air! Anarr had eaten hundreds of "birds" by now, even a vicious "sea eagle" captured at the cost of a dozen Mudkin lives. Yet—this creature dwarfed them all in size, beauty, and sheer arrogance! Just before the Albatross struck the ruined shipyard and its graveyard of metal, it pulled back both wings, causing such a violent gust that the dozen or so Mudkin with their nets and serrated spears were blown about, losing their footing despite their sticky dermis. When Anarr's eyes met the creature's, he shuddered to discover that the creature's irises' were twin pools of pure pitch, depthless and without a hint of compassion. _WHOMP—_ The hungry _bird_ landed, sending the half-shattered tanker ship to roll from the momentum of its descent. Instantly, a dozen Mudkins piled upon the Albatross, hooting, howling and stabbing with their poisoned spears, trying to bring the flying fiend low. "Quack, QUACK—!" the creature let loose a battle cry. Anarr craned his neck. How would a limbless, armless imbecile fight? Could this airborne pathogen, this uncivilised low-order animal, even contest the Mudkin, who had been given magical implements from his Prince? Abruptly, the Albatross made its move. Anarr couldn't follow its movements, but from the way it rapidly waddled, distended its neck to and fro, and swung its wing-limbs, he instantly banished all thoughts of underestimating the creature's might. A second later, Anarr applauded his wisdom. The Mudkins who had made their move were all dead. Where the creature had pecked with its oral implement, the unarmored Mud-kin erupted, exploding into piles of grey flesh, rendered sinew and liberated offal. Those struck by the wings flew instantly away, shattering as though algae polyps dashed against a foamy cliff. The worst was the few that somehow ended up beneath the creature, becoming crushed so entirely that their innards ruptured forth like stuck seaweed from the orifice of an underwater geyser. But that was okay. Anarr had thousands of Mudkin and ten thousand more up the coastline. "Attack!" Anarr gave the command once more. He brandished his jewelled trident in one hand, a gift from his Master, the almighty Seventeenth, whose depth the likes of Anarr, a mere Wolf Eel, could never reach. Enchanted by the Wave Witches, with a core moulded from a thousand-year old growth of Crystal Coral uprooted from the King's private hunting corral, his weapon would surely reach the fiend's heart. "QUACK!" Anarr ignored the massacre of his kin and instead focused all of his internal mana on the trident. One strike—that that was all he needed. A single strike with the weight of the deep behind it, enough to demolish any foe, flying or otherwise. "Prince Shyvaphyr, give me strength," Anarr prayed to the being to whom he had pledged his being, calling upon his patron's borrowed Essence. "May your reign—" "EE—EE—!" A cacophonic cry, half-screech, half-thunderclap, resounded behind the eel. Had the bipedal, Essence-blessed Wolf Eel survived the eight Lighting Orbs blasting him into fried dace paste, he would have protested that his world had first turned brilliant white, the kind attributed to that horrid sphere from the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Radiance. Unfortunately for the Mermen lieutenant, a split-second wasn't enough for Anarr to comprehend the source of the adorable mewing, after which his world turned suddenly dark. Southward of Golos' landing sat Princess Bay, one of a dozen inlets with direct access to the South Sea possessing geography low enough for the Mermen to land and make their way inland. Presently, there were no Mermen. There was, instead, a raging fire. Evidence of destruction. Eye-watering volumes of charred and cooked fish. Exhausted Militia men, hiding in transmuted bunkers. A group of bemused Mages from Sydney. And a sulking Big Bird. "Shaa—"Caliban moped. Its faceless mien was weeping large globs of grey goo. "Shaa—Shaa—" Beside the sobbing monstrosity, Yue Bai, famous roommate of the Devourer, patted the soul-stealing reaper on its crow-black, feathery back. "It's okay, Cali," she comforted the creature. "There's plenty of fish in the sea. Aunty Yunnie will get you a big old school of nasty Mermen next time, okay?" "Shaa—!" Caliban hollered. Through its empathic senses, it knew with absolute certainty that its mates were having the time of their lives. "SHAA!" In frustration, it lifted a dainty white hand-claw, picked up the body of a cooked King Crab, then tossed it toward the horizon, where it skidded across the surface of the serene surf, shedding limbs as it went. The scene was so surreal and unsettling that, save for Yue, the NoMs and her team members all agreed to keep their distance. They had earlier fought the damned Crab-kin and therefore knew well that the King Crab lieutenant weighed a fuck-ton. "SHAA—?" the fiend demanded of their sorceress. "Alright, alright—" Magus Bai motioned to her team. "Someone give me a fistful of HDMs. Until Gwennie calls back her pet, Cali's one of us, alright?" As if making its appeal known, the monster opened up its head-carapace, revealing a tri-petal maw with a dozen tentacle-tongues, each tipped with disc-shaped mouths lined with pearly teeth-blades. With minds of their own, the mouthy appendages then solicited their audience's sanity. The group regarded one another, from Mage to NoM to Mage. The perceived consensus was the rejection of Magus Bai's proposal with extreme prejudice. Which naturally meant tithing was quickly collected in a hat and delivered forward. Then, overlooking a bean-green coastline, their leader sat beside the bird-thing, one hand holding one of its _lady's_ fingers, and began to feed the monstrosity its ill-gotten gains one by one.

Despite her involvement in more conflicts than she could count, Gwen still had trouble processing the notion of an eternal war against the Mermen. The abstraction was simple but not one she could readily internalise. Even against the Undead, there was a perceivable "end game" where Liches turned to powder and regions like North Korea, Siberia, and the Balkans returned to man's domain. But to wage war until the butt-end of the smoking ruins of human history? It was something Gwen chose not to think too deeply about lest her resolve waned. Therefore, her mind chose the present sanity of practical slaughter. In Humanity's perpetual cycle of conflict against Mermen, a commonly agreed-upon reality was that Mermen were easy to kill on land—but bloody impossible to repel from the territorial waters. Even though humans were undeniably amphibious mammals, possessing an inborn diving reflex, their means to engage underwater was limited—despite the fact that common Transmutations like _Aqua Lung, Water Breathing, Water Walking_ —were commonly used in construction. For reasons of efficiency, underwater warfare never came to pass—amphibious Mage units could neither move like the fishes nor utilise the full complement of their magic. Likewise, Humanity found success only on the surface, where their Battle Barges and flying Towers could broadcast deadly waves of resonance to keep the Mermen at bay. Thereby, akin to a seasonal rash, the marauding Mermen rioted as they pleased, plundering at their leisure, keeping Humanity panting and salivating for the resources of the coastlines, each dotted with their densest cities, hoping that one day, man could conquer the final Frontier—the sea. For her present purpose, Major Kotts had long-ago assigned readings and research for his War Mage student, knowing that an encounter with the Mermen was inevitable. A compulsory reading was Meister Jacques-Yves Melchior of Paris, author of " _Mage and the Forbidden Sea: A Treaties on Coastal Potential"_. Within were countless anecdotes of man's failed ambitions to venture into the wide blue yonder, detailing the history and process by which the Oceanographer created the first Resonance Engine for aquatic use, ushering man into an unforeseen epoch of freight and colonisation. The book had been of great interest to Gwen because she recalled seeing the volume in Henry's study. But compared to the version she had read, the "original" edition given to her by Magister Brown was a treasure trove of observations editorialised by the Oceanographer on the Mermen of the Seven Kingdoms, each guarding their rifts throughout the Atlantics and the Pacific. _Mermen,_ the Meister had said _, are fabulous sea creatures, man or woman or its likeness above, and fish below, an invasive species of Elemental humanoids from the Plane of Water. A commander must know that there is no possibility of peace between Man and Mer. Just as a kingdom may not have two monarchs, and no firmament shall play grace to twin Gates of Radiance._ In a later chapter, in a section Henry's copy lacked, Gwen had found a picture of a woman with crow-black hair and porcelain skin, with a mien more like a Lumen-cast celebrity than a War Mage. " _Magister Elizabeth W. Sobel—_ " The entry had read. " _A case study on the Subjugation of the Coral Sea under Master Kilroy of Sydney._ " What shocked Gwen wasn't the vivid accounts of Sobel's conquest of the Coral Sea but the fact that a report was published. Thanks to Henry's long shadow and innumerable favours, reliable recordings of Elizabeth's military operations were inversely proportional to her infamy. Gwen had devoured the volume with hungry eyes, reading between the lines of Meister Melchior's first-hand account to find the slimmest hint of Sobel's vulnerabilities. To that end, she had found nothing. What she did learn was the Meister's instruction in resolving the paradox of fighting an inaccessible foe, which read as such: _Any commander wishing to battle with the Mermen should refer to Chapter III: The Shoals, surmising a hierarchal, pyramidal food chain with a dynamic relationship between predator and prey. A Crabman may be food today, but a thriving tribe may feast upon a weakened Shoal of Sharkmen tomorrow. Do not forget that unlike the world of men, in Mer's world, society, politics, power and survival bisect. A tribe that grows weak becomes combat fodder, and should it grow weaker still, it becomes food. For this reason, an Ordo Knight or militia Wing Commander must tacitly acknowledge that whatever their feelings are for the present wave of a Mermen Tide, chances are they are battling the weakest member of a Shoal's food chain at any given time._ _Think of the Shoal as an onion,_ the Meister advised; the _outer layers of the Shoal are the weakest and the most brittle but also cover the largest surface area, consisting of the fodder troops. Strip it, and the Shoal gives way to expendable shock troops, core infantry, siege, freight, magical units, and the Elemental nobility at the centre._ _In the eternal battle against the Mer, we must never forget that the Demi-Humans of the sea consist of a hundred thousand conflicting interests cowed by a hierarchy of predation and violence. Should the widely feared Wave Witches or the shrimp-headed Coral Knights lose enough numbers to control their subordinate Clans, the instinctual desire of their next-of-kin is to usurp their betters and fill the vacuum of power. An Elemental noble may interfere with natural succession, but they cannot halt the ingrained credo tattooed into the Cores of the Sea Folk._ _In this manner, Lady Sobel's unique talents enabled Lord Kilroy's rapid pacification of the Coral Sea and the reclamation of the East Coast (diagram IV.ii). She directly challenged the core infantry, lured their magical and siege units to the surface, and disrupted the innate "hierarchy" of the Shoal..._ Which was why—Gwen supposed—here she was, reenacting Sobel's gambit like a dutiful daughter playing at dress-up. "Ready," Richard levitated a dozen meters away, bobbing now and then like a dandelion as his Flight magic fought the wind. "Lulu?" Lulan hovered close, surrounded by seven gleaming blades, each as wide as her thighs and twice as long. Together with the thrumming claymore beneath her feet, she and her Naga Spirit controlled eight slabs of death-dealing iron. "Leave anything large and armoured to me." The Sword Mage scanned the brimming waters half a kilometre below them. "Assuming they could even fly this high." "I like Lulu's confidence," Gwen's cousin assured her. "Start whenever." Gwen, too, felt confident that between Richard's soft barriers and Lulan's ability to deflect the rest, she should have no fears of losing control of her grand summons. Therefore, she took a deep breath, ensured that Almudj's Essence had well-tempered her vital conduits—then activated her tandem-layered Void Shield. In an eye-blink, her world grew dark and devoid of sight and sound, producing a sensory deprivation chamber. The experience wasn't pleasant, but she needed total concentration for what was to come. That and she required privacy, for the euphoria that would soon flood her torso would tax her mind to its utter limits as she sought to balance the debit and credit of Void drain and vitality. "I am beginning," she informed the others through their Dwarven-forged Communication bangles, then sang the forbidden invocations thrifted from her Master's belongings at Tryfan, spellshaping a spell she now knew almost by reflex. Wellington. WETA. Petra Kuznetsova, yet another "roommate" of the Devourer, stepped back from the Teleportation Circle with a face full of satisfaction. "Amazing." Magister Kawhena circled the complex, multi-layer Mandala with an expression of awe. "What was that, eight minutes?" "Just past seven," one of his aids could hardly keep his mouth closed. "Magus Kuznetsova, what were those… tentacles?" "Naga heads," Petra clarified that, _yes_ , she did indeed possess a multi-headed Draconic Mineral Spirit. Upon her arrival, she had decided to impose the full extent of her significant script-scribing powers because she wanted to examine the rest of WETA's Glyph work. According to her briefing, the original inscriptions were personally composed by Gwen's Master, which was then perfected by generations of Oceania's best Transmuter-Enchanters. With it, she could help her cousin decipher more of Henry's Elven library. "Activate!" With a final invocation, the Teleportation Circle triggered with a hum, meaning she could relax. Her Cambridge companion, Jaxon Reid, would maintain the central station here while she dove down below. "Master, is it prudent to allow an outsider into the Core Chamber?" a student indiscreetly whispered, perhaps forgetting that there were Mermen outside, and she had just ensured none of them would die. "As always, the Shard thinks they own the place," someone else remarked. All around Petra, she could sense the fluctuation of emotions like a rippling pond of summer insects. As a Mind Mage trained to detect such thoughts, she could empathise with their frustration at perceiving such a difference in skill and resource. Unlike in London, Teleportation Circles were a rare art in the Frontier for expenditure and security reasons, known only to very senior members of the magical hierarchy. Yet, here she was, not only inscribing a Mandala from scratch but doing so through a semi-autonomous Spirit capable of filling in the details while she inscribed the framework. Other than Magister Kawhena, she could smell the sour odour emitting from the mouths of these astonished Wellington Mages. They too had worked hard their whole lives. They too, were considered the best—until they met Petra. And to add fuel to the fire, Petra was both young and beautiful, which, when combined, made Kawhena's men lament the unfairness of life. That was why Petra loved her work among the Dwarves. She had felt most at home in the Bunker's workshops, for the Engineseers ignored her looks, poked fun at her Enchantments, and put her through the same wringer as any Journeyman. _Ding!_ A Message spell bloomed beside her ear. "Kuznetsova, I've finished the relay at Wright's Hill Bunker. Do you copy?" "Copy, dissipation register only at level one." Petra confirmed the connection between the Divination Sigils carved into the Lesser Teleportation Mandalas. "Excellent. Mine says two. We can transfer the WETA team anytime. Do you have enough HDMs? Can we switch to WETA's signal?" "Yes, and yes." Petra glanced at the knee-high latticed boxes of HDMs taken from her Dwarf-forged Storage Ring for Golem units. What would these men think if she told them she also had a utility Golem currently occupying half the space? That she had anticipated digging their cold corpses out of WETA's ruins? "Good work, Jaxon. Ross will oversee the relay at WETA with Magister Kawhena's men while I link our Divination Devices with the superstructural Mandala array." "How's our leader?" the Translocation Specialist asked. "Good news? Since we're not evacuating yet." "Gwen should soon be beginning her Purge on the main column," Petra replied. "We'll know whether we're defending Wrights Hill or celebrating by the hour. Can you set up our next waypoint?" "Leaving now," Jaxon announced the conclusion of his task. "Confirming Senior Apprentice Jones of WETA will oversee the waypoint at Wright's Hill." "H-hello!" A voice said over the communication channel. "Confirmed," Petra looked to WETA's Magister. Now, she needed access to the internal superstructure to patch their Divination Glyph array into the academy's decades-old systems. "I can hardly believe it, but all battle stations are clear," Kawhena affirmed that they had a few hours of rest before the Shoal sent out more of its fishy feelers. "Magus Bai says she's with something called 'The Caliban'. Does that sound right?" "That would be Gwen's Familiar," Petra reassured the Magister. "I would like to begin on the Divination array. Magister, if you could?" "Of course." Kawhena willed away his Apprentices. Once more, Petra stood at the centre of the group's loudly broadcasting emotions, suddenly self-conscious for wearing a pair of prohibitively priced Parisian boots of Flight, naturally a gift from Gwen. Besides her, WETA's administrator completed the secret Glyph work near the Mandala module, allowing a section of it to slide apart, revealing a manhole just wide enough to fit a single Mage. "Be very careful," Kawhena warned her. "Divination Arrays begin at C-44-B8, touch nothing else." "I shall take the greatest care," she replied as she levitated downward, noting how comfortable and Dwarven the humble access tunnel looked. _Plop!_ _Plop—!_ _P-plop—!_ The distinct sound of giant, goo-slathered Void Hydras hitting the water from five hundred meters up wouldn't impress an Olympic dive judge—but was enough to arouse the attention of the Merman patrolling the exterior of the Shoal. One by twos, sometimes threes, her Hydras plopped into the water, happy as lampreys on a whalefall, swimming free as they pieced the bean-blue surface of the South Sea. Such was the method used by Sobel, one delivered from the shelter of her Dark Egg. The rationale behind Sobel's "drone" warfare was that Human Mages fought terrible aquatic battles. Even Richard, whose Undine could call forth a tiny "Shoal" of her brackish cousins, was useless when pitted against water-breathing Elementals formed of the same Plane from which such monsters hailed. Gwen, however, had Hydras. First and foremost, her creatures need not draw breath. They were alive—but they lacked the physiology of mortal conjured beasts. When Magister Brown had dissected one of her summoned Hydras, they had found its interior to be more mana than meat, possessing only rudimentary organs, making it akin to primordial organisms. When attacking, a Hydra first latched onto its prey, dissolved the entry-point by regurgitating bile consisting of concentrated Void vomit, then injected an admixture of digestive enzymes to break down a prey's interior. Once done, the Hydra's contracting body would slurp back the admixture, taking everything its gastronomic juices could absorb, from vitality to mana to physical flesh. The whole process then repeated itself until there were only two outcomes. In the first scenario, the nourished Hydra, bloated on its new vitality, rapidly grew in size, producing more Void-enzyme and an unendingly voracious appetite. In the second scenario, the expenditure of the attack, together with the Hydra's entropic decay, exceeded the vitality and mana it could absorb, thereby weakening the creature, eventuating in its exit from the Prime Material. As the chief researcher behind her aptly named Shoggoth, Brown had proposed a hypothesis that the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void might be home to a semi-sentient Mythic consisting of many parts. Brown furthermore hypothesised that Gwen and Sobel's summons might be components of a being enormous beyond comprehension. The "Void ink" so commonly manifested with Void Magic might be its digestive juices and that Gwen and Sobel's summons were otherworldly appendages living within its fleshy domain. Without evidence to counter the point, Gwen added to the idea, positing a "what if" in which the "manifestation"—one she had negligently named _Shub-Niggurath_ —encompassed the entirety of the Quasi-Elemental Plane, leaving only endless hunger. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. The room had grown silent at her remark, and further discovery was postponed for another meeting. But even without further discovery, Gwen deeply suspected that Sobel had used the Hydras, rather than the Dark Sun, on the Mermen Shoals. After all, Hydras were self-perpetuating mouths with no need for air, possessing no vulnerabilities to water pressure. Considering how a Shoal defended itself—how could it even begin to withstand Sobel without prescient knowledge to engage the flying sorceress with their elite Elemental units? Not to mention Henry was up there, waiting for the Mer to fall into Sulfina's traps. By the time a Hydra had feasted on a hundred Mermen, what power would be needed to take one down? Her Master had once said that all things came in balance. Was her expedience also one of the world's balancing acts? And should she take the thrifted vitality from her Hydras to keep reproducing them from her Dark Egg, what Shoal could stifle the progress of her Lovecraftian swarm? _Lä! Shub-Niggurath!_ May she be the _mother_ of a thousand Dark Young! _Hell_ , Gwen giggled in the dark, mindful of how insane she sounded; her _milk_ could even mutate a duck into a Drake! But all self-fulfilling fan-fiction aside, Gwen knew that she had a long and brutal fight. Without risking life and limb to enter the depthless water of the South Sea, she and her company couldn't comprehend that a Shoal wasn't two dimensional—but a three dimensional, dynamic wall of foes. For all Gwen knew, the Shoal could just... fuck off and leave her hungry and hanging. From her vantage, the Shoal might look like a large reef buried a meter under the water, but in reality, it was over seven kilometres long, close to three kilometres across, and how deep? Not even Lea dared to risk an Elemental Princes' domain. Nonetheless, in the liminal space of the Dark Egg, she formed a mind map from the synaptic feedback from her Hydras, constructing a distant vision only she could know by joining the dots. _Plop! Plop—Plop!_ Ignoring the onomatopoeic herald of her armageddon worms, Gwen focused on the first wave of Mermen to encounter her creatures. Through her use of Link-Sight, her Hydras possessed the grey-scale vision of Vital Sense, from which she could see a shimmering wall of multi-armed monsters. To her surprise, these were not the Mer-gobs so common in coastal waters but a solid wall of tentacled cephalopods. When her swarm of swimming mouths closed in on the wall, the whole school shifted as one, forming an indent as to draw her creatures inward— Then as sudden as they had withdrawn, tentacles wielding coral lances emerged by the hundreds, spearing her Hydras, a sight that would make David Attenborough weep. Her Hydras made no sound as they became Julius Caesar spear holsters. _Quantity_ , she acknowledged with renewed appreciation, was indeed a quality in itself. The Coral Spears used by the native Mermen were simple constructs, crafted, according to Meister Melchior, in the Reef Gardens of Wave Witches specialised in crafting armaments. The older the coral, the stronger its lattice-woven structure and the more potent its innate magic. The process was positive primitive compared to Dwarven Magi-tech, child-like when pitted against Sylvan Glyph-etching, but had an insurmountable advantage in one regard. Time and quantity. Reefs as old as time itself, existing near vents exposed to Elemental tears, were as common as marsh iron for the deep crafters. Therefore, even the most basic "Wand-like melee implements" wielded by the lowest footman of the Mer-armies were as powerful as uncommon Shock Wands crafted by mid-tier Enchanters. Sometimes, fishermen could accidentally recover tridents tipped with coral fragments from three different Elements, capable of delivering electric, fire and ice-based attacks simultaneously. Which meant the spears wielded by these Humboldt Squid-folk individually dealt inconsequential damage to Gwen's Hydras—yet nonetheless transformed her creatures into pin-cushions. It was a shame that her Hydras were veritable Honey Badgers, incapable of caring for mortal injury when their innards consisted of little more than collated cosmic hunger. With the school of squids so close, those capable of doing so simply arched their serpentine necks—released its internal vomit of tentacle tongues, latched on—then began to grow. If the Void-aura inherent to her creatures had slowed the squids earlier, the inundation of Void-matter compelled by the influx of vitality was enough to slow the squids closest to her monsters. Like a squid and lamprey orgy, her monsters and their Mer-partners flayed and clawed at orifices, tearing with tooth and nail, tentacle and teeth-lined lips, one growing larger and stronger while the other quickly grew limp. More spears attacked her creatures, penetrating those busily mating stomachs to colour-changing flesh. It took six to twelve seconds to produce anywhere between one and three Void Hydras via the modified Conjure Elemental Swarm, meaning she was averaging twenty summons per minute. By her mental count, almost ten minutes had passed. And some two hundred Hydras were in those waters, feasting on Squids, with the rest of the Shoal merely spectating the chaos like gamblers in a terrier pit. The result was hungrier and larger Void fiends that instantly broke off from the attack, this time roping two squids a piece into their embrace. Very soon, here, there, and seemingly everywhere in the school of converging Squid-folk, her slug-like manifestations sought to fill a bottomless hunger, heedless of their injuries, caring only for the next morsel. With a grunt, Gwen took hold of the morbid pleasure from the incoming vitality and transmuted the euphoria into Void expenditure. Then, she Messaged her companions to be ready for retaliation. After the squids, there would be stronger Mermen, then after that, hopefully, something more substantial. According to Meister Melchior's notes of the Coral Sea War, the Mermen's command doctrine emphasised absolutes. A well-loved subordinate rarely received direct orders from a superior, for they who could anticipate their Master or Mistress' desires with absolute clarity. In a Shoal, therefore, explicit orders were given and obeyed with disdain and loathing—with only details such as "attack here", "hold here", and "kill this creature". A good subordinate was expected to survive and succeed on initiative alone—while the poor were right to perish, making way for more worthy attendants. Gwen only hoped she wouldn't be stuck in this state for hours. The incoming vitality was now making her spell-weaving fingers unsteady and the interior of her Da-peng suit clammy. She instantly pacified her numbing body with a jolt of Almudj's Essence, feeling as though someone had flooded her conduits with liquid peppermint. With a clearer head now, she began to feed the excess vitality into Caliban, concurrently informing her Familiar that once it was done chumming with Yue, she would very likely re-manifest it to fight whatever monster would soon rise from the Shoal's deepest interior. Prince Shyvaphyr, Seventeenth in line to the Coral Throne, lounged in his whalebone settee, carved out from the skull of a long-term rival, listening to the bickering of his subordinates. A part of him told him he should be glad, for the chance to liven one's life from the eternal trials of the Viridian Enclave was rare and a privilege many of his siblings fought over, often to the exhaustion of their Cores. Yet, Shyvaphyr felt comparatively ambivalent, for his task was a thankless objective compared to the prize his regal sister sought in the Human city called Auckland. But thankfully, entertainment had arrived. Presently, the Shoal was under siege. It was a prospect that stirred Shyvaphyr's twin hearts, for his anticipation was that he would slowly doze away the light cycles while waiting for the city to be erased from the headland, then join his sister after she's had her share of slaughter. The bipedal humanoids on the surface may only be food, but they were an industrious lot. The loot from Humanity always involved interesting gadgetry perfect for wasting time, and their Mages were an excellent sport. For that reason, those who returned with the most thralls, and the most unusual items, could enjoy long cycles of exaltation among the Seafolk's upper circles. As for the attack on his Shoal, Shyvaphyr listened in wonder as the Wave Witches recounted the result of their Far Sight. "Otherworldly lampreys with scales the colour of jet!" "The foe numbers only in the hundreds, but they're wreaking havoc!" "The Jabia Clan! Consumed by half, then fled!" "And the other half is dinner for the Mahi Marauders, I assume," Shyvaphyr blew a stream of bubbles. That was the way of the Shoal. In each layer, each species had to maintain their territory, or they would not receive their share of food or spoils and become food and spoils to their neighbours. "How are the Marauders fairing against this foreign Lamprey swarm?" "No fairer," a Siren Sea Witch reported in her sing-song manner of speech, both gills bristling with blushes of pink. "The Lamprey creatures appear indomitable." "Nonsense!" Shyvaphyr scoffed. The Dragon-kin were indomitable. His kingly father, the Deep Drake Miommiriorthyr, was indomitable. With their Dragon Turtles matron, he and his sister were somewhat indomitable. Human Mage fodder— _indomitable_? Was the Witch drunk on the landmen's fermented fruits? "How many Mages are there?" Shyvaphyr rolled all four of his eyes. "Two? Three Flights? Who would have thought this 'Wellington' would be so well defended?" "Great Prince," the Siren constrained her hovering bubble of Far Sight, then drifted closer so Shyvaphyr could see without craning his serpentine neck. "There isn't a Mage Flight. There's just…" Shyvaphyr invaded the Sea Witches' sorcery with a mere twitch from his regal whiskers, causing the Siren to shiver as his Dragon Fear caressed her splendiferous scales. With a hand on the female's waist, Shyvaphyr penetrated her mind. There was an egg hovering somewhere above the Shoal. A dark egg that reminded Shyvaphyr of the floating spawn left behind by the Kraken-kin, drifting with the oceanic currents in the depth of the Plane of Water until the surviving few, chosen by fate and chance, spawned into ravenous, all-consuming monstrosities. From the egg, tiny lampreys no larger than Shyvaphyr's fingers emerged from slits in the Prime Material, falling an uncertain distance until they struck the red-brown water below, dyed pink by the blood of his panicked Shoal. When he shifted his gaze outward, he saw a Human sorceress patrolling the egg, riding on what appeared to be an enormous melee implement. Another human, a male, laid barrier after barrier of veiled water, likely warding against the Marid Wave Witches under Shyvaphyr's command. Elsewhere, nearer the coast, Shyvaphyr felt the shimmering Essence of a kindred being—a Greater Draconid like himself, a curious existence, but not one that could measure up to the full might of his Shoal. And that was the extent of the Siren Witches' clairvoyance. Of the suspects, the Mages were different to the usual foes Shyvaphyr encountered on his rare excursions to the surface—the Draconid he could negotiate with—but the squid-ink egg was something that made Shyvaphyr's scaled brows furrow. As a near-immortal of the Shoreless Seas, Shyvaphyr and his ilk lived long lives and possessed extensive memories. Therefore, his pulsing frontal lobe told him that the "Dark Egg" was a known phenomenon—he was sure of it. Some cycles ago, there had a brief lull in the unending civil conflicts between the Seven Kingdoms when enormous rents in the Prime Material opened, allowing innumerable numbers of Sea Folk to pass. Salsabeel, the Supreme Seat of the First Swell, had issued a crusade to reclaim the coastal "farmlands" of the Prime Material. Shyvaphyr's home reef, Manhal, had also taken part in the slaughter, laying waste to Humanities' coastal cities. Somewhere within those dimmed and indistinct impressions, Shyvaphyr recalled the stories from the shallow reef. There had been a Human sorceress who possessed the same pale skin as the Deep Witches who had never seen sunlight, whose "Spellcraft" conjured flesh-eating blood worms that ate their way through entire Shoals. If Shyvaphyr's memory served, the entire Eastern Shoal had collapsed because of the infamous sorceress, leaving legions of scattered warrior Mer to fend for themselves on the Prime Material. When finally the magic users found their way back to the Plane of Water, Manhal's Coral Guards gleaned that six Shoals, including a Great Shoal, had perished to the wielder of worms. As the price for their retreat, several Wave Witches had their Coral Gardens given up for gladiatorial spoils and their Essences consumed by Shyvaphyr's father. From these inherited insights of the survivors, Shyvaphyr now recollected the vague memory of this "dark egg". There was another memory of note—that the sorceress of the flesh worms was no longer a part of Humanity's defence but fended for herself by working with Demi-humans such as his kinfolk from the Queendom of Gak. Of course, from the looks of what he was now witnessing—he could disregard that possibility entirely. "Her Lamprey-kin grow stronger through battle," Shyvaphyr's slitted eyes narrowed with displeasure. "The ones nearer the surface aren't nearly so fierce." Shyvaphyr could see the Mahi Lancers piercing the slow-moving lamprey within the Siren's vision. On impact, a lamprey's chitin lasted only a split-second before the rods of old coral tore through its innards, entering one side and exiting the others. There would be no blood, only a splatter of grey goo and organ fluids; then, the impaled creature would turn on its attacker, using its improved reach to grapple the Mahi Mermen. Most knew well enough to relieve their spear—those too slow to do so would grow suddenly rigid, then rapidly be consumed by the lamprey even as it received retaliation from others. To disable the black worms entirely, Shyvaphyr realised, would involve its total destruction. A feat the Mahi Lancers could not accomplish with their emphasis on melee and momentum. Should he call back the Mahi Marauders? They were a higher echelon troop than the expendable squids, slow-growing and difficult to tame but immensely powerful in the speed-based conflicts of the deep. But who should then battle the lampreys? Shyvaphyr knew he should not allow the swarm to penetrate any deeper, for past the Mahi were the giant mantas, beasts of burden used by the Shoal to transport food and supplies. These were themselves enormous food sources—and should the lampreys find these as prey, what might they become? Shyvaphyr had no desire to reorganise the Shoal's lower hierarchies, to re-examine who should fight, who should be fodder and who would be food. The strategy against the Humans was well-known, and he had no desire to be scolded by his sister. "There are only three Human Mages above us?" Shyvaphyr asked. "No Tower?" "You are astute, Sire," the Siren allowed Shyvaphyr's fingers to wander, not daring to move a muscle. "Auckland's Tower remains distant." "And these Mages have no mana signatures befitting a Magi?" "Not even a Meister, O Sire," the Siren confirmed. "And the Morning Star isn't near?" Shyvaphyr had to be sure. Of all his inherited memories, survivors of the Human Mage called the Morning Star reigned supreme. "Sydney is thousands of currents away, Lord Shyvaphyr." Now reassured, Shyvaphyr's lips grew cruel. "Then let us pay our challengers a visit, and my cousin of the air, even if the brute intends to feast on my kin," Shyvaphyr announced, simultaneously moving his armoured torso from the whalebone settee. Using only his will, Shyvaphyr gracefully slid through the water, his enormous body possessing the agility of a minnow. As his Dragon Fear rippled outward, the inner court cowered. "Summon your sisters," he commanded. "Keep the Shoal from infighting in my absence. Protect the manta lines at all costs!" "Yes, Great Prince," the Sirens sang praises to their Lord and Master. "Thy will be obeyed." "Zitusphyr, Sevphr," Shyvaphyr summoned his guards, younger cousins from his mother's Clan who were dull of mind but suitably "indomitable" for the purpose of preventing harm from coming to Shyvaphyr. Twin titans lifted into the water, each some twelve meters from crowned ridge to barbed tail. Of the Shoal, only Shyvaphyr's Clansmen and select members of the Wave Witches' cabal had the confidence to fight in the air. Worse than land, the lack of water and friction made manoeuvring almost impossible for the untrained and untalented. Shyvaphyr addressed his men with a bark of Draconic, then banished the Siren's shared vision, causing the female to stagger back with a delightful moan. Three Draconid true-bloods against a sorceress without a complete party and a juvenile blood-kin— Shyvaphyr could not foresee why he still felt so uneasy. Momentarily, however, he felt great enlightenment. What rewards might his father give if he could capture the worm-wishing sorceress? What fame and glory would await him in the coral halls of Manhal if he should present its gladiatorial arena with an indomitable slave-witch? Wellington. East Coast. Golos bathed in the Haka-song of Wellington's lowly mortals, snacking on a crab claw while sucking the marrow from a still-living length of Fish-folk. He was happy, very happy, and well-satisfied. A part of him cautioned his Draconic soul against singing the Calamity's praise, but he was enjoying himself too much to care. Earlier, from the air, he saw the Crab-men menace the Calamity's Mages. So he had landed with style, unleashed a forty-meter long line of life-extinguishing plasma, then inhaled the Essence and vitality of his slain foes by crashing into their lines, clearing the invasion through a counter-invasion. Drinking in their pitiful Essence, Golos made sure most of the Mermen would leave their worthless Cores, a matter of great importance to the Calamity's kin. After that, he pounced through the scattered survivors, enjoying the sight of their blue blood splattering against the shattered concrete buildings of the humans, chasing the Mermen up and down his section of the coast until they were either dead or retreated. At the dock's extreme north, he met the team's mascot, Dede, and the Calamity's false Kirin. He hailed the two with a grunt. One made its mewling noises while the other barked an affirmation that foes were subdued. Around the pair were hundreds of slimy Mudkin, each looking more traumatised than the next by their encounter with the duck. The mascot was a curious existence, more so an accidental experiment than an elevated minion, reminding Golos of his lesser cousins—creatures who gained his father's Essence by fate or consumption, only with the Essence of an Old One. Golos felt a fondness for the multi-coloured duck for its adorable feathers. It is unfortunate then that Dede's terrestrial body severely limited its Astral development, meaning it would grow obscene and robust—but would not transcend its earthly coil to become a being halfway between the Prime Material and the Unformed World, as Golos might one millennium, or as Ruxin now aspired to be. Comparatively, Ariel lay in the opposite spectrum, being wholly manifested from the Calamity's psyche, existing most time in the Astral World, and occupying the Prime Material only when willed into being by its mistress. Of the two, Golos felt a kinship toward the Kirin, for its metamorphosis had come from the Yinglong's stolen Essences, which had led to his meeting with the Calamity. His meeting with the Calamity had changed his fate, though as for bane or boon, he could not confirm. In Huangshan, his sire had slumbered since the day the Calamity was driven from the mount by Ayxin. Not even when Ruxin ascended to his new domain had their deified father awakened, leaving the entirety of his earthly realm to Golos and the soft-spined Ryxi. Nonetheless, as a divine scion of the Yinglong, Golos could feel in his marrow that some great calamity was coming and that his Calamity would be at the epicentre of the calamitous calamity. All in all, very much in style with the Calamity. " _MABLIK—SLATHALIN—!_ " A great roar, audible for kilometres from its origin point and barked in Draconic, radiated from the whereabouts of the Calamity's present battleground. "Hmm…?" Golos wasn't for deep thinking and so grew immensely annoying when his rare moment of reflection was interrupted by the intrusion of a fellow Dragon-kin. "Quack!" The mascot lifted into the air, making for its Essence dispenser lest she became damaged. "EE—EE!" Though the false Kirin could be summoned at a second's notice, it also took to the air. _How interesting!_ Golos sniffed the winds. _A distant cousin with blood more diluted than his!_ It was very, very rare that Dragon-kin confronted one another in neutral domains, for there was nothing to be gained. A lesser Dragon-kin wants to usurp the Calamity? _HA!_ Ignoring the gurgling of his guts, Golos felt it was his duty to see the beast bested! Only in witnessing the Void Fiend mangling his kin could Golos vicariously receive the schadenfreude necessary to heal the fissured scar in his Draconic heart, that terrible unmentionable memory that even now inspired week-long bouts of involuntary constipation.

" _MABLIK—SLATHALIN—!_ " As the spontaneous sea spout erupted from the Shoal's surface, a rippling wave of Dragon Fear tore through the firmament above, invisible yet more tactile than a sudden gale. Lulan Li, Sword Mage of Huashan—and now the sole Disciple of the White Serpent of Fur Peak, felt the fear envelop her with a silken caress, causing the follicles on her exposed Iron Skin to goosebump until even the roots on her head stood alarmed and erect. Then that was it. Compared to what she'd suffered when she had first arrived at Huangshan, the fear wasn't that impressive. Lulan had felt more so intimidated when gazing upon the misty peak of the Yinglong's White-Jade palace. If she had to judge, Lulan would suggest that even Ryxi, her scripture-loving, art-obsessed White Serpent Master, had exuded a purer, if not older, aura. Beside her, Richard likewise shrugged off the Dragon Fear, a feat Lulan could only attest to Richard's time spent with Gwen. Nonetheless, she had to resist her instinct as a trained Swordswoman to fire off all seven of her Falling Star fragments. She couldn't—for even with her mana-tempered eyes, there was no seeing past the revolving column of water heralding the rise and arrival of their next foes. Knowing that a confrontation would follow before the possibility of diplomacy, she commanded her Naga Spirit to infuse the blades with thrumming mana, furthermore adding the property of Huashan's Sonic Strike to Ryxi's modified Panzerschreck. But before Lulan could kiss hot steel to cold scale, another team member had better plans. "QUACK—!" came a very delayed reply to the Draconic demand, desiring a fight to the death. Lulan focused her vision, then grew mute as Gwen's duck approached from the direction of the city, its neck white with a cone of pressure. With the same motion pushing forward, its rainbow body distorted the Elemental Air around it, supernaturally increasing its velocity. _Fast!_ —was Lulan's first impression—certainly much quicker than she could manage while riding on her sword. However, even beneath the veil of water, she could sense that their foes were far beyond human ken. Even masked, the central figure's silhouette was more imposing than Lord Golos and twice as thick and heavy. _Plop!_ Another Hydra broke free of the inky surface of the Void egg. Behind herself and Richard, her saviour continued her dark art of Consumption and would require uninterrupted spellcasting. Now closer and quickly ascending, the duck shrieked toward the sea spout pillar. " _HOFIBA!!_ " came a retort from within the toiling cyclone. Lulan agreed with the Draconic riposte. In the next moment, the duck struck the wall of water, instantly forming a semi-sphere where it penetrated, splicing and parting the veil, creating an opening almost thirty meters from end to end. Within, Lulan caught sight of their foes for the first time. _Dragon Turtles!_ Her heart rate shot to its utmost limits, blushing her Iron Skin a shade darker. Not quite Mythics, but close enough if stories from her childhood rang true. These, Lulan could see, were descendants from the legendary Bixi, the ninth scion of the Shenglong, historically sent to pacify the raging rivers of waterlogged Hangzhou. After the fall of the Jade Emperor, the Bixi was said to have fled from its duty and entered the China Sea, becoming one of the Warlords of the Four Seas, transforming its erstwhile guardian-self into a raging menace. Her knuckles grew bone-white. Not from the nerves of facing such a foe—but for the glory of battling, perhaps even slaying such a beast. If Ryxi's tipsy musings were correct, then such a duty of subjugation was in the very foundation of her arts! Aeons ago, when Dynastic God-Kings reigned, the Daoshi Swordsmen's foremost duty was to hunt down monsters in the guise of Gods such as these and bring prosperity and peace to a disquieted land! Of course, nowadays, the Communist Party executed such endeavours through fleets of Golem-mounted artillery travelling on NoM-crewed battle rails with Shielding Barriers. Still, the point remained that thanks to Gwen, she would hunt the scions of Mythics and subjugate legendary monsters, allowing her to live like the Swordswomen of the old world, just as Ryxi foretold! But before her spirit could soar—Lulan bore witness to a terrible sight. Dede the duck, that boisterous, arrogant thing waddling all over Gwen, was no match for the leading Dragon Turtle. A careless swipe had been enough to divert the duck. The strike wasn't solid—for the duck was too quick, but the move was more than enough to break its momentum and then send it plunging toward the water like a meteor. With a crash of rolling thunder, the duck broke off at an angle and struck the surface below after a few seconds. When it impacted the sea, the collision left a streak of white water a kilometre long. _Dede Duck!_ Lulan winced. _Defeated! And hopefully not dead, lest Gwen declares total war._ "To be perfectly honest," Richard remarked some distance drily away. "I am not sure what I expected." "Is Dede going to be okay?" Lulan asked in case. "Gwen would know," the Water Mage returned with a snicker. "It'll take a while to heal, and Dede should be fine fairing against the Mermen below. At any rate, I think it best if Dede isn't here to mess with our next battle." Lulan agreed. The duck was a good lad—but it was a duck after all, and these were Dragon Turtles. Just as with Lord Golos, if things got serious between the duck and the princeling, she was sure the Wyvern could render Dede into drumsticks in a matter of moments. Nonetheless, even if Dede had done nothing in terms of damage, what it did achieve was the dampening of the Dragon Turtle trio's opening salvo. "Get ready," Richard warned her as he moved Lea into place. "If they want to talk, let them. The more time we burn, the more Lampreys Gwen controls." Lulan spun her blades in affirmation. Some distance away, the Dragon Turtles discarded the water spout column, which Lulan guessed was a form of mobility magic that empowered the oceanic creatures' rapid ascent. The leading turtle was a brute of a beast, a bipedal mountain of keratin hammered by some undersea God-forge into a vaguely humanoid dreadnaught. Its head, Lulan could see, was indeed that of the legendary Dragon's, consisting of a pair of stunted stag horns just above the eye-ridge, framing a crested neck shrunken into the shelled body. Unlike its compatriots, the leader possessed two pairs of eyes, one set closer to the armoured nostrils, the other more toward the brow-ridge of the head. Its beak was hooked like a Griffin's, its interior lined with barbed, backward teeth for swallowing large prey wholesale. As it hovered closer, Lulan took note of the Dragon Turtles' stumpy legs. Unlike the ever graceful Lord Golos, this creature possessed flippers for forelimbs and clawed elephant legs for its lower half, reminding her of the tortoise Ryxi kept as a pet brush holder. Less than a hundred meters away, the Dragon Turtle trio struck Richard's first defence barrier, covered by a sheet of suddenly-materialising brackish water. " _WUX BEVÍL!_ " The leading Dragonkin exploded with outrage, followed by a sharp gathering of multi-Elemental mana. As anticipated, these monsters firmly believed in martial diplomacy. "Richard—!" Lulan shot forward, meeting the incoming Dragon Breath with four of her seven blades, crossing into the blast's path to deflect the incoming blow. From the trajectory, she could see it was directed at her saviour, the source of the Void Hydras. Dissonant to Lord Golos' instantaneous line of lightning, the leading turtle's breath consisted of a vortex of swirling steam, combining superheated seawater with rapidly vaporising Elemental Air. On contact, Lulan felt something like a force of nature striking her metal blades, flash-smelting the unyielding slabs until her cold steel grew malleable. "BLADE SHATTER—" she delivered the invocation, splitting the white-hot vortex with bisecting blasts of expanding metal. Despite her efforts, the conic blast shot forth, deflected but undeterred, punching through a dozen of Richard's membranes until he redirected the final dozen meters with a pressurised jet blast as thick as Lea was tall. "Wocao!" Lulan swore, manifesting four spares behind her. Was this the power of a Dragon Turtle? She wasn't sure how committed the thing was—but that single blast had Water, Positive Energy, and even Elemental Air. "Richard— we need to stop that thing!" Perhaps surprised that its attack wasn't enough to reach Gwen's Dark Egg, the Dragon Turtle barked something at its lesser siblings. They opened their mouths. "No need to fret," Richard restored his multi-layered defence matrix even as he spoke. "Get ready to go on the offence. Our help is here!" Lulan's eyes glanced to their right. " _POL VHIRA!_ " The cry from Lord Golos arrived no sooner than his enormous head—bodily crashing into one of the junior Dragon Turtles while his tail whipped at its sibling. Both Dragon Turtles moved instantly into defence mode, shrinking their softer body parts into their shells, allowing Golos only glancing blows against the exterior of their barnacle-caked shell. _CRA—CRACK!_ The snap of the horn and tail on jutting Draconic keratin was enough to ignite the air, sending down a shower of blue-white sparks, resulting from friction as much as Golos' plasma-charged body. Both turtles reeled from the ambush, splitting from their formations like cue-broken balls breaking for either pocket of a billiard table. " _Wuxh ornla symba mrith nomenoi mabliki?_ " The leading Dragon Turtle did not attack but coldly regarded the pleased-looking Golos, currently levitating without moving an inch, heedless of the whipping winds conjured by the Sea Dragons. Lulan's Draconic was lacking, but she could make out something vaguely resembling a submission trial. "Ha! That's no mortal you're challenging," Golos retorted in the language of "mortals" so that Lulan and company could fully utilise their Translation Stones. "Stay around and keep fighting if you dare, cousin. Sooner or later, you'll be begging for the sweet embrace of the Unformed Land." The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. The Dragon Turtles barked back. _Was that a signal to attack?_ Lulan once more charged her blades with sonic vibrations, wondering if direct strikes could penetrate a shell that had stopped Lord Golos' attack cold. "O scion of the Tempest Torn," the Dragon Turtle halted its enraged siblings from retaliating. Perhaps to show respect to Golos, it was now also speaking a language her Stone could decipher. "Rare is the need for conflict among Dragon-kin. If we three must endure the _dance of death_ , I wish to know the name of yours and her Sire." Lord Golos grunted. "Golos, fourth Scion of _He who Answered_ , the Yinglong." Gwen, still in her egg, said nothing. Though Lulan knew Golos' origins from Ryxi, hearing the Wyvern quote an exert from the Analects of the Mountains and the Seas made her Iron Skin prickle. Even now, her mind struggled to accept that she, a mere Sword Shaman from Huashan, was now standing shoulder-to-snout with mythical beings. "And I am _Shyvaphyr_ , seventeenth scion of _He who slumbers in the Crown of Corals,_ the great Miommiriorthyr," the Dragon Turtle professed a more impressive-sounding title than Golos' father. “These young ones are Zitusphyr and Sevphr, my kinsmen.” The two Dragon-kin measured one another. Golos was the scion of a true Mythic—and though Lulan knew nothing of the Sea Dragons, she could only assume the oceanic descends of the Bixi was older still. As for the Yinglong, she knew that the Dragons of yore from Chinese creation legends were already ancient. _Plop—_ as if to punctuate their present circumstances, a volley of hungry and deadly _things_ dropped from the bottom of Gwen's egg-shell defence. The interruption was subtle, but the birth of yet another lamprey was enough to disrupt the respectful silence between Golos and Shyvaphyr. As validation for her troubles, Gwen had sown enough anarchy to validate the Dragon Turtles visiting in person. "Move aside, kindred of the tempest," the Dragon Turtle craned its neck in an attempt at intimidation, uncoiling another four or five meters of muscle and carapace from within the shell. As it spoke, steam rose from both its nostrils and the tooth-gaps of its enormous maw. "Our business is with the Conjurer behind you. Just as well, we are content to oblige if you wish compensation for your spoiled sport with your female." Golos' response was to move between it and the Dark Egg behind them. At the same time, the Thunder Wyvern changed air currents around Gwen's egg with only his will, sending her Void shelter adrift. "The Scion of the Yinglong bows to no one, not even ancient Miommiriorthyr." The Dragon Turtle was not surprised by Golos' refusal. "A welcome insolence from our cousin of lightning—!" In Lulan's eyes, Shyvaphyr's face possessed an amazing ability for expression, considering her foe was a lizard in a half-shell. Yet, the sadistic glee was palpable. "Than I shall take the witch prisoner, and your Lord Father can pay the Coral Crown a lair's ransom to retrieve you and your pet!" Golos grinned in return—with Lulan recognising the secret thrill running through the Wyvern's spine. Before the Dragon Turtle even took its next breath, Lulan raised the mana in her conduits to their utmost allowance. "VATAKA!" Shyvaphyr unleashed an aural assault in Draconic, warping the air as the power word rang out like a tolling bell. The command struck like a spark of electricity, triggering all the primal phantasms within Lulan's complying body. Her knees bent only slightly before her Naga Spirit negated the rest. Not far, Richard's face grew ripe as cherries as he forcibly resisted the mental compulsion. As for Gwen—Lulan felt confident that even if her saviour had heard the Draconic command, she couldn't care less. The split second after Lulan felt her mind restored; everything happened everywhere simultaneously. _SCHWING—!_ "Falling Star Sword!" Lulan sent three blades shrieking toward Shyvaphyr, while two and two made for the bodies of Turtle Zi and Turtle Se, whose names she could not recall. Richard followed with the final syllables of a nursed invocation, causing the watery membranes to explode into mist, visually obfuscating his and Gwen's whereabouts behind thick veils of shifting haze. Golos barged bodily into the leading Dragon Turtle, going for the throat. Below the wrestling drakes, the junior Dragon Turtles responded with their breaths attacks aimed at Gwen. Mid-tussle, Golos swept the smaller turtles with his Lightning Breath. Ignoring the Thunder Wyvern, Shyvaphyr turned his body, swinging his enormous shell so that he spun, head, tails, arms and all, propelled by gusts of superheated steam, transforming his body into a living disc of Draconic destruction. In the chaos, Lulan could only focus on foes she was confident of besting. Her sword connected at the same time as Golos' attack. The blades on Turtle Zi struck only glancing blows, slicing off chunks of keratin before exploding into a thousand shards, embedding into the shell and the scaled-hide surrounding Zi's left flank and limbs. Turtle Se had less luck, catching a sword in a gap between his armoured plating, allowing Lulan's Sonic Blade to dig an arm's length inward before it erupted, tearing out a gory chunk of scale and flesh about the size of her head. Much to Lulan's alarm, Lord Golos' breath of plasma did little more than singe and disorientate the turtles, serving as testaments to the futility of Dragons fighting one another with breath attacks—ratifying why Shyvaphyr had chosen a more direct approach. Lulan allowed herself to free fall, attempting to gain distance without drawing attention. Unlike herself, Lord Golos did not possess skills akin to Misty Step—but even so, the Thunder Wyvern had greater agility than the spinning turtle could match. With a twist of his enormous wings and serpentine body, Golos avoided the slicing body-barge of the Dragon Turtle, then gave the centre a resounding smack with his clubbed tail, sending another shower of electric sparks to dance across the still-accelerating Draconic-discus. Lulan's mana pool dipped as she manifested seven more blades, charging each with more weight and rigidity than their expired siblings. "EE—EE—!" A clarion cry answered from somewhere below, less than a quarter-kilometre from the churning surface of the Shoal. Ariel, who must have been waiting in ambush, now let loose a double-volley of Lightning Orbs from its horns, violently vivifying the underside of Turtle Zi and Se. The attack wasn't enough to damage the two—but was enough to paralyse both creatures for the second or two needed for Lulan to re-launch her blades. This time, she sent the lot toward where Shyvaphyr's shell was weakest—the area near its rectum where several plates met. _SCHWING—!_ _SCHWING—!_ _SCHWING—!_ CLANG—! To Lulan's chagrin, the smaller turtles shrugged off Ariel's attack, adopted the defensive spin used by Shyvaphyr, and then deflected her blades so that not a single one could lodge themselves. To get to the big one, Lulan accepted, she would have to hack through the small ones. With a titillating wail, she switched tactics, forming her blades into an overlapping pattern so that all seven combined into a circular saw-blade edged with gleaming steel for teeth. Using the same magic that propelled the blades, her spellshaped _Falling Stars_ engaged, becoming a whirling disc of death. Fighting the strain on her mind, she sent the blade-circle wheeling for the wounded Dragon Turtle, the dubbed Se. "EE—EE!" Twin volleys of Chain Lightning erupted from Ariel's horns, connecting both their foes. Unfortunately, the third jump fell short as the Elemental Lightning died, repelled by Shyvaphyr's absurd natural resistance. _SCHW—KREEEEEE—_ Lulan's makeshift sword wheel connected with Turtle Se, engendering a blaze of sparks. The instant her sword-wheel kissed the counter-spinning Dragon Turtle, she lost control of three implements, sending the metal to bounce into the uncertain distance. The momentum of her attack lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough, for Lulan felt the satisfying thunk of a blade crunching into soft flesh and striking bone. _At last!_ The Sword Mage congratulated herself. She couldn't see among the arcs of plasma, the screeching embers from the screaming metal and the rippling howls from Golos and Shyvaphyr's deadly tango of teeth and claw, but it was enough. "BLADE SHATTER!" The Sword Mage pumped nearly one-tenth of her total mana pool into the blast, forcing the iron into complete disintegration, propelling a thousand razors of flesh-rending metal. From near Turtle Zi's neck, a crimson flower of scale and flesh blossomed, the fragments of which made plinking sounds as they passed Lulan's whistling air space, bouncing off her Iron Skin. "GUAWRRRK!" The Dragon Turtle roared in protest—though it remained uncowed. Perhaps because the wound was shallow or the Dragon Turtle was too vital, the wounded beast barged toward her, hell-bent on pounding her into mincemeat. Cursing, Lulan formed a sacred invocation using her off-hand digits, rapidly invoking the silent syllables of her next spell. The enormous claymore she had held underfoot finally rose to action. _KRUNG!_ The charging Dragon Turtle struck her steel barrier. Lulan tasted something iron and hot in her mouth as the pressure in her chest mounted. Then, the beast began its death roll. _Heavy!_ Lulan grunted in silence, swallowing the blood bubbling forth from her overcharged capillaries. These junior turtles may not be anything like the one Lord Golos was fighting. Yet, they still possessed the strength of industrial-sized Golems. "Parry!" she commanded her remaining blades to converge, shifting the weight of the turtle's charge as its weight bore down on her lithe figure. Quickly, she glanced to see that Richard and Ariel were keeping Turtle Zi busy. For a few seconds, all she could hear was the sound of screeching metal-on-metal as her sword-forged net grew concave. Between her tortured grunts, Lulan heard Richard's voice warning her to dodge. "Misty Step!" She evaded by reflex, then instantly regretted her unthinking action. Using her sword net as something akin to a springboard, the wounded Dragon Turtle Se ricocheted from her conjured implements to move straight toward Richard's general direction somewhere in the mist. "Dick!" Lulan cried out, not even using her Message Device. "Watch out!" To her horror, the Dragon Turtle possessed the means to affect Elemental Water in a manner no less than Richard's Lea. An enormous localised vortex formed as the creature passed, dispersing Richard's visual obfuscation, revealing the levitating form of Gwen's Dark Egg. "Cao!" Lulan swore, rapidly aligning each of her remaining blades. She had promised to protect her saviour! Even if it costs her life, she had to ensure that Gwen survived! " _STAR CHASING SWORD!_ " The invocation on her lips finished within three seconds. A derivative of Ryxi's Falling Star variant, the Star Chasing "spell shape" exchanged power for speed and was aimed at interception over that of destruction—even so, she feared it might be too late. Including her claymore, seven streaks of quicksilver launched their foe-seeking selves toward the escaping Dragon Turtle. Her spell struck. But Lulan's heart sank. The junior Dragon Turtle had missed Richard, tore through his defence barriers, and arrested Gwen's Dark Egg through manipulating the water even as her swords struck sparks against its shell, with only the claymore lodging into a damaged crack. "BLADE SHATTER!" Her mana fell instantly below half as the super-dense metals erupted, peppering Gwen's Void Shield while sending forth pink specks of butchered turtle, shredded Dragon sinews, and shattered shell-fragments. " _LOREAT!_ " Before her swords could re-manifest, a swirling vortex of superheated steam erupted from Golos' whereabouts, making for Gwen's barrier. Rapidly, the line-based Steam Breath expanded into a cone, enveloping both Turtle Se and saviour. "Gwen!" Lulan desperately conjured swords for a barrier so that Gwen could escape the brunt of the attack. _CLANG—!_ In her haste, she had failed to foresee that Turtle Se could distend its snake-like neck and waylay her implements. When she did see, the Dragon Turtle's eagle beak had already bit down with a crunch, bending her newly-conjured tools into decommissioned trash. " _Richard!_ " "Lulu—hold!" Richard's warning was not what Lulan wanted to hear. That, or she couldn't hear Richard's response, for the swirling steam now struck Gwen's Dark Egg in full, instantly peeling back the Void layer to roast the double-glazed barriers behind. Gwen's "Gunther" shield lasted a single spell exchange before it shattered. Lulan's Iron Heart grow suddenly hot. Her skin took on the dull red hue of tempered steel, and her skull felt possessed by inexplicable tinnitus. _If I Misty Stepped into the Dragon Turtle's innermost reach,_ her mind informed her. _Would it be enough to hack the creature down?_ Around her, fresh slabs of iron, each the size of claymores larger than her shaking body, slid forth from rents in the Elemental Plane of Earth. "Lulu!" Richard's voice barked somewhere in the recess of her mindscape, like a man calling from a clifftop. " _HOLD!_ " "CALAMITY!" Lord Golos' Draconic exploded as a thunderclap, shaking her brain like a madman rocking a geranium. "DO IT NOW—OR YOUR FEMALE IS GOING TO LOSE IT!"

Though Gwen could not immediately participate, she was fully aware of the battle's rapid developments, first through her Empathic Link with Golos' spectrum of senses, then through her Sight Link with Ariel. When Dede charged in, she had to fight to keep her composure, for nothing had prepared her for the sight of a duck charging a Dragon Turtle, then getting bitch slapped to oblivion. _Poor Dede!_ Her heart had leapt from her throat. _Her devout defender! Her friend and companion in Cambridge!_ But __ despite Dede's drake-like size and courage, it was still a duck. And its foe was a _Dragon_. Therefore, even if Gwen's first thoughts had been to summon Caliban to avenge her fallen feathered friend, she reminded herself that it took a tastier lure than a duck to entrap a Dragon. Sensing her Almudj Essence kicked in, Gwen calmed herself by assuring her disquieted heart that the same power which had regenerated her extremities and her missing innards from Faceless' assault was within her duck. Considering how much juice Dede had swiped from her since she started feeding the thing, the drake could forgo both wings and regrow spares. Therefore, redoubling her efforts, Gwen focused on sending her Hydras past the Sailfish Merfolk with the pretty scales, then persisted in her plot with Golos to entrap the arrogant Dragon Turtle. The duo had come up with the plan after Dede had revealed their foe as Golos had advertised, an arrogant princeling unused to tactics and ambushes, cruising only on its superior magics and Dragon Fear, drunk on the slaughter of lesser beings. "I'll keep the bastard entertained." Golos appeared happy to neuter a fellow Dragon-kin. "Let him get his guard down, then Cali can _hue-hee-hee—_ " The Thunder Wyvern's sadistic snicker had left her scalp crawling with ambivalent flushes of guilt and disdain. That her Wyvern murmured with delight and sympathy every time the duo double-teamed a foe was a mental knot only Doctor Monroe of Earth could mend. If Golos were to ascend one day, Gwen could only imagine what horrors a _Dragon_ Golos might bring to the world. For now, as her companions fought, her main preoccupation was soothing the conflagration of Positive and Negative energies jostling for dominance within her Astral Body. Her focus was on digging her Hydras deeper, for below the zig-zagging bodies of her worm-skewering foes, she could sense the enormous blobs of vitality levitating below, each no less the magnitude of Garp, the Afaa al-Halak Gwen had tamed in Shalkar. However, though Gwen supposed her eventual victory was a given, the number of Hydras she could conjure was limited by her Affinity—and how well her body balanced the parity of ecstasy and entropy incoming from her summoned beings. If left unchecked, Caliban would soon grow bloated—and she would drift into fits of involuntary euphoria. "Calamity!" Golos burst through her hyperfocus with a grunt. "This bastard's got quite the bloodline! Its breath attack is Fire, Positive and Water!" The Dragon Turtle, Gwen could see from Gogo's interactions with the monster, exhaled a hybrid form of highly destructive Elemental Steam, knotted into a foe-broiling vortex. A blast that her Lulu deflected, and Richard quenched. Her heart warmed to see Lulan doing so well. While she waited for Shyvaphyr's low cunning to manifest, Gwen gained a new appreciation for her re-acquired companion, her _Sword Mage of Huashan_. Having received tutelage from Ryxi, Lulu's fight against the Dragon Turtles was simply spectacular. With every swing from Lulu, Gwen grew glad that she had saved the girl with a Regenerate, even if it were on a whim. It would have been nice to let Lulu in on Golos' plan, but she deeply suspected Lulan was far too honest a combatant. Likewise, if she had told Lulu that her precious Gwen would risk tanking Dragon Breath face-first, the girl would have volunteered to play the lure, permission or otherwise. Compared to her companions, only in risking herself was Gwen confident the rewards outweighed the risk. To conduct a foe as old and cunning as a Dragon Turtle into an aerial Afaa al-Halak trap meant putting herself in dire danger, for no other member of her party could serve as a sweeter patsy. At the same time, her new armour, wrought from the feathers of aeon-old Dragon-killers, was promised by its Dwarven artisans to keep her safe—that or she would _cook_ like a rock lobster from the Tasman Sea. Lulan's battle against the two junior Dragon Turtles, Zitusphyr and Sevphr, was going well thanks to well-timed interrupts from Ariel. Richard was also proving annoying enough against poorly matched monsters to keep both herself and Lulu safe. As the battle drew onward, her highly intelligent foes grew impatient, undisguisedly waiting for a breakthrough moment, knowing that her Hydras would soon breach the protective dermis of the Shoal's defenders. _SCHWING—!_ "Blade Shatter!" Unlike Richard, whose subtlety made for poor television, Lulan's gleaming missile blades were made for prime time, making her nerves tingle each time a volley of swords shot forth. Even better, Lulan's swords were now RPGs! With every strike, the renamed Falling Star Sword technique paid dividends, allowing Lulu to break armour—then make a complete mess of whatever she managed to crack open. It was Lulu's bad luck that the Dragon Turtles had stolen the infamous tactic of Gamora, the shelled competitor of Godzilla. With their damned fart-powered Bayblade movements, there was little Lulan could do to make her swords bite, which was causing her and Ariel significant grief. "Calamity—!" Golos' warning came again as he tore himself from the rampaging Shyvaphyr. Against the Thunder Wyvern, the turtle was spinning so fast that Gwen was feeling the onset of a dizzying migraine. Thus far, the two monsters were evenly matched, though Gwen would argue that Golos lacked the grit and stamina of his seaside cousin and would lose without her support. As a Wyvern, Golos' agility and strength could strike the Dragon Turtle a hundred times before he managed to tear off a chunk of the mythic monster, while Shyvaphyr could snap Golos' tail or wings in half with one crunch from its snapping turtle beaks. " _LOREAT!_ " A rippling wave of raw power made her ears buzz. The trap was sprung. In response, Gwen clenched her teeth, channelling herself so full of vitality that she was on the verge of losing control. "Caliban!" She conjured forth her Familiar just as the Dragon Turtle's breath came on like an encroaching train wreck, sending bursts of Elemental Steam through every orifice on its face, including between the slits of its eyes, making Gwen wonder if Shyvaphyr boiled its eyeballs every time it attempted a breath attack. "Barbanginy!" Compared to Golos, the turtle was so slow that she followed up with a second attack, a Lightning Bolt from Ariel. In stark difference to the unhurried assault from the Dragon Turtle's omega blast, her lower-tier spells could rapidly dissuade Shyvaphyr from evading Caliban. In the chaos, Golos shouted something about Lulan, though all Gwen could hear was the literal roar of death popping her eardrums. Her pupils blazed a rich emerald, but not before her furthermost Void shell dissolved, taking a sizeable chunk of her vitality, followed by sudden light—and then the vivid shattering of her double-glazed Gunther barrier. A split second later, Gwen became enveloped in a world of pain. The agony was, in her mind, acceptable and still a tier or two away from, say, Astral Feedback from Soul Tapping a Balefire Golem. As for the heat, Gwen was a woman who never cooked and so had little to relate to the sensation of superheated water brushing over her armour. From her addled senses, the vortex of Elemental Steam appeared like a scalding stream of water striking a stubborn boulder, splattering in all directions as the energy dispersed, forcing both Richard and Lulan to deploy their defensive spells. Meanwhile, withholding its customary "SHAA—!" Her Caliban slipped into the Prime Material just behind Shyvaphyr, her fiend's body so bloated with stolen vitality that it appeared in the likeness of a crow wearing a fat chicken suit. Her Lightning Bolt struck, resolving most of its potential to penetrate Shyvaphyr's enormous spell resistance. Thankfully, the damage that punctured its multi-layered armour remained rich with Almundj's disapproval, causing Shyvaphyr to falter for a second longer than the Dragon Turtle could afford. Then, in between the chaos of splashing Steam blasts, emerald lightning, shattering sword blades, Bayblade turtles and deflecting water membranes from Lea, a pair of slender, feminine hands, each with six pale fingers sitting opposite to form grasping claws, took hold of Shyvaphyr's arm and neck. Immediately, Gwen realised she'd screwed up. It was a miscalculation, for Gwen had imagined that Caliban in its present size would be able to pick up Shyvaphyr like a shoplifting perp. Much to her chagrin, her blunder meant that the Dragon Turtle had the bulk of its girth free to fight back Cali's attempted death grip. Paying no heed to the storm of destruction abusing her body, she commanded Caliban to squeeze. "SHAA—!" Caliban obeyed, choking Shyvaphyr so that its squirt of obscene steam was instantly cut short. Gwen took the opportunity to reform her shield. As incredible as her Da-peng armour was at repelling Draconic sorcery, a good knock from any of the Dragon Turtles would send her straight to Dede. After its moment of paralysis passed, Shyvaphyr slid its long neck forward, twisting so that Caliban tore off fistfuls of bloody scales as the Dragon Turtle forced its luck, attempting to snap off Caliban's fingers. Once more belying Gwen's expectations, Shyvaphyr succeeded—and was promptly left enraged when three new fingers sprouted from Caliban's underside, each digit sheathed in digestive goo, to wrangle its neck once more. "Beast! Unhand me!" Shyvaphyr commanded in Draconic. "I _command—_!" Gwen gifted the turtle with another jolt of Barbanginy, though the effect appeared diminished. "Shut it—!" Golos also swooped in, striking Shyvaphyr's open maw with his tail club, hitting the Dragon Turtle so hard between the eyes that it instinctively clenched its jaw, almost snapping its tongue. By now, Gwen could see Lulan in the flesh. Her Sword Mage was a solid blaze of iron-clad Earthen mana—she was in her berserker meditation, but she had not lost control. Following Lulu's trajectory, Gwen saw the reason for the Swordwoman's use of the dangerous magic. To save its Master, the wounded turtle was making a suicide charge. " _YEEEEE—YAAAAH!_ " A shrieking expulsion of _Qi_ erupted from Lulan while Gwen gifted Caliban with more vitality, urging it to tear the Dragon Turtle's head from its body. The likeliness of such a thing happening wasn't very probable—but Caliban didn't know that, and it was bloody well making a good attempt. Several sword blasts intercepted the incoming junior Dragon Turtles, with Lulan adding mortal wounds to the one whose shell she had earlier breached. In response, Shyvaphyr made a half-choked howl. A solid ripple of Draconic sorcery rang out as an expanding halo. Then, to Gwen's amazement, superheated steam escaped from every part of its body, not only from its orifices but from gaps between the shell. With a shudder, Gwen realised with awe that the damned thing was rupturing its conduits to cook Cali off its back! If she did that as a human, her body would explode like an overripe persimmon! Too bad Caliban didn't give a shit. Smothered with steam, her Void fiend grew only more excited. With another "SHAA—!" It reared its head upward, then opened its tri-petal maw, now the likeness of the Afaa al-Halak it had consumed back in the desert. The skin on Cali's slender fingers melted, then regenerated, then melted again, melding the digits into the wounded Dragon Turtle's flesh. "ROAR—" Shyvaphyr let loose a Dragon Breath in Caliban's face, forcing the menacing Golos to disengage rapidly. A portion of Caliban's head turned into fine particles of Void. Stolen novel; please report. _SCHWING—!_ Two swords flew into the breath, growing red-hot before the brutal metal jammed into Shyvaphyr's cheeks. With a double _Clang!_ —explosions kicked the Dragon Turtle's armoured head with a violent jerk, diverting some of its breath away from Caliban. The save—though much appreciated—was unheeded. In its Da-peng form and thanks to its regeneration, Caliban's resistance to Shyvaphyr's elemental attacks was no less than his against Ariel's bolts. Seeing that their boss was under duress, the twin turtles broke off from their distracted melee with Lulan and Richard, one hobbled and the other hale. Before either could pull into range to martyr her on their cartwheel bodies, Gwen took a second to cut herself from her Hydras, allowing them to roam free. The release meant that her swimming stomaches were free to ravage as they wished—but more likely, they would eventually become victims of brainless hunger. Now freed from her mental burden, Gwen's fists clenched, sending a frigid jolt of Void mana through her conduits, guaranteeing that Caliban would soon birth a new upper jaw to menace Shyvaphyr. Below her, Lulan once more diverted the incoming Zitusphyr and Sevphr, breaking blades against their armoured hides to propel their momentous trajectory from their true path. Richard subtly aided her friend's efforts, nudging and moving the Dragon Turtles through streaming currents of Elemental Water woven into the air. Deciding against wasting vitality and mana, Gwen took command of Caliban as Shyvaphyr attempted to break free by tearing her fiend neck from limb. Once more, the Da-peng form paid its dividends in full, appearing to resist the Dragon Turtle's strength in true Big Bird fashion, supernaturally neutering Shyvaphyr's gift of strength. Even where the Dragon Turtle's claws managed to penetrate the flowing armour of jet-black feathers, Caliban, unlike a real Da-peng, was able to regrow new plumage within seconds, frustrating the enormous turtle drake to no end. "Cousin—you better yield before you break!" And, of course, it didn't help Shyvaphyr's ego that Golos had no sense of honour and would take every opportunity to hammer the gong-like belly of the Dragon Turtle with strikes from its lightning-charged mace tail, sending paralysing bolts of electricity into his distant cousin's Core. Before the diverted Zitusphyr and Sevphr could return for another go, Caliban's re-birthed head emerged with a wet, obscene thrust of its open mouth, clamping Shyvaphyr by the top half of his neck. The Dragon Turtle howled and hooted as jets of arterial blood squelched from around Caliban's maw, painting the top half of the Big Bird scarlet. Gwen once more felt her Divination Sigil crank to overdrive, warning her of the incoming vitality. While she tuned her Astral balance, the anarchic dance of the Da-peng and the Dragon Turtle continued, with Caliban's stark, feminine fingers growing streaked with gore as it wrestled the slippery sinews. Then, just as she began the slow and steady invocation to a Chain Void Bolt, the inconceivable happened. Caliban regurgitated a gut full of Void ink into the wound it had made, and like the severed limb of a giant tree, Shyvaphyr's head clean snapped off at the base, allowing the body to be able to slip free while Caliban made off with the still howling head. "SHAA—!" Caliban made a half-choked gurgle as it carried the eel-like neck and belligerent head of "Prince" Shyvaphyr, parading its prehensile prey like a trophy. The two junior Dragon Turtles began to panic but were pinned by Ariel's Chain Lightning and Lulan taking off chunks of armour, sending bits of flayed flesh to splash into the ocean below. Before Gwen could command a pursuit of the falling body, the literal flesh wound atop Shyvaphyr's shoulders mended with the likeness of a puckering something, then promptly shat forth a cream-slathered new head with white scales the likeness of mutton jade. Very quickly, newly grown eyes moved into position along the length of the expanding flesh, with each of the four orbs rolling into place as milky-white tennis balls before birthing slitted pupils within. From the fact that the junior Dragon Turtles could ignore wounds but not mend them, Gwen had not expected a self-regenerating Shyvaphyr. "Well, shit," she announced to her companions and Familiars. "Think it'll fall for another trick?" "No. But Shyvaphyr is badly winded," Golos assured her, pointing to the turtle's rear. "And his pride more so. See there! His meat is ripe for rapine! Send forth Caliban!" "SHAA—!" Despite still trying to digest the struggle half of the neck-head, Caliban agreed. Below Cali's murmuring maw, Shyvaphyr's head complained by regurgitating blood. "Don't waste that Dragon Blood!" Richard called out from within the haze. "Do we continue?" Gwen's Sword Mage reached her side. Lulu's face was flushed with the aftermath of extreme physical exertions, making Gwen's heart grow sour. "By the way, I am on my first potion," Richard informed her through the Message Spell. "Lulu's good until her berserker meditate wears off." "Then we continue—" "HALT!" A burst of Draconic made her mind flatline for half a second. Before Gwen could conclude, the Dragon Turtle's new head began to speak simultaneously with its old one, with two voices emerging at once. Most jarringly, the voice that spoke was not the aggressive bark Shyvaphyr had earlier demonstrated but a sultry, feminine voice that made Gwen instantly imagine Ayxin lounging in coral-clad undersea seraglio smothered with soft silks. "Do not make the mistake of pursuing this foolish one beyond the borders of the Unseen Realm. Thou wilt not wish to make a true foe of us, Human sorceress," the heads announced with a calmness that made her deeply uncomfortable. Gwen and her companions checked their surroundings to see if another Dragon Turtle hid in the non-existent bushes five hundred meters up in the air. "Who am I speaking with?" Gwen demanded, all the while constructing the necessary invocations for an instant Void Malestrom to cover their escape. "We are Nyrlesvinyr, ninth scion of He who Slumbers in the Crown of Corals, a true daughter of our lord, the ageless Miommiriorthyr. We art also the ashamed sister to this foolish brother thou hast bested," the voice declared without shame. "And as he is my responsibility, we ask that thou yield his body to us." Gwen looked at her companions. “Gogo?” she made a quick _psst_ at her Wyvern. "What's the go here?" The Thunder Wyvern performed a graceful barrel roll so that it could hover while facing the Dragon Turtle. "I am Golos, fourth of He who Answered, son of the Yinglong," Golos spoke in high Draconic, making the Thunder Wyvern appear both wise and regal, though Gwen knew the creature better than to be fooled. "Ask you for parley of our prize?" "Aye," the Dragon Turtle concurred. "Though distant, I taste on thee the blessings of Old Ones. Name thy price, whelp." "SHAA—" Caliban asked for the Dragon Turtle's delicious vitality. "EE—" Ariel reminded Gwen that there was bound to be Cores in that beautiful, bountiful body. "I think we should ask the female to show itself," Golos affected an expression that made Gwen blush with shame for associating with such a simple creature. "I want to see what powers the ninth scion of an Elder Drake may hold and why it would choose to be female." Ignoring her creatures, Gwen chose the original script. "I wish for the Shoal to disperse and retreat from Wellington and never return," Gwen said, doing the right thing by their hosts, thinking at once of Yue and Whetu. "And I wish you to leave Auckland and return home in peace." Shyvaphyr's heads made a sound between a grunt of acknowledgement and a snort of dismissal. "Thou hast not bested us yet, sorceress. For Shyvaphyr's failure, we concede that his Shoal shall leave thy city to join mine. As for the Human curio Auckland—that is between me and my foes here. Though—thou art welcome to attempt to face MY Shoal in my domain if thou would dare." "Not good enough," Gwen protested, sensing in her gut that despite the Dragon Turtle's swagger, there was room for wiggle. "If you think I'll simply let you leave like that—" "We shall leave you with the life of your pet Vessel—" the voice of Nyrlesvinyr announced. "QUACK!" The faint cry of a familiar bark came from below. From their vantage, the rainbow spot was barely visible through the haze, though from what Gwen could see with her enhanced eyes, Dede was surrounded by a swirling pool of Mermen but very much alive. "I hardly think a duck is as precious as Shyvaphyr's bodily ingredients." Gwen did her best to keep her gladness in check. "No deal. I'll finish that damned Shoal eventually, one way or another." "Thou art a greedy whelp." The voice did not sound upset but rather curious and entertained. "Very well— keep Shyvaphyr's appendage as an offering. Within lies one of his Cores, a prize far more precious than thy pitiful mortal cities, a loss that will teach mine brother a long and hard lesson about underestimating one's foes." "I'll consider it." Gwen's eyes fell upon the two junior Dragon Turtles. The war against the Mermen was eternal—meaning protocol for her Magisterial duty was merely to delay. Quickly, her lips made a smirk. "But, as a Magister of Shard in London, having travelled from Europe to the southern end of the Prime material, I am an expensive hire to dismiss, you know?" "What would thou wish?" Nyrlesvinyr demanded. "Think carefully, whelp, lest thou incur our immediate wrath." Despite their bestial-tiers of beastly intelligence, both Zitusphyr and Sevphr regarded Gwen with nervous eyes. "I want one of those as well." Gwen licked her lips to hide her nervousness, somewhat thrilled with the thought that she was openly negotiating with a Dragon Turtle Princess. "As the princely Core is for rebuilding our city, I shall need one of those as reparation for my forgiveness. Additionally, Shyvaphyr's Shoal shall disperse, and you and your Shoal shall not venture near Wellington." Nyrlesvinyr snorted steam via her brother's zombified body. Though her ransom seemed impertinent, Gwen still felt cheated. If the battle had continued without this "sisterly" interference, she had half a mind for Caliban to collect a new form for fighting in the sea and to give Ariel a long overdue Draconic Core to perfect its metamorphosis—both best achieved through Golos' contemporary. As for Wellington, if Gwen could get the Shoal to go away for now—there were plenty more opportunities to deal with matters at Auckland when there's a bleeding Tower hovering behind her. At worst, if Nyrlesvinyr would prove too much, she could call Gunther and tell him ancient Dragon Turtles were bullying his little sister. " _Zitusphyr_ ," the voice of Nyrlesvinyr called the wounded turtle by name. "For bringing shame to the Shoal and failing to protect Shyvaphyr, thou wilt remain to appease the Old One's Vessel. Is that agreeable?" Gwen reminded herself to steel her heart against sympathy when the scar-slathered turtle barked that it would abide by the "Elder One's" command. "Then we art _agreed_ ," the voice of Nyrlesvinyr affirmed her approval in high Draconic. Gwen's body grew tense at the Dragon-speak, feeling her Astral Soul quake, akin to the Geas her Master had once placed upon her. There was no actual spell or compulsion, but Gwen felt the surety of a karmic power blessing their agreement. "Not bad, Calamity," Golos remarked, swinging its head so that the light played off his vibrant ridge feathers. "I didn't think our seafaring cousins would be so rich as to spare kin and Core just to save face—but then again, if that Dragon Turtle is seventeenth, there's certainly no shortage of ambitious princelings." The implication, Gwen realised, was that sibling rivalry was as much to thank for her victory as overwhelming efforts from her Familiars and her companions. The wounded turtle, Zitusphyr, remained inert as the final syllables of Nyrlesvinyr's speech rang out. Almost instantly, the Shoal below began to disperse, leaving Gwen's Hydras struggling to find new foes who were not fleeing at supernatural speeds in every direction. Even the giant mantas were swift beyond compare, leaving her fat, ungainly lampreys to wiggle like bloated mosquito larvae left floating in the sea. The Dragon Turtle princeling and its surviving bodyguard drifted a distance apart from Gwen and her party. "I do not know why thou wield the same power as the Void Witch," the voice announced once a safe distance away from Caliban. "Nor why thou hast appropriated the bodies of our age-old foes— the _Kūn_. Nonetheless, if thou choose to meet us, know that the _Kūn_ were once our favourite prey." Gwen did not know how to respond to the strange amicability of the Dragon Princess nor the bombastic revelations from the zombie brother's mouth, so she chose to remain silent and mysterious. "We leave now. And if thou should next defend Auckland," the voice of Nyrlesvinyr said. "Seek us in our Shoal. As thou are the Vessel of an Old One, we shall refrain from shackling thee to perform in our Gladiatorial pits until our Scions have exchanged ransoms." "You should try," Golos retorted. "Gwen's Old One has swallowed Sires bigger than yours, I would wager that on my Father's name." "What he said." Gwen marvelled at her Thunder Wyvern's ability to make even cool threats sound obscene. "Thine arrogance is pleasing, even as it is typical of our cousins of the Tempest." The tone of the presumed Dragon Turtle princess grew churlish. "Come with thy creatures of the Void if thou dare. We have met thy would-be Mistress in battle before. In the aftermath, we had parted as equals—so do not presume that we would be as easy and foolish a prey as mine pup of a brother here." Another bombastic revelation. Once more, Gwen looked to Golos, knowing that she was in no position to suddenly state that my enemy's enemy was my friend, for right now, Nyrlesvinyr was her foe. The Wyvern shrugged, indicating that it rarely considered the ramifications nor implications of its actions and wasn't about to start for her sake. Around her, Gwen's companions intimated that they placed the benefit of their faith firmly on her slight shoulders. Gwen inhaled deeply, conceding that _heavy_ was the burden that bears the promise to the deepsea aristocracy. She relented her hostility, signalling for her priceless prize to go. Without a second more of lingering indecisiveness, Sevphr hovered close to its Master. The two then free-fell toward the bean green water, leaving the wounded Zitusphyr and the severed head of Shyvaphyr, which hung limply from Caliban's mouth. Somewhere below where her team levitated, Gwen could hear Dede's alarm as the Dragon Turtles dive-bombed back into the ocean. When Gwen turned her eyes upon the junior Dragon Turtle again, a wayward gust made her Da-peng suit come alive, singing as the Elemental Air flowed between its plated feathers. Beside her, Caliban began to shake the severed head of Shyvaphyr like a dog with an enormous elastic of obscene length, begging the world for a spontaneous mosaic to be implemented. Richard, undeterred, did his best to collect as much as the splattering Dragon blood as possible, knowing well the price such ingredients fetched in the Grey Market. Lulan remained on high alert, her usually pale dermis a dull sheen of iron, her dancer's silhouette obscured by a platoon of humming blades. And though her remaining foe was an Elemental reptile, Gwen swore that the Dragon Turtle began to shake and shiver like a warm-blooded mammal. "Well, I am sorry to say, Zippy," she declared to her consolation prize, thinking of the ravaged city below her and the innocents who had perished. "You got three choices. _Die_ with your Core intact—Become a _pet_ —or become _food_ —" "SHAA—!" Caliban protested against Gwen's compassion. "Two choices." Gwen did not find herself adverse to Caliban's animalistic cruelty. But Cali was right in that she shouldn't be wasting so good a resource as a living Dragon Turtle. "So, _FOOD_ or _PET_ , what'll it be?"

The moment the thrilling demand left Gwen's lips, a part of her that wasn't press-moulded by necessity in this world of monster and magic demanded to know if her request could be considered cruel and demented. Together with her chilling realisation, a vision of Evee's disapproval cooled her head and quailed her purring pride. Not far, "Zippy" stared at the middle distance between itself and her Devourer self, as mute as a munted punter after a few too many coins at the local pokies. To cleanly butcher the creature was one thing. But to make it dig a grave, then lie in it, all the while demanding that it should thank her magnanimous display, was as damaging to its mental health as it was to her moral wellbeing. "Cali, Ariel," she commanded her creatures through her Empathic Link, realising that a part of her motivation had come from the shared emotions between herself and her hooting Familiars. "Shut up for a minute." "SHAA—!" Caliban protested with the utmost stubbornness it could manage. "Ee…" Comparatively, Ariel digested her ethical dilemma and quietened itself. Gwen's beasties then snapped and snipped at one another like disgruntled kittens until she demanded their silence. Eventually, despite the residual unwillingness from both, the mewling quelled. Golos mocked her with a snicker. If the Dragon Turtle's senior was their prisoner, he might have shown some compassion for a near-equal. Gwen knew, however, that lesser Dragon-kin such as these were as to Golos fodder for his Essence growth, unworthy of taxing the Wyvern's unenthused brain cells. "Gogo," she told the Thunder Wyvern, feeling that the brute was a bad influence on her measure of normality. "Go get Dede. Make sure he's alright." The Wyvern swivelled away with a shrug. Gwen rested her eyes to recollect her wits, ensuring all excess mana had cleared from her conduits. Be it Lightning or Void, neither offered rapport for sanity. "Zippy." She hovered closer, but not close enough to negate a quick Dimension Door. Besides her, Lulan shadowed her movements, spreading her blades so that Gwen's figure stood at the centre of a blooming iron lotus. "You will not be spared. I am without the illusion that as a guard to Shyvaphyr, you have eaten my kin and ravaged my home in the past—thereby, my only mercy is that the end you choose shall be dignified—assuming you cooperate. " Before she could finish, Richard floated into view. "—Gwen," her cousin interjected by hovering between the pair. "Not to protest your decision, but before you continue, may I have a word to share some thoughts?" In front of them, the Dragon Turtle possessed no discernable reactions. "Alright." She respected Richard's uncanny scent for profiteering. "In private, or…?" "Here and now is fine." Richard gestured toward their battle spoil. "I thought since we've repelled the Shoal, we should carefully consider the rewards from our Quest. With Wellington safe, we are in a strong position to haggle. One is the _Core_ in Shyvaphyr's head, which would certainly be a boon to the city's rebuilding efforts, and the other is Zitusphyr here, whose Core is less valuable. As a leased War Mage, you can mark a part of the spoils as your _fee_ , with the better part going to the Tower, _correct?_ " "Aye." Gwen glanced between the turtle and herself, wondering if live-auditing Zippy's worth could be construed as cruel and unusual punishment. "I can see you're in a mood." Richard's lips curled into a smirk. "So why not let your cousin shoulder your burden, eh? How about this...?" The Water Mage pointed to the length of the still-twitching neck in Caliban's claws. "We'll organise for that Core to be auctioned at Mayuree's— maybe try to trade for a Lightning Draconic Core from the Chinese." "EE—!" Ariel immediately snuggled up to Richard but was swatted away by a pouting Lea. "As for Zitusphyr. My first thought was likewise Soul Tapping the bugger and make him another Garp, but as Golos said, that might be more trouble than it's worth. Essence Tap, in _essence,_ is Necromancy—when dealing with Draconic scions, let's not pretend to be a _Soul Flayer_ when you're not. Still—I think we can maximise benefits from Zippy's body regardless. Would you mind if I asked you to keep him around for a while?" "Why?" Gwen cocked her head. "I can repay the cost of the Core out of my private funds if nothing else, AND I am sure we'll find more Cores in the future, especially as this new South Sea conflict goes on. What's the benefit of keeping a monster as dangerous as a Dragon Turtle around if I am not going to Tap it?" "Well." Richard rubbed his thumb and fingers together suggestively. "If we find the right buyer for Zitusphyr, not only does he get to live, which eases your conscience, but you're going to get goodwill from whoever gets him as a _Draconic Steam Spirit._ " Gwen raised both brows. "Goodwill, eh?" "A _shitload_ of goodwill." Richard cleared his throat. "I know you're not into the bloke, but for what's to come—this global climate thing you've been telling us—wouldn't it be interesting if the Militant-Nobles owed you a favour they cannot refuse or readily repay?" Gwen pursed her lips to think. "You don't mean?" "Well, you didn't think Benny was such a bad bloke, no? The heir apparent is certainly heads and shoulders better than Poins. If you can sell _brother eldest_ a favour as important as this, not only would your dispute with the Exeters be resolved, they wouldn't have the face to oppose your future endeavours, especially if the seas start to warm up or cool down in unexpected but catastrophic ways, as you said." _Benedict Thomas Holland_ , Gwen finally noted at which tree Richard was barking. As her cousin inferred, the lad was alright: a congenial, skilled, and polite heir apparent to Henry V's Golden Blood. She recalled that the Steam Mage was running with an incorporeal Spirit, one more affiliated to mist than steam. Doubtlessly, Zitusphyr, if tameable, would be a substantial upgrade, reducing Thomas' Affinity but gifting both Draconic resilience and "shell" attributes well-suited to Thomas' unique magic of steam "bombs". Transporting the Dragon Turtle to London was out of the realm of possibilities—but a simple Long Range Message could probably compel her prior competitor to rush across international borders, even if the man was shipped halfway to Greenland. At the same time, she knew with certainty that the Militant Faction had significant footholds in Melbourne and Brisbane, not to mention parts of Auckland's Mages were bound to fall under their sway. If she could hold them to terms, then the recovery of Wellington and the defence of Auckland itself should be much smoother. "That…" The calculations of the pros and cons flashed through her eyes instantly. "Is a _wicked_ idea, Dick." "Thank you." Richard feigned a bow. "As you were, Duck." Gwen's attention once more fell on the Dragon Turtle. Her mind was made up. "Well, that's how it is, Zippy. I was going to Soul Tap your Core and make you my __ pet, but no more. Your choices are to remain here and submit to a future Master of my choosing—meaning you'll be free to contest their will and not mine—and if you win, it isn't my problem. Or you can perish here and gift me your unshattered Core." "Great Kin…" the Dragon Turtle's speech was slow and ponderous. "Zitusphyr obeys." Whatever Zitusphyr meant, Gwen knew that the turtle would abide by the _superior_ Dragon's whim. Lulu affirmed her suspicions, from whom she was reminded of Ruxin's casual gift of the twin Naga Cores. Both had been perfectly preserved—an impossible feat for human hunters. Only through existential dominion—an evolutionary legacy from the primordial days when thunderous lizards stalked a young Terra ripe with elemental instabilities—was such an outcome possible. And if _she_ should be defeated by a Dragon-kin, Gwen felt suddenly queasy; would she obey the same fate? If she should refuse, what would it mean? If she should expect obedience from her defeated foes, was it not fair that they too enjoyed the exact terms of the grand gambit? "Alright, stay with Golos and obey his command." Uncomfortable with her conjecture, she chooses not to dwell on the matter. Thankfully, in the next second, a Message spell visibly bloomed beside Richard. _Ding!_ Hers activated a second later. "Gwen," Petra's voice imprinted itself upon their minds. "The Divination Chamber reports that the Shoal has gone into the deep sea. Magister Kawhena wants to know what you've done and what to expect." "Ah, we're doing alright." Gwen drily chuckled as she surveyed her Familiars and companions, feeling an unexpected tightness in her chest. Lulan was looking worse for wear but was otherwise fierce and fine. Richard was aglow with confidence thanks to her taking his advice, with his eyes forming two smiling slits of self-congratulation. "Let's talk when we meet face to face, but you can begin cleanup Purges in Wellington. There won't be anything else coming up from the Shoal for the foreseeable future, short of a new one branching off and swimming down from Auckland." There was a pause in the Message spell. "Kawhena of WETA here." The voice of the Magister bloomed orange and green beside their ears. "Magister Song, do you mean to say you've dispersed the Shoal?" Gwen made sure by double-checking the waters below. Her hundred-odd lampreys, each the size of oarfishes with the circumference of great whites, writhed and danced, snipping and nipping at one another in search of vitality. As before, there was no dismissing her summons, and nature would have to take its course by wearing them down through the entropic decay of Void Mana. It was a shame, for there was so much vitality she could not harvest for dire reasons—one for the limitations of her human body and the other for Caliban, whose vital vessel was bursting at the seams. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. "If you do not mind, Magister Song—I would like to see for myself." Magister Kawhena was a very careful Magister. The man's disbelief was entirely acceptable for Gwen, who could imagine her shock if she had sent Richard out on an errand for the day and her cousin returned within the hour with all boxes ticked. That and Petra had succeeded in tapping into Wellington's Divination Array and linked up their Dwarf-tinkered communication devices with the ageing system used by WETA. Without knowing Petra's skill, the probability that she might have confounded the spectrometric system was a likelier outcome than the Devourer eating her way through an entire Shoal. "Sending you our markers now." Gwen nodded to Richard, who faxed off their Divination signatures. "Petra should be able to Teleport you over in a jiffy." "… Very well," Magister Kawhena answered. "Magus Kuznetsova? If you could?" "Gwen. Spread out and standby for transfer. I am inviting the Magister into the Teleportation Circle now. Three—Two—One—" A flare of silvery Conjuration mana materialised not far from Gwen. The long-range Teleportation Circle could only function as an approximation without a circle on the receiving end. It was a method with rigid limitations, for a Mage being shunted by a poorly aimed spell would imply injury—while an NoM might be reduced to giblets if shunted through solid rock. The Magister, as expected, was a Maori elder in his late forties, perhaps fifties. Sporting the usual Ta Moko of his people, the clean-shaven man was otherwise dressed in a battle garb of enchanted cloth made to look like a well-fitted suit. Still orientating his bearings, the Magister drifted toward Gwen and her trio. A second later, he saw the idling, defeated Dragon Turtle in the midst of questioning its future. Across several breaths, the Magister appeared to doubt himself until he saw Ariel and Caliban in the flesh. "…Are those both yours?" Kawhena was incredibly calm, Gwen noted, even after seeing a Kirin that could lay waste to half the harbour if left alone. Likewise, against Caliban's gore-soaked Lovecraftian visage holding the severed end of a wheezing Dragon's head, Zippy might as well appear a common Pokémon. "G'day, Sir." Gwen bowed from the waist. "Thank you for defending Wellington as well as you have." The man shook his head. "I was holed up in a fort, Magister Song. It's you and the brave militia that's responsible…" The Magister wanted to continue but grew silent again when, from below the party, an oppressive vision of Golos arrived, clutching a struggling Dede in one of its claws. Her duck, Gwen noted, was undoubtedly in the process of restoring itself. Unfortunately, its humble origins meant its ability to mend broken bones was nowhere near the fast healing demonstrated by the Dragon Turtles. Kawhena stared at Dede and Golos for several moments, trying to process a sight that made the Shoal seem routine. "Shall we head back?" Kawhena quickly grew accustomed to her aberrant band and appeared to possess no doubt that the Shoal had gone a merry way away from Wellington. As to whether that was because he could spy no Shoal or that Gwen's collection of creatures had shaken the man's sanity, she couldn't guess. "Yes," Gwen spoke with sympathy for the flabbergasted Magister, her heart already fleeing from the thrill of the hunt toward the meeting of familiar faces. "Let us return. I am eager to see how Magus Yue has fared." "Jonas! Taj! Paul! Billy!" Gwen called out each of the crimson-faced figures as they emerged from the ruined harbour, her voice trembling from the electrifying nostalgia. "Miss me?" "Oh my God! It's _really_ her! It's Gwen!" Billy was halfway out of formation before Jonas dragged him back. "Idiot! She's _Magister_ Song now!" The Healer snapped at the youthful Diviner; an observation Gwen immediately corrected when she saw Billy's goatee. When they had first met, Billy was in his mid-twenties, meaning nowadays, her once-companion to Sufina's island was likely in his late twenties or even thirty. Likewise, it was insane to think that Jonas, who she recalled to be in his late thirties, was now a forty-something oldie. From what she'd picked up from Yue, the feller never relented on his one-sided love for Alesia, meaning he was still a bachelor. Comparatively, Paul and Taj found spouses, with Taj already playing father to a boy and a girl. "Let's not bother with titles." Gwen felt her face grow hot. After all, when they'd first met, she'd been butt-naked and had freshly escaped from Edmund, no more potent as a Mage than a newborn, mewling babe. "She's right, you nitwits," an unmistakable voice next announced herself. "Why would Gwennie ever throw rank around us? We're not her subordinates! Ha! At least not yet, anyway—and if she does, I'll knock some bloody sense into her!" "YUNNIE!" Gwen rushed forward to embrace her oldest friend. Behind her, Lulan and Richard took up positions on either side, one shocked to witness such a juvenile side of her commander, while the other appeared appreciative and relaxed. As for her menagerie of pets, Golos had wanted to keep feeding, so Gwen had sent away the Wyvern to keep an eye on Zippy. As for Dede, the Dragon Turtle's natural superiority had shaken it so jarringly that it chose not to extort the Mages it met but instead flew around Wellington's outskirts, going on a walkabout to digest its defeat. As the two friends embraced, Gwen felt her slim figure slotting into Yue's grooves like a glove. "I know it hasn't been that long," Gwen said with a sign, barely suppressing her riotous emotions. "But it feels like I haven't seen you for a decade." "Nah-yeah, short partings are the worst," Yue agreed in iconic Aussie fashion. "Well, well, look at you, eh? Magister Song. _Big Wig Song_! And here I am, crawling my way to a mere Captaincy with the swiftness of a crippled Orc." "It's provisional-Magister," Gwen joked. "We all know I've got a long way to go. There's Auckland to come as well, and so much more to do before returning to London and wearing my new spell mantle. Did Alesia tell you about my suspicions regarding Mount Erebus? It's a long slog from here on out, and the Shoal's just the beginning." Yue patted her arms, giving Gwen's cheek a pinch before pulling herself away. "How's Evee?" Though off-topic, the question felt to Gwen as natural as she and Yue sharing a bowl of Mrs Bai's dumplings. "Evee's doing super well in her Ordo," Gwen confessed to as much knowledge of Elvia as she could. "We haven't had a chance to catch up, but you know how busy she is after Shalkar. Her Ordo is taking the opportunity to set up a forward operating fortress, working closely with the Centaurs and my Rat-kin. As Evee's one of the co-liberators of the region, she'll be worked to the bone, I bet." "Strewth, _Big Wig Evee_ too." Yue scratched the rank lapels of her military fatigues. "I should get Master to open some backdoors before your footmen accost me at the entrance." Gwen chuckled. "That won't happen!" "Because you'll slap them with your Magister's mantle?" Yue mock-laughed. The girls shared another minute of small talk and then mutually introduced their team members. Reuniting with Richard and Petra, Yue shook their hands, bantered for a bit, then whistled when Richard told her that Gwen was marching ever closer to the goal of gaining her Tower and making Henry's dream come true. "Jesus Christ. You really made it, eh?" The Fire Mage said to her cousin. "I remember when we first met. You said you'd stick to Gwen like a bad smell. That's paid out well." "Yunnie!" Gwen pulled her friend back, aghast at Yue's frankness. "Richard has been nothing but helpful." "Just stating the facts." Yue's skin was hot to the touch, speaking loudly of her present Affinity for Elemental Fire. "No shame in being a practical bloke who knows what he wants. I am just awed that this guy managed to stick with you through thick and thin for five years across three countries. I am a bit jealous, considering Evee and I couldn't do that, even though we promised in the gym, after the Royal National." Gwen wanted to say that those had been genuinely wishful words from _children's_ mouths but hadn't the heart to stifle Yue's recollection. "We'll be together again in the future," Gwen hinted at one of her motivations. "This time, it'll be in _my_ Tower, and nothing will keep us apart." And that—Gwen noted for herself—was the promise from an _adult_ and a Magister. "Ha!" her friend gave her shoulder a playful punch that jarred her Da-peng armour. Without the magic circuits active, the Peng-suit was merely stylish Big Bird cosplay. "I'll hold you to that." "Alright—" Gwen extended her finger, and the two made a pinky promise. "So, it's over for now?" Below, the city's initial recovery would take at least a month before rebuilding could occur. As useful as Magister Kawhena's protective earth-shifting Mandala could be, the magic was not conducive to the continued function of mana-fed conduit lines, sewerage pipes, and the foundations the coastal city sat upon. "What's your plan from here, Yunnie?" "Back to Auckland, of course. I am here until the capital's safe or Master calls me back." Yue's eyes measured her up and down as she spoke, making Gwen conscious of the promise she had just made. "You heading back to London or staying?" "We'll be chumming for a long while this time," Gwen said with a happy smile. "Saving Wellington wasn't even my main mission." "Is Auckland?" "Nah." Gwen took a deep breath. "It's a long story." She tapped into her Message Device. "Pats, can we Teleport back to Auckland?" "Not safely, no. The Ley-line is not stable enough," Petra informed them. "We can get within three hundred kilometres, though." "That's enough. I'll drop off what supplies I can spare," Gwen gave the order. "Then we can move up. Are you coming with us, Yunnie? We should fly up together." "You're flying up at night?" Yue directed her eyes upward toward a gloomy sky the colour of steel. "Auckland Tower is up and mobile, and we'll be blind as a bat trying to find it unless you can see several kilometres in the dark." "I've got this." Gwen produced the Omni-orb for a moment. Without prompting, the orb drifted toward the direction of what she assumed to be Auckland Tower. Yue nodded. "Sure, we'll fly and talk. Let's see Magister Kawhena first. We need to leave behind equipment for the survivors as well." When the girls once more located the Magister of WETA, the man was knee-deep in the logistics of undoing what he had done to alter Wellington's landscape. Unfortunately, a city wasn't like a napkin that could be uncrinkled and flattened. Likewise, Mermen still lurked within the city's underground utilities, parking garages, and the flooded sewers cut off by the Mandala. "Very well." Kawhena did not comment on their hasty exit but bowed from the waist. "Please give my thanks to the Shard, and for you, Magus Yue, please inform Magus De Botton and Lord Shultz that Wellington will forever remain their ally." "I shall," Yue replied. "And I'll return when the rebuilding begins," Gwen promised. "I am happy to say that I've had a hand in several major reconstruction projects in the last few years." "We would very much like that." The Magister was so polite Gwen wondered if she should clarify that she oversaw both Tonglv and the Isle of Dogs and presumably knew more about the workflow of demolition and reconstruction than any Mage still residing in Wellington. Feeling her calling, however, she left the appropriate diplomacy to her companions from Cambridge, exiting via WETA's storeroom, where she unloaded a dozen pallets of meal rations, medical supplies and diluted potions suitable for NoMs from her Storage Ring. In the spacious gloom of the warehouses, Gwen found herself greeted by the familiar face of Rongo Winiata, one of Yue and Whetu's companions during the IIUC. Once more smitten with sentimentality, Gwen invited the man to take a quick coffee break. When she asked him how the others in the team had faired, Rongo gave her a weary sigh. "Rona, our Captain, has journeyed to _Hawaiki_ , atop the great Pohutukawa Tree. Tua, as well, if you remember the man, is also gone from the Prime Material." "Christ." Gwen felt her throat grow sore. "Aye, there was an influx of Fire Elementals at Mount Ruapehu a month back. Rona and Tua's Combat Flight went to extract the miners who couldn't get out." Gwen recalled the Captain, the mix-blooded Halfling Mage. The bloke was a good leader and a strategist, an Illusionist by trade. As for Tua, she vaguely recalled the man being a Sand Mage of sorts. Unhappily, thanks to her prior trauma from Faceless, she had entirely avoided engaging with Tua. "I am… sorry to hear that." She felt sympathy for Rongo but had nothing substantial to say other than wanting to satisfy her curiosity about this great tree Rongo had mentioned. "They died fighting," Rongo replied as a matter of fact. _So they did,_ Gwen thought as she sipped her coffee, happy only in the selfish knowledge that thus far, no news had arrived that any of her teammates had died. When she mentioned the fact to Rongo, the man gave her a strange look. Gwen then felt suddenly cold, for finally, she recalled the spiteful, pleading eyes of _Kitty Liang,_ dying without the dignity of peace, reduced to swiss cheese by her Void, and then rendered into nothing, not even a respectful memory.

There were hungry, carnivorous reasons why Mages avoided travelling at night, even across Green Zones. Once past Humanity's ordered lanes, the mana signature from a Mage's delectable organs tingled the senses of the Core-bearing Wildland critters like honeycombs to sweet-toothed toddlers. Luckily for Gwen and Yue's party, they had a bigger and badder bodyguard in the form of a foraging Golos, who stopped now and then to pluck sweetmeats from the screaming woods. And they were trailed by a tragic turtle, followed by a depressed duck looking to vent. Thereby, for the poor residents of the Wildland between Auckland and Wellington, the dozen or so Mages, plus Gwen's pets, passed like a natural disaster, dog-bothering every existence under the sun until they reached the Halfling city of Hamilton. Gwen stowed her Familiars near the border to avoid inciting the city's defenders. Likewise, in consideration of Auckland, she told Golos, Dede and Zippy to circle over the ocean, leaving only her human companions to follow Yue into town. In her old life, Hamilton had played home to the set of the Shire for the grandfather of all fantasy fiction. Therefore, in this world, it was only natural that its rolling hills, verdant brooks and golden rye fields would house the Demi-Elemental cousins of Humanity, the Halfling-race At first, hidden by distance, Hamilton looked no different to the one in her memories. However, as the crack of dawn peeped over the misty hills, Gwen sighed appreciatively for seeing the "Shire" from yore. As folk with a great affinity for nature and a natural Affinity for Elemental Earth and Water, the Halflings lived both above and beneath the tamed hill-scape of Hamilton, carving the tableland into asymmetrical farmlands dotted with sheep, cows, and other domesticated beasties. As an agricultural community, the city's citizens were early risers, rousing from their labour to wave hats and pitchforks at the unusual Mage Flight frightening their barnyard animals. The Halflings themselves, Gwen observed, possessed the height of children but were closer to Dwarves with their stout lower bodies and stocky shoulders. She noted that the main difference in garb was a love of gumboots and suspenders over steel shoes and light armour. She also pondered the curious lack of heavy equipment on the farms, which bellied the enormous scope of the agricultural operations. "I can see the town hall," Yue reported. "Come on. I'll shout us a cuppa of the best damn coffee on the island. Nothing like that brown water you shouted in Northern China. Christ, that stuff almost made me piss myself." _Tea!_ Gwen wanted to shout at her friend. That was priceless, _Fur-Peak tea!_ And it's called _Detox!_ Are "Yue" even _Chinese_ , Yunnie? Hamilton's town hall was a white sandstone building constructed to accommodate humans and the locals. Around it, the business district was more like an open market than a commercial centre, consisting of animal yards, warehouses, and loading hubs for lorries. Unlike human or Dwarven civil construction, the architecture was more practical than aesthetic, quietly declaring the Halfings' humble, unassuming nature. The group descended from the air into an open square, watched by thousands. "This way." In these parts, Yue was an old dog, leading Gwen and company like horses to refreshments. The coffee shop owner was a Halfling with a face Gwen felt she had seen somewhere before, which Yue affirmed by introducing the half-bloke as Rona's half-brother. "Roni," the Halfling presented himself, his face ambiguously young and wisened at the same time. "Strewth, the _Devourer of Shenyang_ herself, in my shop!" Gwen exchanged greetings; the group ordered, then took up most of the outside seats, becoming instant topics of conversation among the meandering farmhands and farmers. "It's a shame what happened to Wellington. I hope my niece made it out," the shopkeeper passed a dozen mugs from a tray twice his size, which he effortless arrested with one hand. "Yue, you fellers retreating to Auckland now? How deep inland do you think the Shoal will foray?" The group gave the man unexpected grins. "There's no more Shoal to menace the city," Yue chuckled as she took a sip, watching the man's expression transform from sorrow to surprise. "You don't mean…" he looked toward Gwen. "You guessed it!" her friend resoundingly slapped Gwen's leather-wrapped thigh like a butcher proudly presenting a prized cut. "Our Magister here took care of it all." While Gwen grew flustered, Roni took a careful step back from the woman who had devoured a thousand kilotons of living, talking, man-eating fish. From her waist, he bowed at her knees. "You have my utmost thanks, Magister Song." "It was well within my duty," Gwen said while giving her friend a disapproving stare. "And please, there's no need for formalities." "The information isn't _privileged_ , I hope?" Roni glanced at his other customers, who were already gossiping like sheep in a hot barn. "Not at all. Tell the world if you care." Yue laughed. "Coffee is on the house!" Roni declared with a reddened face, shouting out the window as he clambered onto a stool. "EVERYONE! Wellington is now safe! The Shoal there is dispersed!" A resounding cheer roused from the space around them as the news spread, growing more and more riotous with each passing moment. Before Gwen could finish her coffee, a celebration had broken out in the town centre and rapidly spread through Hamilton. Like their Dwarven cousins, the Halflings were folk of great emotional honesty, which meant there was no stopping the impromptu festival. No longer at peace in an early morning inundated with crows, moos, baas and the sound of laughter, Gwen turned to her friend with deep suspicion. "Why do I feel the whole reason we're here is cuz Roni would shout us coffees?" She demanded of Yue. "Hee." Yue shrugged, returning her accusation with a smug shake of her shoulders. "What of it, rich bitch? You think salaries grow on trees?" The party left after an hour, refreshed and stocked up on caffeine, with the Cambridge grads mightily impressed by the quality of farm to table morning tea offered by the too-generous Halflings. Perhaps as another one of Yue's calculated ploys, dozens of folk she knew accosted them at the coffee shop, asking if they could ferry supplies of fresh foodstuff to Auckland Tower for friends and family, which Gwen could not refuse thanks to the free feed. When finally Auckland came into sight, they spied the Tower hovering north of Port Jackson, some fifty kilometres from its usual nest of criss-crossing ley-lines. As for the city itself, the damage caused by the deterred tsunami was self-evident. Auckland was a city that sat on a verdant headland, allowing access to the Tasman Sea to the south and the South Pacific to the north. From a dozen chimneys of smoke rising from the city's edge where many sounds met the sea, Gwen saw that it had undergone a baptism of Mermen. The banks of the Tamaki River, which Gwen recognised from its half-moon entry into the city, had flooded over into the residential districts, drowning the low-lying apartments. Nearer the harbour, a few industrial zones were likewise was up to their rafters in ocean water, with seaweed visibly hanging from the street lamps, acting as bookmarks for the Mermen's ingress. Nevertheless, the city marched on, for Gwen could also see the traffic jams, the workmen, the barges clearing the debris and the aldermen screaming at the labourers. The city kept its calm and carried on in an all too human manner, heedless of the multi-million predators lurking just outside its Shielding Barriers. As they passed a Barrier Station, the party broadcasted their mana signatures, attracting the attention of a Mage Flight on patrol. Once verified, the worshipful Mages guided Gwen and her party northward, passing a ten-storey sinkhole, once the home to Auckland's "Sky Tower". Their guides soon arrived. The presiding Magister introduced himself as Wa Mātaatua. Gwen knew of the man, whom Aria had briefly noted as the Chief of a prominent Maori Clan and a rival to Te Wherowhero. He was one of the "Ten" in her Master's old title as "Master of the Ten" and the presiding leader of Auckland's Militant Faction. The two shook hands, Magister to Magister, dressing down one another with their eyes. Mātaatua was a short but stocky bloke, well-endowed with the ocean-fairing fortitude of the Maori folk. From the choking coverage of Ta Moko turning the man's olive complexion into near-jet, she could feel an aura of Enchantment that exceeded Petra's. Mātaatua informed her that he had been sent to await their arrival, as Tower Master Hildenbrandt had been more than keen to hear the good news of Wellington's liberation from the horses' mouth. Gwen knew she wasn't on sound footing with the Militants and tried to break the ice by asking about the city's fortifications. "The harbour would be our final stand," Mātaatua explained as they passed the buzzing centre of the city's business district. "There aren't enough ships in all of Auckland to evacuate everyone. Outside of the city, the Green Zone ends at Hamilton. Therefore, what you see is what we have." Mātaatua meant that even if the city evacuated en-mass inland, there wasn't near enough infrastructure to keep the refugees housed safely. Likewise, without the port and its supply of materials from Oceania, the local manufacturing industry in Auckland could not keep up with the city's complex upkeep. Presently, the port was stowing its tankers and freighters. Atop the gangways, construction Golems operated by NoMs were working with Mages to transform the ships into makeshift barriers against the entry of super-size Demi-humans. Considering what she had seen in Wellington, Gwen saw sense—for any vessels that failed to outrun the Shoal would only wash into the city and become a Mermen battering ram. "Where are the War Golems?" Gwen asked their guide. How could a city's defence be complete without War Golems? If Sydney had not been ambushed, its harbour would be lined from San Sousi to Port Botany with patrolling Golem engines. They wouldn't be new, but neither would they be few. "We'll be seeing them soon," the Magister assured them. "Our party will be passing the inner islands in a few moments." As the harbour grew minuscule, the volcanic archipelago of Rangitoto, Motutapu and Waiheke grew in size. Gwen performed a double-take when she saw Rangitoto, for the island's base was bare of all vegetation where the last pyroclastic flow had bubbled across its surface. Furthermore, energetic fumaroles between the capped vent and the ocean steamed and hissed, sending forth waves of wafting sulphur. "Is that active?" Gwen demanded of their guide. Considering what she'd seen in Shalkar, her faith in the volcano's continued irrelevance in a time of crisis was non-existent. "Rangitoto will unleash the occasional high-tier Fire Elemental now and then," Mātaatua's tone was possessed by frustration. "I understand your concern, Magister, though I am happy to say that the next eruption shouldn't be for another six months. Besides, the Fire Elementals are existentially opposed to the Mermen, and they usually never leave the vicinity of Rangitoto's mana-rich ash-layers." "Did your Diviners predict this?" Gwen's mind turned to another suspicion. "Auckland is far too removed to have a Diviner of that magnitude," the Magister gave her a strange look. "Not even Master Gunther's Sydney has such a boon, certainly not to our knowledge." "Sorry, I misspoke," she made up her mind to speak with the Tower Master regarding the island. There wasn't too much that could be done—but even being mentally prepared for trouble was better than being surprised mid-siege. East of Rangitoto, its sibling islands reminded Gwen of two kicked over ants' nests. The dense forests covering the lowland had been trimmed into barriers funnelling attacking Mermen into kill zones, taking advantage of the uphill slops and loose volcanic shale making up the jagged landscape. At the saddle, two dozen War Golems, Cromwell MK Is by the looks of their dated design, were fed into dugouts, behind which were hundreds of crates of HDMs for their mounted siege Spellswords. "That's... not a lot of Golems," Gwen mentioned to Magister Mātaatua. "I can see long-range Spellswords, but where's the artillery?" She focused her eyes. "And those Militia men, where are their Wands? There's one between two at most?" Additionally, she could see that the troops were unused to whatever they were doing. Half were meandering here and there while the other half worked. "Perhaps it is best if you directed those questions to our supplies officers in the Grey Faction," Mātaatua half-answered her. As they passed the dugouts, she could see the shame in Mātaatua's face. During the Purge of the Triffidus, the Shard and the Royal Marines had fielded twice as many second and third-generation units, each with higher rates of fire and overall suppression power than the MK Is. Already, she could see that the Mermen Tide had tested the inner island's defences. Up north, corpses six-deep in pre-dug mass graves were being piled up and covered by crawler Golems with their scooped, shovel-like limbs. "Is Auckland holding up okay?" Gwen asked, suddenly worried about Wellington. "Better now, thanks to your team's Purge of the Wellington Shaol," Mātaatua was forthright. "At the very least, you've dimmed the chaos in the council since those with relatives there are no longer clamouring for justice." "Justice?" "The Greys wished for Paladin Te to split the Mage Flights and save WETA's Mages. They say that if WETA and our forces combined, we'll stand a better chance at holding the Shoal at bay." A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. _I don't think that would have worked_ , Gwen wanted to say. Shyvaphyr would have ripped Wellington in half and taken a dump on WETA's walls if not for herself. "Yeah-Nah, that wasn't going to happen," Richard chimed in. "The Greys should leave the fighting to the ones doing it, eh?" "Thankfully, that's what the Tower Master said," the gruff old Chief affirmed her cousin's analysis. "Only there won't be much fighting, not with that lot holding the purse strings." Heeding the Magister's loaded words, Gwen's attention returned to the defences. The stratagem of the city's defence aside, she was reeling from a sudden realisation. Five years ago, she couldn't walk around Sydney Tower without an escort—now—Magisters who wouldn't have given her the time the day was deferring to her. The difference was slowly putting her "Magisterhood" into perspective. But there was little good news to purr over. From Auckland's bulwarks, she could smell the same stink as she had sensed back in Sydney. Something was rotten at the heart of its management. Something that reminded her of the paralytic infighting that culminated in Walken's catastrophic error. After Sydney, Gunther had exorcised that rot with laser precision—but what of Auckland? To her knowledge, Auckland's status quo had remained unchanged since the late 80s. Once they were past the trio of islands, the hovering silhouette of Auckland Tower became fully visible against the curved horizon of the South Pacific. She had a public duty here, compounded by her heartfelt desire to help Whetu's hometown and Yue's home away from home. She was Auckland's consultant sent from London. And as any consultant worth their salt would know, the opposite of an organisation actively evolving to meet new changes is not paralysis but _regression_. "Auckland thanks Magister Song for her service to Wellington!" After yet another round of applause, Richard was positively sure the welcoming ceremony was dragging on. The converted ceremony room took up a modest section of the Tower's upper decks. From the tapered gangway entry, the room gradually grew in size until it met an impressive pane of curved glass stretching from floor to ceiling. Plates of steaming food sat on heated dollies serviced by the low-level Mages while NoM attendees brought refreshments. Richard found ceremonies cumbersome, especially when pointlessly given to show gratitude. In his opinion, tangible rewards like HDMs for the recipients were superior. Still, he knew that Gwen was a sucker for the superficial and that the same knowledge had filtered into the ear of whoever had arranged the fanfare. Merely watching her expression, which resembled a cat being stroked from head to tail, was enough to inform any observant schemer that shallow praise was Magister Song's guilty pleasure. Before they boarded the Tower, Gwen had expressed her worries for Auckland. And so, as Gwen's second, it was his duty to navigate the masquerade while making a mental list of her foes and friends. While Gwen worked her charms, he had a Faction to bribe and resources to gather, just as Petra had Golems to inspect and Enchanters to visit. Unfortunately, to execute their intentions subtly, they needed the information collected by Aria Ravenport, Gwen's aide from Cambridge. Yet, even with Aria close at hand, the Magisters and Maguses surrounding Gwen like Shark Mermen circling a bleeding porpoise had kept her politely and wholly occupied since their arrival. Lulan had expressed her willingness to make a scene on their behalf an hour earlier, but Gwen had vetoed the notion. Though not the organiser, the Tower Master was their host-in-name, and it would not do to embarrass Whetu and his Master before they could plumb the depth of Auckland's half-hearted defence. Not wishing to waste more time, she had excused him from her circle, then distracted the others by regaling the tale of her defeat of the Shoal. Freed, Richard quickly found his target, one of the "Oceania Ten" Gwen's Master used to toot on occasion, the Ta Moko Enchanter-Transmuter who was their guide from earlier. And who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here during the ceremony. Wa Mātaatua was the Magister's name, looking a little lost among his bevy of mates in the Militant Faction, all grumbling at the meddling members of the Tower's peace-drunk pacifists. Though the truth had to be confirmed with Aria, Richard confidently suspected that the Militant Faction's waning was an unintended consequence of Gwen's meddling. A part of it had to do with the record profits posted by the Grey Factioneers riding off the coattails of Gwen's port authority reforms or the investments on the Isle of Dogs. Another was likely tied to the bankruptcy of Militant backers in the wake of her victory over the Hollands. That Gwen's greed in London could ripple across the Mageocracy like a tsunami was a sobering thought, a realisation that made Richard shiver. He emptied his flute of wine in a single gulp. "Magister Mātaatua," Richard projected a sense of total ease as the unfriendly gaze of the Militants swept over his unwelcomed body. "If I may borrow a minute of your time?" "Of course," the man broke from the group after glancing at his mates. "How can I not make time for the saviours of Wellington? Magus...?" "Huang," Richard replied. "From King's College. Magister Chandra and Milford have often spoken of your time there, Magister Mātaatua." "Oh-ho?" the Mātaatua's expression softened, relaxing the contours of the frightening Ta Moko around his chin and brows. "You're an alumnus as well?" "Still enrolled," Richard laughed sheepishly, then bowed his head. "My good lecturers would be pleased to know that I've met an old friend from their adventuring days." "Would they? Even though I am a Frontiersmen?" The Magister snorted cynically in his direction. "I can read you like a book, boy. Alright—what is it that you want?" "To render some much-needed aid, Sir." Richard was delighted that the Magister read him precisely as he intended to be written. In the straightforward manner of military men, the Magister directed Richard a curt distance from his crew. "Out of respect for Magister Song, I'll bite," the man said. "What is it, Huang? Do you need a favour? Why not ask the Greys over there fawning over her?" "Sir, we're here to gift you a favour. As you have heard, our party managed to defeat the Shoal of the Elemental Prince Shyvaphyr. Interestingly, Paladin Te Wherowhero did not mention that the retreating Elementals had gifted us a subdued Dragon Turtle among our winning spoils." The Magister's eyes widened only a micron but could not help the slight dilation of his pupils. "As the presiding Element of the Dragon Turtle is Para-Elemental Steam," Richard continued with his guileless grin. "Our first thought was how useful its Spirit might become if bounded to the right Mage—such as Lord Benedict Thomas of House Holland." "The inheritor of the Golden Blood," the Magister looked parched. "Yes. I could imagine he would be interested in such a thing." "I imagine he would be well pleased. Pleased enough to send a wealth of resources down to the antipodes," Richard addressed the Magister's intense, demanding gaze with smiling eyes. "As you can tell from Gwen's popularity, we can only hold onto our spoils for the short duration of Magister Song's stay in Auckland. Would you be so kind as to contact Lord Holland and deliver my cousin's goodwill gesture?" Following his rhetorical question, Mātaatua's mien returned to its impassive, intimidating state. "We're far from London, Magus Huang, but I still read the papers. Why should I trust you or your mistress in delivering this rare and undeserved prize? Have you not done enough for our Faction?" "Lord Thomas is but one of the many admirers of milady. Their grievance is no more serious than a lover's spat—not that they're lovers, despite what's been widely circulating." Richard made up his mind to gift the man a few editions of the METRO. "Besides, a foe of only yesterday makes for easy friends when a common crisis lies in ambush, don't you think so, Magister? The Frontier is a large and wealthy prize, and Magister Song is a Frontierswoman. Her friends and home lie here in Oceania. She holds privileged knowledge of the troubles to come. And as a survivor of Sydney, she understands very well her priorities." "A Dragon Turtle, you say?" "One that could rival Lord Golos," Richard lied with relish. "That's one bully Spirit you're selling, then." Mātaatua's tone softened. "The bulliest," Richard assured the man. "And it fought our Mythic-Dragon trained Transmuter to a standstill." "Is that impressive?" "I was certainly impressed." Richard beamed with supernatural confidence. "And this is coming from me, who watched our Magister Song choke a Soul Flayer with her dainty little hands." There was a brief moment of silence; then, the Ta Moko Enchanter tensed up. "You're very well-spoken," the Magister looked at him unhappily. "Has the Grey Faction offered you membership yet?" "I deemed myself unworthy of the offer," Richard confessed to his greatest sin, humility. "By my Astral Soul, this one is content as a Magus secretary under the sky-smothering wings of our Magister Song." The two men regarded one another. "Tell me, boy—is she a good Chief?" "A boy from the Frontiers could not beg for better," Richard replied. "I see," the Maori Chief seemed satisfied with his answers. "Very well, I will deliver your message through our secure channels. Should Lord Thomas accept…" "We will have the Spirit ready for taming," Richard said. "The Lord will need to supply a retinue and the necessary resources. We're only equipped for repelling the Shoal." "Understandable," the Magister said. "Leave me your Glyph. I will contact you as soon as we receive word." "Understood." "How would Magister Song like to be paid?" The Military man asked, then thought better of his curiosity. "—No, don't have to answer that." "That would be between Lord Holland and Magister Song," Richard revealed nothing as he patted himself on the back for a job well done, simultaneously sending out his Empathic feelers for Lea's mark, which he'd left on Gwen. "I dare say, Chief Mātaatua, that our Magister will have her work cut out for her." On the other side of the formal room, Gwen mulled over the second act of the _Third South Sea Conflict_. The soprano was Gwen herself, around whom the city's brass encircled. She was joined by her aide-de-camp, Aria Ravenport, who introduced each of the Maguses and Magisters, ofttimes appending their names with juicy little details of which Faction her admirers belonged. Opposite and in opposition stood the leadership of Auckland Tower, headed by the silver-haired Tower Master Esther Hildebrandt, a contemporary of her Master's for almost two decades, flanked by Te Wherowhero, Auckland's Maori Paladin. Yue naturally represented Sydney, joined here and there by Melbourne and Brisbane Tower's representatives. Over the last few hours, Gwen quickly realised that she had vastly underestimated the scope of Cambridge's Magisterial trial. The naive part of her had anticipated something of a repeated Wellington involving a top-down attack on the Shoal, supported by the might of Auckland Tower. Instead, the atmosphere in the converted Officer's Mess reminded her of the unpleasant disarray her Master had concocted in neglecting Sydney's political infighting. Presently, the praise had dried up, and the discussion in the room had moved from the crystal clarity of victory at Wellington toward something mired in mud. "We've reached an acceptable parity," one of the Magisters Aria had attributed to the local Grey Faction was leading the charge. "Thankful as we are to Magister Song, let us not lose our heads. A Mermen Tide is something to be outlived, not repelled. Magister Mātaatua's Magma Element might be boiling over at the prospect of harvesting more Core from the Shoal, but at what cost?" "Hori has a point," another voice affirmed the first. "The Shoal's lost its momentum, and now we have Magister Song on our side. Auckland can and will survive this Shoal, just as its survived every other invasion. The Expedition from London will arrive in six months to relieve us even if the Mermen does not retreat." "Aye, Auckland isn't Sydney—even if we win, the cost to our sorcerous resources will make our next stand against the next Shoal nigh-impossible," another voice echoed the sentiments of the first. _Zero escalation_ , Aria had informed her, was the predominant view of the Grey Faction in Auckland. When properly repaired, a well-run defence war was a profitable venture in materials and experience, meaning many in Auckland held the fragile hope of coming out of the invasion stronger than before. Their longing, Gwen supposed, wasn't without merit, for Gunther had proven beyond doubt that Sydney had emerged from "The Fall" stronger when it was under Henry's stewardship. _And_ Gunther was now Sydney's sole benign dictator. If the same could be achieved for Auckland, what was not to like? To deploy herself into the Shoal—and to have her fight with her back against the Tower, would absolutely constitute an escalation of the zenith degree, triggering the trickling tide into a sea sprout of fish flesh. Of course, the militants were adamant that repulsing the Shoal would ensure a decade of peace for Auckland, not to mention opening up enormous swaths of the South Sea to fishing and explorations. "Facing the Shoal is inevitable," the lonely voice of a Militant adherent had paid little heed to the Grey Faction Mages as he spoke with Gwen. "The South Sea Expedition will need to Purge the region from here to the pole regardless. It would serve your purpose better to conduct the Purge while the Tower is active." "Tua, need I remind you that the Tower is a defensive structure?" Te Wherowhero shot down the man's suggestion that they should park the Tower atop the Shoal and let Gwen get to work. "You would expend the lives of our Mages to disperse a Shoal that would leave anyway?" The Greys weren't having it insofar as the city's warmongering went. "Give it two months from now, and it will starve. A Shoal of that size has to feed, and there's only so much food between the coast and the Barrier Islands for Merman to forage." "Every Merman we let live today will return twenty-fold!" the Militant snarled at his contemporaries. "With Magister Song on lease to Auckland, we have only this opportunity." "Sure, _we have Magister Song_ ," a Grey Faction Magister mocked the man. "But who will pay for the Tower's expenditure? That's millions of HDMs, Tua. _Millions_. Will your Faction pay for it? Are you even able to? Even if you sold all the Cores you harvest, will it be enough? What about the damaged port? The ships we'll lose? Who will pay for those? Mātaatua? Your bosses from Sandhurst? From the Shard? How will they compensate Magister Song for her time?" The party, Gwen sighed, was becoming bothersome. She understood very well that this too was a part of her training as a Magister, but she felt sickened by the redolence of fungi in the room. So many words were being spoken, and yet so little was done. It was a stark difference from her experiences in London, where the folk she had crossed wands with all possessed the power to make the changes they desired. Lord Ravenport was one such example; the Lady of Ely was another. The Chinese got their shit done, one way or another. Hell, the Dwarves she had met could commit to action within minutes or fist-fight for consensus. Even with the Elves, refutations were firm and final, allowing her to make alternate plans. But this was word vomit, conflict without resolve, kicking the can down the lane. _I should take a trip up to Sydney._ Her mind wandered in the midst of her polite silence. _I should visit Almundj._ When finally, the droning debate became something resembling white noise, Gwen looked around the room to see what her friends were doing. Yue was the wisest of them, for she was gone no sooner had the arguments started, immediately securing a place for her followers closest to the seafood buffet. Richard was floating beside Mātaatua, laying foundations, while Petra and Lulan stood by their lonesome selves, projecting such palpable auras of desired solitude that none dared to approach. "War is money," the representative from the Greys made his case. "We're not rich enough to sink the current Shoal and afford the next one. No hard feelings, Tua." "Is that your opinion, Tower Master?" the Militant Factioneer scowled at Gwen's host. Like herself, the Tower Master had remained silent while her subjects played out their parts. As the first among equals, her presumed neutrality was the correct position to assume. In many ways, Gwen was learning very shockingly just how peculiar and tyrannical her Master had been in his tenure as the "Master of the Ten". "Magister Song," Hildebrandt turned to Gwen for an answer. "What is the Shard's preference?" It felt strange to Gwen that though she was Henry's heir, her position beside Aria Ravenport acknowledged her as the voice of the Shard. By now, she was well aware that her default position in the eyes of Auckland was an expensive insurance policy—one Auckland loathed to claim for fear of next year's increased premium. She gave the room her best smile. If her only recourse were to wait for Nyrlesvinyr to come to her, she wouldn't complain. However, she had plans of her own. If Auckland were anything like Sydney, there would be work here that only herself, as a London Magister in the Frontiers, could do. From what she had seen of the Golems and the conditions of the city's Militia, somebody somewhere was making HDMs hand over fist. Thereby, for the success of her expedition in six months and to build enough trust in Auckland to deal with the fallout of what she might find on Mount Erebus, she must exercise a different kind of power. "Well—" her voice bounced from the enormous pane of glass overlooking the bay and the Shoal below. "I am perfectly happy, whatever they may be. If not offence, then allow me to aid in _every aspect_ of Auckland's defence _."_

For a Magister-tier practitioner of fiscal cultivation in London, the fact of the Tower allowing the Greys to leave the meeting to reconvene on a later date was tale-telling evidence the leadership was drunk on peace. Gwen wasn't upset. After all, the same had applied to Sydney as well. Before the Mermen Tide, her home had been left alone to develop its enterprises for two decades without a major catastrophe. Henry Kilroy had never neglected the city's defences or its economic development, but in hindsight, her Master had failed the secret courts of the human heart. On paper, the assumption was that the Militant Factions went to war with their urgency and disciplined adherence to duty and sacrifice during active campaigns. Assuming all survived, the Greys transmuted the spoils into profit, ushering forth rapid reconstruction and investment, replenishing the Militant's reserve forces. And somewhere in between, the neutral parties of the Middle Faction ensured that neither Faction grew bloated with ambition, keeping the political status of a Tower in flux. In Auckland, that balance no longer existed, and from the looks of matters, the Greys had grown corpulent in recent years. Gwen found the imbalance curious, for even in London, where the Duke of Norfolk himself was both the capstone officer of her Majesty's Royal Forces and the presumed voice of the Grey Faction, its members upheld a profound humility as state-sanctioned merchants. Comparatively, the Greys in Auckland wielded their HDMs like a gavel, bopping whoever dared to protest with the daring arrogance of landlord to lessees. As an outsider looking in, Gwen could see the imbalance as clear as day, but for the residents who had passively allowed the matter to transpire? She only hoped the Tower Master and her Paladin weren't complicit. Whatever the case, for Auckland to survive the Shoal while remaining in the black, she would need to deploy her unique position as a London Magister and a loathsome hand of the Shard. At tea, she had proclaimed her duty to oversee _every_ aspect of the war, including its logistics. The Magisters had gone silent, and the Tower Master had exhaled what she hoped was a sigh of relief. Paladin Te did not protest either, meaning the suddenly stifling atmosphere had been left to simmer until the jubilation of victory at Wellington had entirely evaporated. Then, in full public view and with the natural arrogance of a landed aristocrat, she had requested that a level in the Tower be made ready for her _office_ , then demanded from Tower Master Hildenbrandt exclusive access to the Tower's sanctioned records. "Absurd!" "She can't do that! Can she?" "We're a sovereign, federated state!" Protests had erupted like Clam-selling Mermen from the seashore. "Besides, she's from the Shard!" "I see no reason we can't trust the Saviour of Wellington," Paladin Te Wherowhero had quailed the protest with a deep and resonating grunt. "Tower Master?" "Magister Song is the sister of Lord Shultz." Esther Hildenbrandt had given a supporting verdict. "Lady Aria Ravenport has informed me that Gwen also has the support of the Duke of Norfolk and the Marchioness of Ely. Furthermore, Magister Song is the one who oversaw the Tonglv Canal in Shanghai and the restoration of the Kachin, Nagaland, Yangoon, and Manipur Frontiers. She turned around the failed finances of the Fire Sea at Shalkar, and she is also the mastermind behind the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment project…" The Tower Master had filled the room with her projected aura as she spoke. Esther Hildenbrandt was no Henry Kilroy or Gunther Shultz, which dulled her presence in Gwen's eyes, but she was nonetheless an old Magister with decades of collated sorcery to back up her claims. As a renowned Abjurer and the teacher of Whetu, she possessed many merits others could not begin to match. "… in my mind, none here can match her achievements in the field of civil service, nor her prowess as a War Mage. Besides, have you all forgotten Henry built this Tower? Why would his Apprentice mean us harm? As the Auckland Tower's executive, I ask that Magister Song take on the role of a provisional Assistant Administrator for the duration of her stay in Auckland. Is that a possibility, Magister Song?" Gwen had done her best to feign humility. "I am young and inexperienced," she confessed to a sea of blank and worried faces, pausing for effect. "So I must abstain…" The faces grew hopeful. "…from my faults… and listen to the counsel of Master Hildenbrandt. I can see from your hopeful faces that you've buckled this duty onto my back, so I will endure the load to lessen your burdens." The faces grew dour. "Worry not, friends. I am sure everyone here has done their very best for Auckland!" Gwen had given the crowd her biggest, brightest, most effervescent smile. "Trust me, and we'll show you how we debit and credit in Cambridge! Rest assured, good folk, no waste will be left unaddressed!" The applause that followed had been resounding, though any auditor could tell there was no heart. Look at the grim faces behind the clapping palms meeting in prayer; Gwen wondered if anyone was dumb enough to have a go at her. Indeed, with enough HDMs as motivation, folks could be inspired to do anything. The same truth was valid for both this world and her old one. And that was why Gwen now paced through an empty quadrant of the Sky Tower's sixty-fourth Pocket Space, organising workspaces with her team from Cambridge. Looking at the Mages borrowed from the Cambridge and the Ravenports going about their familiar business, Gwen was beginning to deeply suspect either Charlene or the Duke had expected this to happen. Somehow, despite their diverse skillsets, her team of alumni all had experiences in public service, whether at the Shard or Oxbridge, and most were familiar with account keeping to boot. Still, she had requested additional aid, as they would need more men and women than that to sift through Auckland's receipts. _WEEEEEEEEE—EEEEM—_ She was in the middle of setting up processing stations and drafting up additional personnel from London or Shanghai when a reverberating thrum travelled up the floor through her stilettos and gave her a mild migraine. The Tower's Resonance Field was now active. "Magister Song," Aria called from the window, beyond which the party from Cambridge afforded a clear and uninterrupted view of the Shoal further out to sea. "Another skirmish has begun." Her team approached the floor to ceiling panes as one. Two streams of the froth-laced sea were slowly hugging the sheltered bay of Auckland like the writhing underside of a giant squid. When the tentacles came close to the Shielding Stations, a portion of the Mermen Tide disintegrated, boiling the blue sea until countless bodies floated to the top. At the same time, ripples of disturbed resonance flashed across invisible panes, spontaneously generating arcs of plasma to strike the bubbling surface. As more and more floating carcasses piled on top of their predecessors, the hazy shielding grew warped until, some five or six minutes since Aria first drew her attention, the stations closest to the Mermen fizzled. "Whoa-whoa-whoa," one of the Cambridge Mages muttered. "Is that normal? We don't see that back in London." "They're just overloaded," Petra assured them. "It'll take a few hours for the core to cool—" _DING!_ The Message that bloomed beside Gwen and her combat team of Richard, Lulan and Petra was the _red_ of catastrophe. "Gogo, it's time for work. Let Dede know he's up." Gwen announced to the air, informing her frolicking Wyvern and duck from their temporary abode in Coromandel, some fifty kilometres from the incursion. With Golos away, it was up to Dede to keep the turtle honest, and though her duck was no match for the Demi-Dragon, it spoke in her stead, thus ensuring obedience. "Petra, can you check up on the stations and see what you can do?" "Understood, Magister." "And Aria, keep an eye on the Factioneers while we're gone." she laid out her orders. "Record everything. If anyone complains or dares refuse our request for receipts—or BURNS them—" "Tell them to complain to Caliban in person." Aria gave her an affirming nod. "… and tell them the Duke of Norfolk is always watching," Gwen appended her aide's conjecture. "Maybe gift them a small photo portrait of her majesty or something. Remind them that compliance and forgiveness go hand-in-hand, while each degree of obfuscation will only dig them deeper into bankruptcy… and worse. The Frontlines are always hungry for more Mages." "Understood." Aria took notes. "Shall I pursue our staff requests from Shanghai and London?" "See what London can offer first, then Shanghai." Gwen glossed over her workload for the coming months. "Double the pay and guarantee their safety. If they're wasting my time to help with an assault as lightweight as this, I feel we'll be reclaiming a lot more than we can spend." The "invasion" of Auckland lasted two days and would have consumed a week were it not for Gwen and the firepower, firepower, and firepower of Yue Bai. Supported by the Sky Tower, Gwen and two Flights of Auckland's Mages had taken up a Forward Operating Base on the northern Barrier Islands closest to the Shoal, which allowed them to create chaos in the flow of Mermen bodies cascading southward from both the east and west. Yue and her team had taken up the forts in Stony Batter on Waiheke, frying the Mermen as they crowded the shallows and made landfall en mass. During the lulls, Gwen teleported back to the Tower to check on the progress of her auditing team, deeply suspecting that the Greys were using her work with the Shoal to keep her busy and away from the transaction records. Of course, she was far too wily to be easily distracted, which meant Golos, Ariel and Caliban were given the lion's share of her labours in reducing the advancing chattel to chowder. The closeness of their areas of operation also meant that she could meet up with Whetu and Yue, who never seemed put off by the endless massacre of Mermen, and could down seafood by the tray at lunchtime without a single hint of hesitation. As a testament to her fortitude, the Fire Sorceress often showed up bearing crab legs and lobster claws the size of people. When finally the Sky Tower's Diviners had announced that the Shoal retracted its tendrils, the city's defenders raised their burnt wands to the sky, exhaling ragged cheers of relief. Richard and Petra were exhausted, with Lulan fairing only a little better thanks to her unique style of mana cultivation. As for Gwen, the brimming vitality cramming her innards was more potent than drinking a dozen espresso shots. Within the last fifty hours, she had seen both Auckland's glory and its failures. Doubtlessly, the city's morale was well-groomed by Master Hildebrandt, for its militia was paradoxically both hopeful and desperate. And without a doubt, the militia manning her forward operating base was well supplied and provisioned. However, when she detoured to Yue's battle station, she saw a clear and unequal display of either favouritism, incompetence, or outright kleptocracy. For instance, there were six "amplifiers-forts" on Waiheke, each housing a minimum of two platoons of men, forming a defensive line of fighting staff plus two squads of support personnel. However, the furtherer a Mage wandered from Yue's home base in Stony Batter, the scantier their equipment became. For instance, Gwen's NoM militia squads utilised a random assortment of elemental wands. Additionally, for every tenth man, an Evoker acolyte manned a portable Spellsword array capable of laying down rapid-firing Scorching Rays. Likewise, her men and women wore magically-enhanced body armour, and their bandoliers carried crystal cartridges for their weapons AND healing, antidote, and fortitude potions. When Gwen flew in to support the island's middle region, an inlet called Onetangi, she was shocked to find the militia fending off the Mermen at melee range, using roughly-built, elevated palisades to afford the reach of Shock Spears wielded by unarmored soldiers. It was the sort of thing she had only seen in rural Shanghai, with the local "people's militia" fighting the Frogmen, while here was the midst of a full-blown tide, with an active Tower overhead! When she found their squad leader, an Abjurer Sergeant, the man readily complained that the Tower had left them inadequate resources—but understood the shortage to be endemic and, therefore, "such is life". Gwen had left the man two crates of potions and a pair of her Lightning Hounds the size of horses, then Messaged Aria to affirm her findings. "Magister Song," her aides' report was prompt and immediate. "You were right, and I've compiled some interesting data for your perusal. The manifests match, but the inventory outgoing shows symptoms of missing parts and plant equipment. There are also entire shipments on loan but never returned." As Gwen suspected, something had begun to rot at Auckland's heart. Someone far less skilful and ambitious than Eric Walken was playing silly bugger politics in this time of crisis, believing that NOW of all times was the ripest moment to loot supplies and canvass power. Thankfully, due to her quick demoralisation of the Shoal's assault, she had several days to spare, which she spent organising her staff and putting them to the task at hand. Unlike the monotonous career of Frontier Mages, the overeducated Cambridge graduates were multi-talented and overtly arrogant, making them excellent at collecting information and coercing documents and records from Auckland's middle-level Maguses and Mages. Gwen watched the filing chamber grow day by day, filling her shelves with rows of data slates and manuscripts. As for the mood in the Sky Tower, the hot topic very quickly shifted from the "Saviour from the Shard" to the "Imperialist Dog-botherer." Not that Gwen particularly cared. Whatever goods these kleptomaniacs had hidden in their bellies, in front of the Devourer—all shall regurgitate their share. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. By the twelfth day since her arrival, the Shoal once more initiated an assault. That same morning, she received the news that her guest, the man with the Golden Blood, Lord Benedict Thomas of House Holland, had arrived to rouse morale on the "Front". Of the lord and the fishes, Gwen chose the latter, venturing out into the bay to dissuade the Shoal's tentative tentacles from molesting Auckland's shores. And so it was that the orange-haired heir of House Holland found the Devourer in the middle of a feeding frenzy, her Da-peng armour dripping with wasteful droplets of excess Void. "Magister Song." The lordly ginger was alone, though Gwen had no doubt the man had bodyguards who could appear in a split second at the slightest sign of danger. "You look ravishing as always." Gwen ceased conducting the carnage below and allowed Caliban to take over the swarm. "Lord Holland, how lovely to see you again. Lovely English weather we're having here in Auckland. Doesn't it make you feel right at home?" As was the preference for Mermen attacks, the sky was densely overcast and threatening to pour. When the actual downpour occurred, it would induce the full weight of the Shoal's present attempt at breaching Auckland. Ergo, her job was to break the Shoal's momentum before that happened. Gwen pulled back the cowl of her Da-peng garb to reveal her flushed face. The young lord's eyes lingered a little longer than he would have liked before moving to take her hand. Now facing the lord, she offered a mid-air curtsy as instructed by Le Guevel. The young lord briefly passed his thin, bloodless lip over her gauntlet, concluding the exchange. "Though I have longed for another meeting, Magister Song, I must confess that my interest this time is the Dragon Turtle," Benedict Thomas carefully chose his words. "That said, to support your efforts, you have my full authority as gifted by the crown." Despite his elite upbringing, Thomas was curt, polite, and to the point, all points that scored well within Gwen's expectations of a good LinkedIn profile. "Where are your men?" Gwen looked past the man to the space behind him. "The Lord of Holland doesn't travel solo, does he?" "They're making sure of the rumours." The young Lord inclined his chin. "Your aide reported discrepancies and that the Greys are to blame? To undermine the military in an active war zone—that's a fatal offence. If true, I could skewer a few of the Greys on pikes, go home and still receive a medal." "Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Gwen rectified the man's bias. "Of course, numbers don't lie. The Greys are doing very well, and the Militias with ties to the Grey Market have the least losses. Once we follow the paper trails to their natural conclusions—or missing filings, as it were—we'll know who to bring in for questioning." Thomas gave her a smirk. "Lovely. By the by, I brought the men you requisitioned as well. Nineteen volunteers from the Isle of Dogs. Charlene said you needed them in a hurry, so I arranged priority transfer at Heathrow." "That's very nice of you." Gwen paused mid-sentence as a jolt of vitality hit, making Thomas gulp. "—One second. I've caught something." "As you were, Magister." Thomas retained his impeccable manners by drifting out of conversation range, just in case Gwen needed to shield up. "GURRRWARRRR—RRRRGH—!" Some hundred meters from the talking pair, the sea erupted, vomiting forth an enormous manta ray half the width of the Sky Tower's circular flight deck. With a great flap of its hydrodynamic wings, the gargantuan manta took flight, making headway toward her general direction. Thomas whistled. _SCHWIIIING—!_ _SCH—SCHWIIIING—!_ Without prompts from Gwen, seven swords, each larger than Gwen herself, whistled past herself and the space between her and Thomas, momentarily lighting up their faces with the passage of weighted steel polished to a mirror shine. The blades struck flesh some fifty meters away, burying themselves to the hilt in the meat of the advancing skyscraper. The manta's combat prowess as a troop-carrying battering ram was formidable, but Gwen knew it was taking flight as an act of desperation. Already, there were no less than six Camry-sized lampreys attached to its fins and undersides, busily wearing down its vital regeneration to burrow past the cartilage and liquify the manta's delicious organs. A second later, Metallic Sword Bursts erupted across the manta's flanks, causing its trajectory to falter, raining down gory chunks of stringy white meat. Through her Empathic Link, Gwen commanded Golos to stay put, wondering if Thomas the Steam Mage would act the gentlemen and put himself in harm's way to protect the "lady" on his lips. Forty meters... Thirty meters... "Magister…" Thomas gave her a gentle cough and a look of consternation. "The creature isn't dead yet." Apparently, she was no lady—and neither did Thomas feel like playing the gent. With another flap of its giant wings, the manta issued forth a dozen jets of water from its underside, propelling it upward and forward with the momentum of an otherworldly spaceship. There was no howl, no pain-fuelled battle cry, just the sound of whirling water buffeting the air as the manta hoped to swallow the Mages whole. "Golos!" At a distance of a dozen meters, Gwen gave the command. Her Wyvern appeared at once, abandoning the distant rumble of a sonic boom behind it as it struck the manta perpendicular to its gills. The spectacle was artful ultraviolence, for no sooner had the Draconic ball lightning exploded in a crimson blot of pink impressionism did Golos' tail club concaved the building-sized manta's gut into a sudden "U", causing the creature's innards to erupt from its upper back like a burst water balloon. Stepping slightly ahead of Gwen, Thomas twiddled his fingers, instantly manifesting a wall of turbulent air to swirl away the incoming shower of scarlet sea spray. Now a limp blanket the size of a soccer field, the manta began its inevitable descent. Side by side, Gwen and her guest watched her Wyvern fly away with what was presumedly the Core. A few moments later, the airborne troop carrier fell into the Shoal, slicing the roving tendril of Mermen troops in twain with a wall of water a dozen meters tall. "Where were we?" The man offered no words of honeyed praise. "Oh yes, I've also brought the supplies Magister Mātaatua requested." "You have my thanks." "Might I ask a question?" "Sure," Gwen said as she swept her mind over her array of Lampreys. The Shoal was in a panic, meaning without interruptions or the command of a higher-order Mermen, a rout should soon be in the works. "Shoot." "Why are you helping us?" Thomas asked. "The Militants, I mean. I thought we were at odds." "I am helping _Auckland._ " Gwen met the man's eyes. "I am a Magister of Her Majesty's Commonwealth, am I not? Are you not the same?" "I can't fault that answer." Thomas' smile grew wry. "But I can't help but feel you've laid a trap for us. You've cultivated an impressive reputation after the collapse of the Barlow Group. The old families are dredging the household coffers to put up the Northern Expedition." "Ah, how is that going?" Gwen asked. "I know it's been less than a month, and you don't have to tell me if the information is privileged." "It is. But you possess that privilege as a leading Magister of the Southern Expedition." Thomas appeared thoughtful. "I can tell you that the Breaker Carrier has already arrived on Greenland and that we've settled into the old fortifications there, the ones build before the Beast Tide." "Any Fire Elementals?" "There's always Fire Elementals," Thomas said. "But if you're talking about that rumour of Elementals attempting to change the composition of the Prime Material, then we're seeing some weight to your conjectures." "That's not good news." Gwen was genuinely surprised the upper echelon of this world could be so accepting of something so unknown. Was it because of the Elves? Or was it that, in the absence of political culture wars, Climate Change could remain in its purest incarnation—an arithmetic chain of factual cause and effects? "I am happy someone's taking it seriously, though." "Yes, the Expedition is taking the claim seriously," Thomas assured her. "How could we not? We were immediately attacked the moment we made landfall. The dense southern shrublands had been reduced to ash, so there was no possibility of an ambush—but we were still damn surprised to be suddenly swarmed by Ember Sprites in an arctic Black Zone!" "They burned the trees?" Gwen felt her chest tighten. "All of it?" "A lot of it. I am guessing they used the old woods to enrich the lack of Elemental Fire" Thomas confirmed her fears. "There was soot as far as the eye could see. Even the snow was black slush. I don't know how extensive the phenomenon was due to the smoke and smog obscuring reconnaissance, but it's safe to say at least our quadrant was entirely consumed. We were in the middle of launching Recon-in-Force when your Message arrived. I burned a Contingency Ring to return to London. Father prepared the supplies for Auckland, and now, here I am." Gwen felt a ping of envy. _Burning a Contingency Ring to avoid the week-long travel?_ When could she amass enough materials to exercise the Steam Mage's sense of priorities? Still, the picture the man painted for her wasn't looking very nice for the scenario she had in mind. From her Planar knowledge classes, she knew with absolute certainty that changing the elemental composition of a Prime Material region required a disproportional volume of mana on a scale unimaginable even to Elemental Monarchs. However, what if the heralds of the Fire Sea only wanted to crinkle the status quo? What shockwaves could a tsunami of such a scale engender? Would they even know, or were they merely poking the bear to see if it would swipe at the cages, gambling that it would break loose? "Did you find the Hvítálfar grove?" Gwen asked, recalling her final briefing before she left. "The one Tryfan dubbed the Frost Tree of Lhîweth." "No luck, not even close," Thomas spoke while admiring the carnage below. "Considering the resistance we are experiencing, even if we bulldoze forward with the Centurion MKIIs, it'll take weeks." "You have Aerial Battle Wings with you, don't you? They can't fly out and check how things are faring at the tree?" "Battle Mages don't make Forward Operating Bases or account for logistics for the eight thousand men and women surviving in a Black Zone," Thomas retorted with the tone of an instructor. "Even with aid from the Order of St George and the Knights of the Garter, we're having trouble mopping up the Undead." Her heart grew still. "There's _what_ now?" " _Undead_ Mermen." Thomas raised a brow. "They crawl forth from the slush and soot and ambush our patrols. That's the reason why we're thinking of pushing through a corridor with walking barrages. You weren't told?" "I wasn't privy to that detail." Gwen thought of Erebus and Antarctica. She had at least five months before the converted Battle Barge assigned to the Southern Expedition could make its way to New Zealand. If so, what did that mean for the Planar balance there? What if the changes in Antarctica weren't the actions of natural forces but malicious actors? Would her Dwarves, the Mages from Manipur, and the troops assigned by the Shard be enough to deal with the Undead? Unlike Thomas' Northern Expedition, her's was a fact-finding mission. Even with her forces and the Raven Guards onboard, their expedition was two and a half thousand souls. "I am sure Charlene will make provisions. If she mentions the Undead, the Ordo Garter can be very generous in mobilising the Purifiers of the Chalice." Gwen could only nod. The South Pole, the unknown aftermath of a major volcanic eruption, suspicions of Spectre, the Great Tree of Illhîweth, and now the Undead... Her plate was feeling a little too full. Beside her, Thomas alternated between studying her contemplative face and the raging battle below. "The Mermen are routed," the man said after a while. "Between been eaten by your Void beasts and the Mermen-you-know, I'd prefer the latter." "Caliban, Ariel, Gogo, pursue and scatter, hunt down the ones on the shore," Gwen gave audible commands for the benefit of her guest. "If you run into any trouble, immediately retreat inland." Gwen mulled over the logistics of maximising her forces for when Charlene arrived on the carrier. While Thomas loudly marvelled at the autonomy of her creatures. The aftermath took just over an hour, which was enough time for Thomas' men to clean up the Mermen that had made landfall and rejoin their Major-ranked noble. "Alright, thanks for waiting, Thomas," Gwen announced the conclusion of her operation, gathering Lulan and Richard to her side before finally addressing the patient Benedict Thomas of House Holland. "Let's go see that Turtle of yours." The taming of a Wildland "Spirit" was no easy feat. For pedestrian creatures, a Mage could slaughter enough of them until the higher powers of arithmetic deemed them worthy of a Spirit-imbued Core. It was the most common manner by which Mages acquired Spirits, though such a tried and true method had a significant imperfection. The shattered Spirit would possess little to no Ego. Of course, common Mages, especially those in the Frontier, preferred such a Spirit, for Spirits without a robust Ego were obedient, pliant, and cheap. Higher-order Mages, especially Conjurers, harkened after the Holy Grail of Spirits with unblemished Egos. These were far more difficult to obtain, for no Elemental worth the trouble of befriending would prefer existential symbiosis over simple extinction. And if one added additional prefixes like "Draconic", even London's Magisters would grow desperate for the opportunity. Therefore, Richard had devised that House Holland could not help but take up the offer and owe her a debt that arguably would take enormous endeavours to repay. "This is Zippy," Gwen introduced the monstrous Dragon-faced alligator snapping turtle of the South Sea with a casual gesture. "Zitusphyr was what the Turtle Prince called him, but I think Zippy suits him fine." Thomas flew around the turtle, tracing a spiral path as he inspected the goods. When he returned to her side, the man took a suspicious gander at Dede and then tossed the duck an enormous, fist-sized block of raw HDM. "He's beautiful." "Damned, right." Gwen made a move, feigning a slap on the turtle's top shell, feeling every inch like Mario trying to hawk Bowser Jr at a slave sale. "This bad boy can fit so many Steam Bombs inside his Spirit. You'll be Purging Greenland of the Undead in no time." "This is the human?" Zitusphyr raised a tired eye to regard the young Lord Holland. It radiated Dragon Fear, not that Gwen and her companions cared for it. "A mortal?" "I art no _mere_ Mortal," Thomas introduced himself in acceptable Draconic. "Our House has a pact with thine cousins of Elemental Fire, so I am no stranger to thy traditions or thine kind." _Oh-ho?_ Gwen glanced at the man. Now that's a juicy bit of information. Did that mean the Hollands had an alliance with _Sythinthimryr?_ The ancient Red with her nest of kin in Carrauntoohil, the natural circuit breaker for the Wild Hunt's yearly adventures? If so, what kind of Pact? A defence one? A Vessel? Whatever the case, it made sense that the noble families of the Mageocracy had those connections; else, Evee and herself would be true anomalies worthy of dissection. Zitusphyr wasn't the most intelligent of Dragon-kin Gwen'd seen, but even so, the creature tilted its head with scepticism. "You would challenge this one for the Rite? For life or extinction?" The turtle growled. "For dominion and obedience," Thomas affirmed the turtle's question. "Thou art mine now, young Zitusphyr—but let us not forsake the old ways. We shall entertain a contest with our Astral Souls. Should I yield or perish, Magister Song here shall free thee from bondage to return to thy kin. Should this _mere_ mortal best thee—thou wilt yield to me and be my shield and companion until mine end of days." The Dragon turtle turned to regard Gwen's posse of menacing Mages and magical creatures. "The human speaks true?" _So you want freedom. After all,_ Gwen held back from mocking the prideful turtle. "Yes. I will allow— _WHOA!!!_ " _SNAP!_ A sonic clap from the Dragon Turtle's suddenly distended tail struck Thomas—or more accurately, a Steam Clone with the likeness of the Holland heir, exploding the mirage in a burst of pale mist. Gwen felt bedazzled, both by the speed of Thomas' Dimension Door, which was a Specialist variation that left behind life-like visages in Steam—and at Zitusphyr's low, animal cunning. If it was herself, she would have bought into the belief of Draconic honour and may have even taken a hit, assuming Zippy had the gonads to sucker-punch an Old One's Vessel. The re-materialising Thomas was not only unharmed but armoured and helmeted. "A low-blow, dear beast," the Mage's body began to bleed streams of Elemental Steam as he spoke, his silhouette growing more obscured with every word. "Come, Zitusphyr! I'll tame you if it's the last thing I do!" As to what followed, Gwen held little interest. Her trade was done, her favour was called, the supplies were delivered, and what Thomas did with the turtle was wholly his business. As she drifted serenely from the unfolding war zone of Elemental Steam, Dragon Breathes and ricochetting shards of "Force" from Thomas' Signature Magic, her mind once more turned to the Tower's affairs. Richard re-materialised beside her, and Lulan Misty Stepped into view. "Gwen." Lulu licked her lips at the action below. "Are we returning to the Tower?" her cousin asked. "Yes," Gwen affirmed Richard's suspicions. "Now that Lord Holland is here to shoulder the heat... it's time to balance the accounts."

Though Gwen possessed perfect faith in Thomas' show of goodwill, she nonetheless detoured past the lesser defence nodes as her party returned to the Sky Tower. The young lord's politicking was within expectations, which was to say she felt let down by the tunnel vision of the Faction-minded Mages. _Is it because I am a stranger to the fact?_ She considered the conditions of the city besieged by bipedal fish. If she were a true native, would it be possible for her to feel so removed from the ingrained politics of the state? Whatever her feelings, Thomas had gifted potions, HDM cartridges and a wealth of Wands to the militia—but only to the ones whose commanders were closely aligned to the Militants. In the young lord's mind, he was tipping the favour of the balance back to the "norm", which was good—but the act was hardly magnanimous nor served to counter Auckland's deeper problems of unclean hands. If she were in Thomas' position, she would have confiscated and re-balanced the sheets, giving each team equal treatment, bolstered with a resounding speech about fighting fish on the beaches. Then, with coercion from the Shard and a little help from either Caliban or Golos, she would have re-rostered the NCOs of each Militia platoon to disrupt the status quo of favouritism. Her first return stop was the Officer's Mess, for the nourishment of vitality wasn't the same as the full-bellied warmth of a hearty meal. In times of peace, the kitchen operated only at lunch and dinner. In their present state of war, the staff worked around the clock with rotating shifts. Richard was a staunch believer in Fish and Chips, Lulan's was for fried rice, while Gwen herself was partial to the honest protein of Auroch Steak. As for Petra, she wholly organised her timetable around her team's repair and maintenance of the Shielding Stations. Gwen studied the mess' inhabitants as they ate, noting that her party was alternatively hailed, sidestepped, and glared at by nervous Mages coming and going from their duties. Perhaps it was the Da-peng suit, but Gwen felt like a bit of a bird being paraded for a captive audience. By now, her popularity was far from when they'd first drifted in from Wellington, but Gwen didn't mind. Auditors, like their cousin tax collectors, had no friends except among colleagues. And to folk other than Te and the Tower Master of Auckland, she was both. "Petra," she faxed over a Message to her Enchanter. "We're heading over soon. Shall I bring you something?" "I'll be fine. I've got rations," Gwen's Mind Mage replied through the pulsing orb. "I'll need to return and finish once new supplies arrive via the ISTC. The Glyphs here are positively ancient." "In a good way?" Gwen asked. It was a bit hard to tell when it came to Glyphs whether older was better. "What do you think?" Petra sounded a bit frustrated. Gwen guessed her cousin's impatience to mean that a great deal of jerry-rigging had been performed by any number of Enchanters on the original Glyph system over the years. A repair, therefore, wouldn't even be possible without first untangling the cat's cradle. Gwen possessed a similar system of magic in the beginning, with her Spellbook consisting of her Master's magic, her high school's teachings, Alesia's modding, Gunther's gifts, and various incantations she bought and found. However, since she had gained access to Henry's notes, much of her theory work had been streamlined by her studies at Cambridge. "I'll send someone down with fresh food later," Gwen promised. _And a bottle of Maotai…_ which should keep Petra's Russian fortitude hail and satisfied. "See you at the factory?" "See you soon." "Alright." Richard pushed away his plate. The kitchen ladies always gave her cousin too much food. "Shall we?" Her first stop after lunch would be the Manufactorium for the Wands supply to the local militia. The visit would be wholly unplanned and a surprise to the suppliers, for not even Paladin Te could have expected that she would hop from mincing Mermen to splicing spreadsheets with only a lunch break between them. "Let's go." She folded and replaced her napkin on the empty plate. "And tell Aria to send over some of the staff. I am curious to see who Walken volunteered for the antipodes." Auckland. Penrose Industrial Estate. Far south of the harbour district, Auckland's urban sprawl thinned into housing for the NoMs before transforming into the square-and-rectangle blocks marked for industrial manufacturing. As a young Frontier city, Auckland enjoyed the benefits of civil planning more than most. Compared to her' home', the city's ordered lanes were free of the chaos of London's intermittently criss-crossing commerce, Spellcraft, industrial and agriculture zones. Atop the estate, Gwen and her principal staff of auditors arrived by Flight. The rest of her team, involving the staff with the equipment, continued to meander through Auckland's congested war-time arteries. Black as a midnight raven, she hovered ominously above what looked to be the stocking yard, her claw-tipped Da-peng boots drinking in the feeble rays diffused by the cloudy sky above. Far in the grey yonder, she could hear arrhythmic thunderclaps, signalling that Thomas and his new turtle were still going at it, hammer and tongs. "Magister, they see us—" Lulan twirled several metal slabs with the ease of fidgeting pens. "Some of them are running inside. Should I stop them?" "Not with those things." Gwen chuckled. "Well. At the very least, I am glad they know who I am." "Shouldn't they be greeting us then?" Lulan cocked her head toward Gwen, confused at her delight. "If they welcomed us," Richard said. "Then I'd be worried. Running is a sign of guilt. I mean, do we look like Fishmen? Gwen's bird suit has graced the Lumen-caster for weeks by now." "I see." Lulan's sword thrummed. If Gwen squinted, she could just see the outline of Lulu's bloodlust. "This is just like Tonglv." "Not exactly like that." Gwen gave the girl an affirming nod. "But we'll see just how bad it gets. Don't baulk at the greed of men, Lulu. We're all greedy for something. The important thing to know is that there is a time and place for it. Utilised properly, _Greed is Good_." "Greed… is _Good_?" Lulan appeared shocked. "It is…" Gwen gave the matter a moment of thought. "...a drug of sorts. Take, for example, the vivid poppy. Within its bulb, there are equal parts medicine and poison. Virtue, if misapplied, it's a dire vice—yet vice, if rationalised, can be dignified as painkillers. We're doing that now, _don't you think?_ Back in Tonglv, all those people we sent to the Front, their associates, families and children. It's not a good feeling. On a humanitarian level, I have no doubt it's a flawed system. Yet, didn't those who stole from Tonglv know this? They did so knowing the risks, understanding they're taking rice from the bowls of the NoMs building that canal, and they did it anyway. If so, the greed we enable is merely the consequence of their free will. Greed is human nature—a perfect motivator, but _the intemperance_ of greed? In the absence of mutual profit, general good, and social advantage, I think there should always be _consequences_ to greed." The Cambridge Mages behind her took notes. Richard clapped. "Well said, Magister Song." Gwen rolled her eyes at her cousin. "Thanks for coming to my TED talk." Richard laughed, shaking his head and muttering something about a _Gwenism_ , then turned to their support officer. "What do you think, Magus Pats?" "I think we've got company." Petra motioned toward the commotion below. "I am sensing major movements of materials in the warehouses. Mana rich, high density. An underground chamber close to the forge? Do these people take us for fools?" "Well," Gwen regarded the gathered thong of Mages pooling into an expanding semi-circle. " _We are here uninvited,_ Pats. Cut these guys some slack, will you?" Compared to the auditing of weasels on the Isle of Dogs, the folks in Auckland were little more than flightless Kakapos. It took the team half a minute to confirm that the contingent of Mages below was waiting for them to land. On Petra's advice, Gwen lent her a manifested Ariel, then allowed her Enchanter to leave with the Kirin in tow. To prevent anyone from following Petra, Lulan, Richard, and five of their contemporaries from Cambridge landed near the entrance to confront the suspicious Mages, half of them holding wands. "You're not supposed to be here, young lady," the leader of the Manufactorium spoke up at once. The abrasive speaker was a Maori Enchanter covered from chin to wrist with Ta Moko. The man was in his sixties at the minimum, as evidenced by the dried whisp of his remaining silvery hair. "This is a military installation." Gwen wasn't sure if the man was genuinely stupid or if he was trolling her. For certain, a Magister in Da-peng armour, escorted by Mages from Cambridge, would not simply materialise without knowing their purpose. She flashed her Sigil Glyph from The Shard. "I beg to differ. Are you the Foreman of this operation? Magus—?" "Waaka, Wa Waaka." "Well met, Magus Waaka. Now take me to your office or wherever you stow your accounts." Gwen took a few steps closer. "Spare the pleasantries, for the righteous has no shame." The array of wands grew hesitant. A few trembled dangerously, but the intent was clear for all to see. Just in case, Gwen readied her mana shield for instant invocation. She raised her brows. “Is there a problem, Magus Waaka?” "You don't have authorisation…" the old Mage declared without confidence. "We haven't been told—" " _Magus Waaka._ " Gwen knew the type from her work across two lifetimes. "By the authority from the Tower Master and as her Majesty's representative of the Auckland Frontier, I _at this moment_ give myself the authority to inspect the Penrose Wands Manufactorium. Any Tower members who wish to obstruct me will answer to Paladin Te Wherowhero—but not before you answer to my aide— _Lulu!_ " A discordant series of thrums made the gathering of Mage raise their heads. Above them, seven slabs of metal, each deadlier than its neighbour, slowly rotated like the platforms of a rotisserie chicken roaster awaiting to skewer a flock of avian barbeque. Gwen gave the group a moment to weigh their life choices against the shiny metal bludgeons before offering a sweet carrot. "No harm will come to those who fully cooperate. As for those who deliberately waste my precious time, the Sky Tower has only so many Stasis Pods, but _it does indeed have them_." The crowd murmured and parted, first by ones and twos, then as the Red Sea. "Hughes, Jackson, Caleb," she commanded her teammates. "See that those Wands are disarmed and stowed—Richard, Spencer, Phillips, with me. Magus Waaka, lead the way. Lulu, stay out here and keep an eye out for disruptions." Gwen watched her Cambridge Mages go about removing the cartridges from the Wands. The models given to NoMs were always cartridge fed—that way, without Mages to make the ammunition, the Mageocracy need not fear the advent of quantity becoming a _quality_ all on its own. She wanted to say that the crowd had allowed themselves to be disarmed but hadn't the heart to fool herself. With this many Mages and NoMs here, had Gwen arrived to audit the place alone, she would give the unhappy-looking Waaka a fifty-fifty chance of having a go. As her team moved past the holding bay into the stockroom, she could feel her Divination sense swell with the excess volume of mana-fed stimulus from every common element. From its scale, Auckland's local manufactorium was well-resourced, possessing a dozen stations making up three assembly lines. The Mages within were a gathering of common Evokers, Transmuters and Enchanters, with nary a Magus among them, working among piles of polished Cores and processed components sorted into boxes. At the furthermost end of the giant warehouse, two giga-forges filled every space with the chest-thumping hiss of liquid Mithril lacing into the aluminium wand alloy. Perched like a cat in one corner of the forges was Ariel, taking up the lion's share of the worker's horror, while on the pedestal with the controller, she saw the familiar figure of Petra. On her end, Waaka took his time, but eventually, her team arrived at an office the size of an inner-city studio. The filing cabinet was a quasi-magical device with a Pocket Dimension, no larger than a bedstand. Gwen reached for the draws, then paused when she felt Waaka's fear whine like a kicked dog. Thanks to Caliban's innate life-sense, she could taste the man's dread like the tang of metal after licking a copper pipe. "Magus Waaka, before we commence," she asked. "Can you affirm that you've kept all records of all transactions and that inventory has been kept reasonably up to date? Do understand that the audit will go back some time, about a decade, usually." Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. "I… can." The Maori's face grew visibly cautious. "Good." She took a step back. In her mind, there must be excellent reasons why a Pocket Dimension played home to the files, as anything lost in the Astral Plane was effectively lost forever. As a consultant who often engaged in the auditing phase of an acquisition, she had heard all kinds of wondrous reasons why files were lost, from fires, floods, and malicious janitors, to shredders with a conscience. "Please retrieve all the files for my team. Whatever we see—is whatever I'll assume you've kept. As a friendly reminder, I'll assume that anything we don't see has been kept from us." Waaka's expression grew rigid, making taut the fading Ta Moko on his chin. "Nor do we have all day," Gwen reinforced her point. "From the Enchantment on that thing, I believe the filer corresponds only to a specific Glyph, yes? I wonder what would happen if I tried to open it without the correct invocation." "What do you mean?" Waaka moved toward the cabinet with the fatalism of a man headed for a trench at the Northern Front. With a click, he unravelled the security Glyph, then quickly entered another set of Glyphs before either of Gwen's assistants could stop the man. _A disarming Glyph?_ Gwen recognised the Sigils. As it opened, a burst of spellfire flared from a point in space beside the draw. Then, in the next moment, more paper than anyone could have imagined gushed from the cabinet, flooding Gwen, Richard, and their aides from Cambridge, who responded with ungentlemanly remarks. "It's an old system." Waaka smiled weakly at the mess. "We haven't emptied it for a decade." Gwen quickly scanned the chaotic floor filled with manila folders and envelopes. Some closed, some bound, others opened with their white pages looking like splayed wings of spatchcocked hens. Despite the Magus' best efforts, some semblance of chronology remained. So the man had too much self-preservation to destroy the files outright but not enough gonads to give over the data directly. No doubt, the time it would take to reorganise the floor would add days, perhaps a week, to the schedule of a regular audit—enough to hide something or organise a countermand. But who was she? She was the custodian of the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment Project! Tonglv's architect! Her Illusion School of PowerPoint™ might not possess a fully automated Excel program, but the organisation was so good Charlene paid CCs for the privilege. Ten years of data from a mere Manufactorium? Her hounds from the isle, aided by Thinking Engines and data slates, would have the damn pile filed and calculated within the next twenty-four hours! "Thank you, Magus Waaka." She gave a smile worthy of the Devourer, accentuated by the eldritch menace of her dread-bird attire. "And please refrain from telling me you're a busy man. You mustn't go anywhere yet. There'll be questions very soon, first from Magus Kuznetsova once she finishes her calculations—and then more from me." Friday. The Sky Tower was in an uproar. Not because there was a Shoal out there threatening to engulf the city wholesale, but because two members of the Grey Faction had been stripped of their positions, and a third had faced Stasis. At the heart of the uproar was a problem within the Penrose Manufactorium, one of the largest in Auckland. According to the auditors from the Shard, materials had been going missing steadily over the first few years of the last decade. Then when an "efficiency" reform was applied, the raw material costs had steadily climbed until it was as much as three-quarters above The Shard's market rates for the same period. Even so, an excessive volume of Wands had been retired to "defects". Yet, the materials were never recycled, nor were the Wands repaired and returned to service. And finally, even when the Wands made it to the hands of the militia, the Core quality, the HDM cartridges, and the number delivered did not match the manifests attached. It was a level of kleptocracy absurd enough to make Petra proud of Moscow. In a rage, Te Wherowhero had led a group of the Tower's neutral Mages to raid one of the suspected Grey Warehouses, finding boxes upon boxes of mint-condition wands, the best Penrose could produce, kept in unassuming dusty storages. A second raid, organised by the Militant Faction, uncovered a half-hundred kilo of Mithril, collected from shavings and other waste material, inside the deep storage belonging to the compound of one of the aforementioned "Stasis" candidates. In the council sessions, the level of protest had reached decibels its vaulted roof never enjoyed, with Mages threatening one another with oblivion. Others demanded redress, splitting Auckland into two stanch factions of those who wished the city would cease its audits and focus on the Mer-threat against those who ordered a deep scouring of the rot that had taken root to survive the Mer-threat. And the culprit of all this, a certain Devourer, was enjoying her allotted rest and relaxation with a blue-blooded lord currently nursing his bruised ego atop the flight deck of the Sky Tower. "What's the score today?" Gwen sipped her freshly mixed L&P feijoa soda with gin, allowing the refreshing beverage to linger a little too long on her tongue. "Quack!" Dede tossed a cucumber in the air, then chewed the thing in a most disturbing, un-duck-like manner. "Advantage to me as usual." Thomas sat opposite on a deck lounge, his uniform open to expose a proud chest of orange hairs, now matted with bloody bruises and a slight concavity where he had taken a hit that dented his armour. "I am getting close. I can feel Zippy's will slipping when we duel. Maybe a week, maybe two. I want my dominion to be complete and total." Gwen snickered. "I bet. How's the armour? Wyrm hide can't be cheap to repair." "My Enchanter will source the materials from London. Rare mats are hard to auction for the likes of yourself, but we've got plenty of it in storage." "What else have you got in that vault of yours?" Gwen took another sip. "Is it as rich as the Norfolk's?" "The Holland's vault has items and materials you cannot even begin to comprehend." Thomas winced as he laughed. " _Cough_ —you know, if you had played along, you could be taking whatever you wished from it right now. I can't brag that we have the world's loot, but our House has done its share of pillaging in the last five centuries. I am positive some ingredients there won't be seen again unless certain species can regenerate from extinction." "Or travel here again from their home Elemental Planes," Gwen reminded the man. "That's my main concern. The gods know what will come through for an excursion in the next decade." Hearing her prophesy, Gwen's man relented in nursing his swollen abdomen. Earlier, when she had watched the young lord receive healing from his Cleric, she bore witness to the spectacle of a man howling at the high heavens while finger-sized shards of Wyrm scale were extracted. She had asked Tom why he refused to rest in the infirmary, and then Thomas told her that it was a psychic pact between him and the turtle, whatever that meant. "You really believe that eh?" Thomas belonged to the camp of the climate sceptics who could understand the dangers posed by Spectre but not the looming spectre of double-strength hurricanes with a quadruple incidence rate. "I've read your report, but London won't have food issues either way." "London isn't the world. _London_ will be fine," Gwen reiterated her point. "Places like Shalkar will grow far more common if lakes start drying out, mudflats become rivers or lakes, or deserts expand into tablelands. The more Fire Seas start popping up where we can't manage. The more Beast Tides will occur. That or Triffidus-infestations where only tundras had existed. When that happens, our cities will be sieged, supply lines will be disrupted, global trade will stifle, the economy will suffer, the poor will be jobless, and—" "Alright, I get the picture." Thomas' eyes linger on what she hoped was the middle-distance of her ideas rather than her teasing pair of white stalks scissored over the chair's lip. "But you have to admit it's a bit far-fetched." "Suit yourself." Gwen turned her chin up at the young lord. "If the Militant wants to miss the boat again and lose more money, that's not on me." "You're too cruel." Thomas swallowed a mouthful of bloody saliva. "I am hurt." Before Thomas could speak again, their banter was interrupted by the sound of heels kicking up a fuss against the galvanised metal of the sky deck. The intruder was Aria Campbell-Ravenport, whose presence Gwen had been expecting. _If Ruì was a Mage_ , Gwen mused. _Would she be in a similar position as Aria?_ China had its faults, but it certainly loved its NoMs. For the Ivory Tower she wished to construct, there would be significant resistance against the inclusion of NoM officers and managers ruling over rank and file Mages. But according to Lulan, the young woman she handpicked for the Tonglv account's management took to power like a Drake to the heavens. _Perhaps Ruxin could help?_ She entertained herself with a curious hypothesis. _Could NoMs become Vessels?_ Hopefully, the recipient wouldn't explode like an overripe cherry tomato. "Magister Song." Aria raised her voice a titter as she approached. "Your application for Sydney has been approved. You're free to leave now, with an expected duration of a month." "Great." Gwen stood, halted Thomas when he tried to stand, then stowed her chair and belongings with a swish of her hand. "I am on call, correct?" "You are, Ma'am." "And the others?" "Mistress Lulan is free to come and go as she pleases as a free agent unattached to the Tower," Aria reminded her. "Magus Kuznetsova has vetoed her vacation and wishes to stay and study the Barrier Stones. Master Huang is happy to return with you to Australia." "I'll stay close." Lulan emerged from thin air. Earlier, Gwen had invited Lulu to join her on the deck, but her Sword Mage was far too professional about roleplaying a bodyguard after the scare with the Dragon Turtles. "Of course, Lulu. What's Yue doing?" "Magus Bai's team will remain in Auckland until the threat of the tide is diminished." Gwen guessed that Yue's attachment to Auckland and her pal Whetu dove far deeper than the casual sentimentality and duty she felt she owed. "And our men and women?" "They'll be on a rotating roster." Gwen nodded, leaving the Cambridge Mages' leave to Aria's discretion. Compared to the table staff, her R&R was well-earned, for a War Mage had certain rights the Tower must respect. Since her arrival, Gwen had been on three sorties and had held back two Tides before they bloomed into full-forced land invasions. Considering her achievements, Auckland had no right to refuse her request. On the other hand, the Tower was happy to see her go while their internal accounts were balanced. Gwen's auditors would take time to take names and seize assets, and the Greys were still in the process of fighting back tooth-and-nail for every HDM recovered. Rather than focusing all the fear and negativity toward her team with her presence, it was best to send Gwen away for the moment so that when she returned, a new wave of iron-fisted accounting could be conducted on the bruised and exhausted survivors. "I'll make a call first. Cheers, Tom. Good luck." Gwen bowed her head at the waving lord as a goodbye. "And thank you, Aria. Don't work yourself too hard, and if anything outside your scope of work happens, Message me immediately." "None would dare to interrupt the work of the Shard," Aria assured her. "The loss would far outweigh the gains. Besides, Lord Thomas is here for a while yet." "Indeed. Before we're rivals, we're the face of the Mageocracy," Thomas offered himself in what Gwen saw as a gesture of goodwill. "If anyone attacks your accountants, I'll ensure the Stasis Chamber is the best thing they could wish for." Gwen thanked the man again, gathered Lulan, Messaged Richard, and then made her way toward the Divination Array. She notified Dede and Golos as well. Her duck Gwen could afford to fit into the ISTC, but Golos would have to make his way over or wait for her summons. Whatever their choices, she was happy to entertain them. As for herself, her mind quickly flew toward the horizon of the South Sea. Just what, she wondered, would a serpent of the Dreamtime, one that had existed since the epoch of the Thunder Lizards, know about the phantom menace of the climate crisis? There is another reason why Gwen's company to Sydney did not include Yue or her team. The ISTC exchange between Auckland and Sydney was just over two thousand kilometres, costing a hefty chunk of HDMs that would make most Magisters' eyes water. While Gwen could afford such a holiday, the cost for Yue and her team's transportation would have to come out of someone's pockets, and neither Sydney nor Auckland had HDMs to spare on whims and frivolities. As the Sydney interchange was embedded within the Tower, Gwen told Richard to prepare for her visit to her Opa in Hunter's region. In the meanwhile, she paid a visit upstairs to Gunther and Alesia. Unfortunately, Alesia was away on duty, though she found Gunther in-between meetings. "I've been keeping a close eye on the reports. Well done on the Auckland front." Her brother-in-craft gave her a pat on the shoulder, then brought her in for a hug. "I feel Master would be very happy if he were to see you as you are now." Gwen aided the awkward German with a returned pat on the man's broad back. "It's nothing, brother. I was just doing my job." "Nonetheless, a pack of Dragon Turtles! And an Elemental Prince as well. _Well done_ doesn't cover the half of it." The man relaxed. "Our very own _War Mage_ , I am almost tempted to bring you back to Sydney." "I'll be happy to return." Gwen pulled herself away, finally finding the opportunity to introduce her shadow. "Gunther, this is Lulan Li. From Shanghai, if you recall?" "Master Shultz." Her Sword Mage bowed from the waist. "I have great admiration for your duty and prowess, Tower Master. It's an honour to meet you." "It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Lulan. Thank you for keeping an eye on our troublesome sister." Gunther extended a hand to shake the Sword Mage's trembling digits. Lulan grew red as a beet, unused to such an expression from a man higher in status than her Sect Leader by order of magnitudes. Gwen amused herself with Lulan's starstruck expression of child-like wonder and awe, glad that Lulu was still capable of such an expression. "So, should I file to return to Sydney?" "And leave your HDMs, your lord and ladies, your Isle of Dogs?" Gunther laughed, retracting his hand so that Lulan could relax. "Sydney's too small of a city for someone of your talents, Gwen." "That isn't very convincing, brother." Gwen snorted. "Coming from the Morning Star, Gunther _von_ Shultz." The man shook his head. "So, you'll be visiting the Serpent, then?" "I shall. Will you and Allie be coming this time? Remember what we discussed?" To her surprise, the man declined. "No, I prefer to let sleeping serpents lie." "But you're my _siblings_ ," Gwen said. "And in China, Ayxin and Ruxin are pledged with the CCP or the other way around. I recently heard that Sythinthimryr from Carrauntoohil has a pact with the Hollands. You don't think having Almudj aide you would help?" Gunther invited her to relax. "Gwen, if we wanted to contact Almudj, then your Master would have done it. Alesia and I aren't very involved with the non-Australian period of Master's life, but I still know he's an acquaintance of Demi-god beings, like the Elves from Tryfan. Don't you think they could help? Why do you think Master never asked about the Snake? What had he said?" "He said there's no point because Almudj won't see things in the limited perspective of mortals." "Correct, and that point hasn't changed," Gunther said. "It's been five years since you've met the Snake. Has it ever been interested in anything you've done?" "I guess not," Gwen confessed. Other than cleansing her Yinglong's blessing, Al's chill was glacial. "Go see your Patron." Gunther's tone grew serious. "But keep us out of it, keep Sydney out of it. If it wants something, let us know immediately. Meanwhile, demand _nothing_ , certainly not for me, Alesia, the city, or Oceania. We can't… afford the favour, nor can I imagine the cost of repaying it if it does feel generous." "Alright, I understand," Gwen relented. "So I'll be taking just Richard and Lulu with me, then? Yes, I'll take care." She did not believe it was a big deal for Al to dabble the pair with its love juice. Certainly, she would love to have a wonderful nephew or niece come next year. "Take _extreme_ care," Gunther warned her while looking at Lulan. "The Snake is infamous for disliking… _strangers_." "I'll be careful," Gwen assured the Tower Master, suddenly feeling paranoid. Are Richard and co _strangers?_ She hadn't assumed so, but now, she suddenly wasn't so sure.

Looking out at the wide blue yonder of the Tasman Sea, Gwen masticated her doubt like a hesitant calf working through a mouthful of stubborn cud. In her mind, a significant amount of time had passed since her last visit to Almudj. After a year, even a mythical hellion like Helena would have thawed. But could Helena be compared to Almudj? The more Gwen thought about it, the more she wondered if she was taking to Almudj with the wrong perspective. As a matter of reflex, she had the problem of seeing everything from an anthropomorphic viewpoint, a habit from her old world where Humanity sat atop the food chain uncontested. As a result, she had indulged in Al's benevolence since the beginning, treating the Land God as a psychic double, like a Studio Ghibli mascot. Even as she sat through dinner with Gunther and a fired-up Alesia asking for details of Caliban's Merman carnage, her mind worked non-stop to re-evaluate the Almudj-Stranger Hypothesis, a cousin of the reality-bending powers of the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis, where validity was at the mercy of an imperfect medium of expression. Outside of linguistic exams, she hadn't paid much attention to the theory as a college socialite. However, through her growth as a Mage-Magus-Magister, the notion of Spellcraft as a linguistic means to draw out mana from the Elemental Planes was a fact of life. Additionally, the Elves and the Dragons were living proof that Sapir-Whorf could be applied to the fabric of the Planes. From what she had seen, Dragons could "literally" alter the laws of the elements with their arcane syntax and grammar, compelling _obedience_ from reality and making delusions real. The Elves, through their Sigil-scripts, could encourage growth and regeneration, life and death, from the smallest fungi to the tallest oak, and speak to both trees and magical beasts. Thus, to fully communicate with Almudj, she needed a means of communication that was in sync with a mind that lived in _Tjukurpa katutja ngarantja,_ the Unformed Land. _The Dreaming_. But where was she going to learn such a skill? Even Old Goolagong had said that her people lacked the means, that their communication was expressionism through ritual, and that they performed Almudj's whims without asking why. She was Almudj's _kin._ But realistically, she was more like Almudj's _cat_ , a selfish Sphinx that had been bopped on the nose and was now back for more. Nonetheless—she had to inform Almudj of the changes to her plans to prevent unforeseen catastrophes. First and foremost, there was Sufina. The possibility of retrieving the Scale rested solely with Sufi, for whom she had two choices. The first was to enlist Almudj's cooperation, preserve Sufina's mind in the state her Master had left the Dryad, and then take the offer to make herself a Safe Zone for her Tower—a triple-winner chicken dinner deluxe. The alternative... "Gwen?" Alesia's face phased into view, her brows furrowed with concern. "Are you not well? You're not eating." "She's on her second serving," Gunther gently reminded his wife. "And there's thirds and fourths." Alesia pointed to the spacious kitchen. "Gwen has Caliban under control these days," Gunther reminded them. "But I suppose Allie's right. Are you okay, is jerk chicken not to your liking?" On the farther end of the table, she caught Lulan watching the three of them like a cafe patron finding herself seated beside Hollywood A-listers. Comparatively, Richard was his usual easeful self, helping himself to the salad and refilling Lulan's cup whenever hers emptied. "I was just thinking about Almudj again…" Gwen confessed. "Al and Sufi, to be exact." "Are you realllllly—?" Alesia glanced at Gwen's companions. Gwen affirmed Richard and Lulan's trustworthiness with a casual nod in their direction. Richard had known about Gwen's various dealings since the beginning. As for Lulan, her knowledge was a pastiche of impressions from Gwen, Ryxi, and the very talkative Golos, who boasted of Gwen's deeds at every opportunity to the White Serpent. If Gwen should wish for Op-Sec in the future, her Wyvern must be told nothing. "I am going to try and impress upon Almudj Sufi's _proposal_ ," Gwen spoke with vagueness because she had no idea if such a clear line of communication was even possible. "Considering what happened with the Yinglong's Essence loan, I don't think it's a good idea to work with Sufina without Al's explicit _knowledge_." "That's a good idea," Alesia concurred. "I mean, it isn't as though either of you could just take Almudj's Scale, the one Sufi holds dearer than her life." "We could test that." Gunther's expression grimly contested his wife. "By his _own_ arrangements, Master should have been interred under St Mary's." To Gwen's recollection, her Master had organised a resting place for his remains in the warded catacombs of Sydney's most Faith-laced place of worship. That was something all of his students understood as Henry's wish. It was a matter of prestige and respect, and, importantly, it prevented anything untoward from happening to his remains, such as Necromancy. The same Necromancy that was now keeping Henry's husk hale and eternal. "No. I don't want to do that to Sufi," Alesia's reply had more emotion than logic, but it was final. "I _know_ ," Gunther placed down his fork. Seeing that neither of the girls was still interested in more, he pulled back from the table. "So… dessert?" "Yes, please," Gwen was also glad not to consider such an outcome. The alternative option was to Purge Sufina. Gunther could ask for permission to cleanse Sufina's island. The three of them would go and demand Henry's body back from the Dryad and, in the worst-case scenario, rid the world of a dangerously sentimental, possibly deranged Demi-human possessing most of her Master's knowledge and a "Scale" from which it leeched Mythic Essence. Certainly, leaving Sufina completely alone was no option at all. If Gwen, Gunther and Alesia perished one day, Sufina would likely become a disaster—a danger the likes of which only Ryxin, with all the mustered powers of Nagaland, could match. Without deploying Singapore's Tower, the Dryad "infestation" would rule every island chain of Micronesia. There would be no fertile men left within a hundred kilometres of Sufi's wooden seraglio. Gunther returned from the kitchen with plates of honeyed poached pear. "Why don't we talk about another snake? Lulan—you said that Huangshan has a snake as well? The White Serpent, if I recall? The Yinglong's third or second scion? Why don't you tell us about him or her?" "Me-me?" Lulan pointed a chopstick at herself and then looked at Gwen for help. "Good idea," Gwen gave the girl some encouragement. "Tell us about Ryxi! Tell us what it's like to train and live with a fabled Land God?" "Umm…" Lulan appeared in a mild panic. "Master Ryxi… er… he likes…umm… calligraphy?" “O—o—o— my cute _Cucu Perempuan_!” Surya Huang, Enchanter and now regional administrator of the Hunter's Region, hugged Gwen so tight he lifted her from the floor despite his tiny frame. "Opa! Manners!" Gwen grew instantly flustered, for Richard was laughing, and Lulu's eyes looked like they were about to pop from their sockets. "Of course, I've missed you as well. Please hug me like a normal relative." Surya did not. Much to Gwen's delight, her gramps was hale and strong. A cynical part of her believed that five years away from a daughter like Helena could reverse-age any father, but deep down, she knew Evee was to blame. Or rather, Sen-sen's tendrils combined with distilled Maotai, produced in limited amounts by Elvia's occasional pruning of her ginseng, was why her Opa's white hair had turned grey and his sunken cheeks now looked filled. Perhaps lacing Sen-sen sauce with Almudj's juice allowed her Opa to benefit from living on Almudj's land? Certainly, whenever she came back to Australia, her Astral Soul felt so at home that she sometimes wanted to fly into the curved horizon until nothing but a vague distance was left in every direction. While she complained, her Opa's sculpture-moulding hands worked their way up her waist and onto her shoulders, then cupped her chin, stopping finally at her forehead. "Good—good!" Surya couldn't stop smiling. "I'll transmute a grand statue in your honour! Ten—no—twenty meters tall! The Devourer will be the first thing anyone sees as soon as they enter the Hunter Valley!" In horror, Gwen glanced at the Caliban-inspired erotic sculptures in the estate that had made Lulan yelp, cover her eyes, and turn into molten slag. "A normal sculpture, I hope." "Nonsense!" Her Opa stepped back to examine her with a twinkle in his eye. "You're perfect, my Cucu Perempuan. There is nothing in this world more beautiful, nothing greater than my granddaughter! Ha! A War Mage! The Saviour of everything, everywhere! Ahahaha—" "… thanks, Opa." Gwen hugged her Opa again, finding that only physical intimacy could shut her Opa up for more than a minute. As soon as she left him alone, he would start to loudly talk of her achievements like a foreman with a loudhailer. On the way in, he had stopped Tess in her tracks to regale something Gwen had done in the last few years. Then later, while showing Lulan the workshop, he had halted Melissa mid-enchant to inform her of something else Gwen had done in London. In only half a day, Gwen began to long for her workplace. Her Opa's affection was food for the soul. But it was far too rich even for an affection-starved cynic. Once the day waned, she and her family sat in front of the infinity water feature that was once more filled, regaling the tales of her time in Shanghai, London, and other parts of the world she had visited during the IIUC. The summation of her experiences had taken so long that bottles lined the table when she finished, and the sun had set. "Ee—ee!" Ariel yawned from boredom. Somewhere in the churning water feature, Caliban's faceless head emerged with the likeness of a Lovecraftian beluga without a face. "Shaa—?" Surya tossed them each a raw chunk of HDM crystal. "Let's call it a day," her grandfather gestured to the guest rooms. "And don't worry. I had those renovated after all the refugees had left." "Thank you, Magus Huang." Lulan stood and bowed. "Cheers, gramps." Richard gave him two thumbs up. "Mel, Tess, show them where the bathrooms are." Surya was tired as well. Gwen could see that keeping up so much excitement at his age was a taxing affair, especially when booze was involved. "We'll talk tomorrow. I'll need Caliban to do some modelling. My sculptor's hands are tingling!" Gwen could only agree, though she did not agree with Surya's collection of Caliban-inspired erotica, which the old artist proclaimed to have a commission list in the hundreds. Once Lulan and Richard settled in, Gwen sat on her bed, unsettled by the familiar room. Here was a place where she had originally slept half a decade ago. She had experienced her first adventure with Yue and Elvia in this house. Here, she and Debora… Thankfully, nothing had happened. _Thankfully_ , because Debs had been a faceless Void-stomach hell-bent on wearing her skin. With a surge of will, she banished the gut-clenching recollection, focusing instead on her closest crisis. Almudj. Sufina. And stranger danger. Her plan thus far was to stop at her Opa's until he was satisfied, then move out to see Old Goolagong. There, she would ask for the means to enter the trance once more and "remotely" access Almudj before deciding if she could introduce her cousins as kin of _Kin._ Maybe Al would demand his Scale. Maybe the snake would scold her for her procrastination. Or maybe the Rainbow Serpent would entertain her proposal. Or merely asking could fry her brains like an omelette. The last part was rather unlikely, considering her patron's benevolence. _Cheeky_ , yes, but never malicious. Whatever happens in the future, she had no doubt there would be no _Tower_ without the serpent's aide, just as she would have gone the way of Sobel's Void Element should Al withdraw the support of his snake oil. And should the world turn to shit because of Spectre, making an Eden of her own was critical. As for how—Sufina had already told her the answer. There is always a woman. There is always a snake. And there is always a tree. That was the ingredient for pacifying a region's elemental instability, the key to the lock, the lock itself, and the door on which the lock and key existed. She needed a way to communicate with Almudj. But how? _Is it impossible to say what she means?_ Her Prufrockian ordeal, Gwen acknowledged as she allowed the darkness to devour her consciousness, was only beginning. A day later, Gwen decided she would test the waters first rather than risking an encounter with _stranger danger_. Richard had been fine with the decision, while Lulan's only desire was to stay as her bodyguard. And as she could not fight Almudj, the Sword Mage relented. At daybreak, Gwen flew alone across the tablelands, using her Omni-orb as her autopilot, craning the necks of farmers and fruit pickers with her silvery streak of wasteful Elemental Lightning, leaving wide wakes of rolling thunder. Before leaving the Huang estate, she had mediated at her Opa's to see what her Wyvern and duck wished. Golos had expressed that he wouldn't want to hang with the Old One without assurances, and Dede emphatically intimated that it was training with "brother" Gogo. Once past the winery region, New South Wale's tablelands were a whole other hog compared to the farms north of Wellington. Firstly, the size of the land was obscene, with cultivated fields of barley and wheat so extensive that she would fly for an hour without seeing its end. After two hours north, she made a hard left for Dharug, the source of Sydney's major waterways, following the Hawkesbury River and aggravating the Merfolk encamped on the many sandbanks of its estuaries. When she crossed into Yengo, all signs of human habitation ceased, leaving nought but endless ranges of eucalyptus dispensing mid-morning mist in darkening hues of pastel blue. Should she choose to land here and intrude the canopy, she would find the "native" Elementals of the Wildlands, with Snots and Goblins at the very bottom of the food chain, followed by loose tribes of Bush Orcs, and nearer the apex, the Drop Bears that ruled rising mounds of weathered outcroppings. Along the way, she had visitors. The curious ones were the local Wedge-tailed Wyverns, some as large as cars, who ventured close to see what the fuss had bought. Later, an Ebony Marauder Eagle kept pace with her for ten minutes before choosing the wiser option of leaving. When she neared the flatlands, a Lowland Craig Roc ambushed her. Its slightly mangled carcass, Gwen decided after Ariel and Caliban double-teamed it into submission, would make a good gift for her _Tjukurpa's_ mob. At midday, she arrived. Considering the nomadic nature of Goolagong's people, she entertained the suspicion that Ruxin knew what he was doing in gifting her a magical Sat-Nav. "Oi! Migloo girl!" an old feller with skin as tanned as dark leather hailed her as she landed. "You are here, again!" "I am indeed here, again," Gwen recalled the old feller's name as Jura. "How are you, Mister Jura?" "Pah! Old Jurangi is no ‘Mister!’” the bearded swagman doubled over with chuckles. "Alright, you wait here, Migloo girl. I go get me old woman." While she waited, the other members of Goolagong's tribe wandered over. When they saw that it was her, they relaxed. Ten minutes later, she was knee-deep in young ones, begging her for _puk Koman_ sweets from the city. "I don't have any sweets," Gwen confessed to her unfortunate oversight. "But I have something better!" She had a dead Roc. And SPAM, several pallets of SPAM still left over from Auckland. She also had flour and rice but lacked the thick skin to give cute children bags of raw grain. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. "Missus Boss." One of the girls hugged the cans, while others poked the Roc, her luminous brown eyes studying the SPAM's packaging with more questions than answers. "Why does this one have your face on it? Is this your meat?" "It's not my meat!" Gwen wanted to say she was the face of SPAM but wasn't sure how to break down the complex economic relationship with a tribe largely removed from the city. "The face is because I… got paid." Before she could finish, the children ran away, howling that they had cans of the Migloo's meat. Gwen studied the heavens, hoping that strange rumour would not spread due to her failed bluff check. "Gwen! You back!" came a familiar holler from the main encampment, closing the distance with the ease of a siren. "You've grown, Migloo girl!" Old Goolagong looked as old as the day they met five years ago. This time, it seems their meeting wasn't expected. Unlike the other times they had met, the _Tjukurpa_ wore an old hand-stitched shirt, and true to form, she came running in flip-flops. "Thanks for coming to see me on such short notice," Gwen bowed toward Goolagong. "I'll get right to the point. I've been around since our last meeting, and I need to talk to Almudj." "You have the cheeky 'Scale' of our cheeky snake?" Old Goolagong planted her hands on her heavy hips. "No—" "—Ooo." "—No, wait!" Gwen flapped her arms, stopping the old woman from further misunderstanding. "I've found it. And technically, I can retrieve it whenever I wish. HOWEVER—there's a complication that needs Almudj's wisdom to resolve." "Not good enough—! No Scale is no Scale! How cheeky!" "Cheeky is as cheeky does," Gwen retorted. "Goolagong, I seriously need to talk to Almudj. There are dangers afoot the likes of which you cannot imagine. For both my people and yours, neither of us will be ready for the coming changes." "Changes?" the old woman cocked her head. "Old Goolagong lived a long time, cheeky girl. What do you mean she cannot _imagine_? Do you take me for stupid?" "No, no, not at all," Gwen walked back her unintended insult. "I mean, okay— _globalisation_ , we're looking at the perils of globalisation. We're looking at food shortages, trade deficits, increased cost of living, supply chain disruptions, and that's just the start." "The what and _what?_ " Old Goolagong's eyes narrowed. "You trying ta yabba _gammon_ , migloo girl? Globalisation? Frightening your old _tidda_ with Yowie stories nowadays?" Gwen pondered if a PowerPoint presentation would send her message across without her warning being lost in translation. "Ha— okay!" Goolagong winked at her. "Old Goolagong can be cheeky too, yes? Us mob don't do globalisation, but I understand why you are worried. You want to sing to Almudj?" "I do." Gwen relaxed. "Can you arrange it?" "I can." Goolagong gave her a sly look. "No _Scale_?" "Is that going to be a problem?" Gwen refused to admit she was shaking in her booties because she would be meeting Almudj barefooted. "It's been a while, after all. What would Almudj be expecting?" "Nothing? Something? Everything?" Goolagong shrugged. "Maybe a long time has passed for Almudj. Maybe no time for Almudj. In the place where all water began, there are no calendars. Where the seasons are one, no gumtree dies, and no gumtree grows, understand? Migloo girl?" Gwen suspected she understood Goolagong's wisdom as much as a hermit might understand globalisation. "Goolagong," she paused to ponder the implications before making her request. "Is there any way I could communicate with Almudj… like you and I are conversing?" As expected, the old _Tjukurpa_ looked at her as though she had suddenly metamorphosed into a pale, crunchy _witjuti_ grub. "Migloo girl," the woman sighed. "You and I speak the Queen's English, and we can barely understand each other. We have known each other for many years now, yes? We have shared tucker. I painted your skin with the pigment of the bush. We sang the songs of the Dreamtime. Yet, do you know me? Know my mob? The story of the red earth under my feet? Our love of the land, like the touch of a child's fingers to her mother's lips?" The _Tjukurpa_ looked at the cans of SPAM her people were roasting over the flaming charcoal. "Can your people, who see the Prime Material as the nesting place of your ambitions and wealth, ever understand?" Gwen lowered her eyes. "No, no, do not be sad, Migloo girl," old Goolagong's matronly expression remained unchanged. "That is why many yearn for the Unformed Land, no? There is no loneliness there, no separation. No good, no evil, no nasty giving eye. To know the mind of the Unformed Land, to return to that womb of the world without separation, where all the world's waters began, would allow you to speak to Almudj—but where would you be then?" "Where would I be?" Gwen cocked her head. _I would be in the Unformed Land, wouldn't I?_ "No! Migloo girl!" The old Walker laughed. "To enter the long dream of the bearded snake would be like this—" Old Goolagong drew a semi-circle in the air, leaving behind traces of vibrant mana. "Even a rainbow has a beginning and an end, but in the Unformed Land—" The woman drew the second half of the circle and then kept tracing until her mana dried up, completing something like a helix. "Would take away meaning itself. You would not be the Migloo Gwen. You would not even care about your Migloo friends or family because to leave a world where death has died is beyond your ken, even if you dabble in _Necromancy_." Gwen had no words to express Goolagong's claim, for the _Tjukurpa's_ imperfect analogy gave her too much food for thought. "Confused? Good. Come!" the Spirit Walker arrested her fingers with a firm grasp. "Why hesitate? Unless you have decided to retrieve the Scale. For now, sing to Almudj. Maybe you get an answer? Maybe you get a _Barbanginy._ " As though in a trance, Gwen walked with her guide to a more secluded part of the camp, where the old woman readied the ritual, placing rocks as if by chance, then stamped out something akin to a Mandala with her feet. "This should help," the Spirit Walker threw a fistful of leaves onto the embers, leaving a burst of low-lying haze. " _Pituri_ —it will help your sanity." When the fragrant smoke filled her lungs, Gwen began to feel weightless. On cue, the sound of _didgeridoos_ filled the silence of the sunlit outback, so deep and resonant that the red earth felt as though alive beneath her feet. As the garbs of civilisation fell from her shoulders, Gwen did not feel the autumn cold. Instead, the sun's heat seemed to soak into her skin, vivifying her Astral Body with the rich residual mana of the Prime Material. _Kapi—_ _Kapi—_ _Kapi—_ The _bimla_ joined the _didgeridoos_ as __ Old Goolagong carved her body with pigments formed of white ash, bone, sulfur and red earth. Gwen breathed in the hot air, her mind diving into the unformed thoughts of the endless music, becoming a warm, lush hum of rich, clean energy. Her breaths, which first came as pants, grew long and strange, becoming circular, her lungs the instruments and playthings of an unhurried timeless _Om._ _Water._ Her eyes misted over. The sun became a mere speck in the uncertain distance, its light flickering against a vast blue forever. Gwen's body grew hunched, her painted buttocks comfortably nestled against the ochre earth. Around her, ancient ghost gums, each larger than skyscrapers, danced with their white bodies like mangled fingers. As she passed through the veil of places without names, she felt the hardness of their iron-like trunks, so rigid and indestructible. Yet, her fingers found homes as they nestled in the soft, paper-like bark, so pliant under her touch. Next, she walked on water. Not _on_ the surface, as she had first suspected, for her white feet kissed the pink sand. _No. Not sand, but salt._ The pink salt of Hai, the same _Salt_ of her brother, Percy, who she sorely missed. She enjoyed the sensation of each grain slipping through the gap between her toes. High above, the radiance felt like a pair of warm hands, first on her shoulders, then on her bosoms. The sensation ended at her waist, atop her hips, a heat with grips like fingers entwined, wringing the water from the young singing reeds, crushing out the fresh water to nourish her thirst. Her eyes fluttered open. A Rainbow Snake stared back a dozen meters away, its slitted pupils rich with every colour, its scales more scintillating than the wings of the rarest butterfly. " _Almudj_ ," she breathed out. A long tongue, forked at the tip, as thick as her thighs and pink like salmon, patted her head. _Kin._ "I've been faithful." Gwen indicated to her belly button. "No strange Essences, this time." The affirmation from the snake was the hot gold hush of lush afternoons. "I need to tell you something, Almudj." Gwen tried her best to imagine the scene as she explained the offer from Sufina. A woman. A snake. A tree. The way of the world, or at least, the one she presently inhabited. She recalled her memories of Tryfan—of the World Tree there and the unity she had sensed between Solana and her home grot, the verdant crown atop Tryfan. Almudj stared back unblinkingly. Just as Gwen began to wonder whether a Barbanginy was about to be her answer, her serpent opened its mouth and flared its fangs, each ivory stalk the size of her trembling body. If the interior of the Rainbow Snake's mouth had been a fairyland, she would not be so nearly as alarmed. Unfortunately, Al's mouth showed her exactly what she would expect—the gullet of a giant snake. "Umm…" Gwen felt like she knew the answer. "Do I er.. walk inside? Shimmy in?" _Don't do it! Almudj isn't Geppetto's whale!_ The sane and logical part of her mind was ringing her Divination Sigil like a monkey with a gong. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, her indecision was interrupted by Almudj's advance, scooping her onto its lower jaw as its whole mouth unhinged, gnashing her suddenly supine figure against the slippery flesh, turning noon to midnight. Gwen tried to open her eyes. But there was no need, for an unknowable amount of time later, her eyelids had dissolved. Her present self stood in the shade of a great tree, one greater than any tree she had yet to witness, greater than even the World Tree of Tryfan. Around her swirled the cold breeze of wetness and fecundity, shrouding her with an explicable sense of familiarity. _Where is this?_ Gwen made her mind wander, hoping she could control the vision as though in a dream. She could not. "Kalinda!" A familiar voice cried out, the voice of old Tjupurrula. "We should leave now. The way of the world is just that. There is no need to mourn." _Kalinda?_ Gwen recalled the first vision she had shared with Almundj, that of the girl Walker with the same name. The present _girl_ , she recognised by sight, was not _that_ Kalinda. For one, this Kalinda had elongated ears like chefs' knives. And the markings tattooed onto her olive skin looked suspiciously like the ones from Tryfan. And her eyes were those golden orbs from which the Hvítálfar looked down upon the world. And her limbs were elongated, her body more insectile than the Elves she knew. Perhaps, Gwen felt the strange spark of an alarming epiphany. She was a _Kalinda_ as well. But her thoughts did not have time to bud and bloom, for in the next moment, the Great Tree was ablaze with all the garish glory of a cyclonic twister, snaking its way from the tree's mountainous trunk toward its simmering crown. "No!" The girl in old Tjupurrula's arms fought. To Gwen's surprise, the man affected a token resistance and then allowed her to go. "Almudj! Stop! Please— We just wanted to go home! Return to the _woods that wend_! For a thousand thousand years, we—" Gwen barely heard the histrionics from the olive-skinned Kalinda- _Álfar_ , not even when the Elf plunged into the flames while hysterically howling about home and hearth, diving into the blazing ember like a moth to its happy demise. "Beautiful, is it not?" Old Tjupurrula spoke. It took Gwen a moment to realise he was talking to her _Force Ghost_. "Great Almudj is cheeky. The bearded one giveth and taketh. Who are we, the scions of morality and time, to impose upon its home?" Her gaze was drawn upward by his pointing finger. Up there, somewhere, was Almudj. She could feel her patron's presence coiled around the tree, ending what it had once begun. She wasn't sure how to feel about the destruction—but the scenery was __ beautiful. Almudj's ire possessed a peculiar sort of aesthetic, unique perhaps, to the Australian continent, to the Rainbow Snake's domain. The flames were summer red as they swallowed the greenery, turning the emerald to char. Now a great serpent of flame and not water, rainbow-coloured fires swam across its scales of matt jet. Somewhere in Gwen's Astral Body, she felt her Essence ignite and burn, refracting the present cycle of Almudj's being. As the burning continued, songs of crackling timber and exploding eucalyptus erupted, making a strange symphony of blasted bark and burning wood. The sky, which had been cool, was now bushfire bright. The stars were gone, replaced with a million-million flying embers, hungry fireflies of death and destruction, raining down forever and forever, from horizon to horizon. Fire Sprites of all shapes and sizes, common and exotic species, burst from the great gash in the Prime Material, willed into being by Almudj. With bell-like laughter, Efreeti maidens, flaming phoenixes, coiling newts, and swarming salamanders rolled down from the tree's pinnacle, an endless orgy in every colour from cobalt to rose to retina-searing white. After a thousand years of burning, Gwen wondered. What would remain of the tree? Is that what Uluru was? A relic of a bygone epoch? A gargantuan stump, a bookmark leftover from another cycle of Almudj's _Dreaming_? "You wish for a new tree?" Old Tjupurrula addressed her whereabouts. "Almudj does not mind. There had been many trees, many times, many years ago. But are you prepared to _change_ the currents of your world? Do you fear change?" " _Change?_ Do you mean…" Gwen plucked out her next words with care. "Consequence?" "Ha!" Old Tjupurrula howled with laughter, which wasn't helped by the falling ash and embers. "Not consequence! _But consequences for whom!_ Almudj, O child of lost time, has no changes or consequences. Even if your world blooms and burns, what does it matter to one who was born together with the heart of _the Spiritus Mundi?"_ "I think…" Gwen's mouth grew parched, realising the old Walker's meaning, that _her_ world might not continue to exist, but _a_ world will always continue to exist, and within all those potential worlds, Almudj would be Almudj. "I think I understand." "Yes. Almudj will always be," Old Tjupurrula nodded with approval, seemingly reading her mind with the ease of flipping a picture book. "Go now, _my wandering Kalinda._ Fret over nothing. You are not special. Before you and after you, innumerable cheeky _lost_ _girls_ had dreamt of being Almudj's bride!" The flames descended. Her lungs ignited as she inhaled. The answer of whether or not Almudj would accept Sufina had never been about affirmation or rejection. Rather, it was about what _Gwen Song_ was willing to pay. To change the Prime Material or to let it continue its evolution was of no consequence to a serpent whose age was linked to the Prime Material itself. But for a meagre girl to disturb her only universe, what would be _her_ penance? "MIGLOO GIRL! WAKE UP!" Large, calloused palms slapped her cheeks hard enough to engender a Barbanginy in her head. Groggily, Gwen rose on her elbows. "Drink," came the command from the old Spirit Walker. "By Almudj's beard, you came close to the rainbow's end." When the water bowl touched her lips, Gwen suddenly realised how dehydrated she had become. When she tried to lift her limb, it was as though all the energy from Almudj's blessing had gone from her flesh. "Mmmmufgh—" she made an obscene noise as the water went down like liquid ambrosia. She was in a pool of dirt and red mud, made from the sweat beading across every inch of her body. When she moved her hand across her thighs, she saw it come away with all the body paint Old Goolagong had prepared for her trance. Overall, she felt baked into the mud. "You've been dreaming for three days. Any longer, and I fear your magical Tower Ring might trigger. Then, we'll lose you for real." Goolagong conjured another bowl of water for her. "Imagine that? Your body in your fancy Migloo Tower, your mind, still in the Unformed Land! Don't move—Drink slowly, and drink long. Don't talk." Gwen took the time to down her second bowl before feeling the strength in her limbs. Almudj's blessing quickly took over the rest. "So, since you are alive, what did you see?" the Spirit Walker asked as life returned to Gwen. "Fire," Gwen said, feeling overwhelmed. "A great big bushfire, burning the biggest bush you've ever seen for a thousand years." "Ah," Old Goolagong mumbled. "Lucky you. Almudj must not be angry with your lack of its Scale. Else you would be _Kalinda_. Not watching Kalinda." "What…" Gwen took her third bowl of water with gratitude. "Is _Kalinda_?" "No one knows," Old Goolagong shrugged. "Almudj cares not for names, only _Kin_. Maybe his first Vessel was a _Kalinda_. Who are we to trivially demand answers from Almudj? And how? Do you ask the air why the wind blows? Or the sky to be kind when there is no rain?" She pointed to the camp beyond the hill. "We have Kalinda here and there as well. The cheeky snake is fond of the sound." "There was something about… returning to the Unformed Land," Gwen recalled the fragmented conversation. "I don't know. There was so much fire." "I think you have a fever," Old Goolagong touched a palm to her forehead. "Do not trust in dreams so literally, Migloo girl. Almudj does not think nor speak as we do, remember? Our cheeky one can only show you what its other Vessels have seen or felt. No more." "And _Tjupurrula_!" Gwen suddenly recalled the old man—strangely, she could not recall a single detail about his face or likeness. "Old Tjupurrula. What is he?" "Ah—" Goolagong scratched her bulbous nose, marring paint she had meticulous dabbed. "Old Tjupurrula is…" The old Walker's face scrunched. "A very old, very wise Elder, I suppose. He was very cheeky—cheeky enough to cross over into _Tjukurpa katutja ngarantja_." "The Unformed Land isn't a utopia?" Gwen felt the shock like a hammer blow. The whole time, she had imagined it to mean the afterlife. Or, in the case of Dragons like the Yinglong, a return to the equally nebulous idea of the Spiritus Mundi, something akin to the Astral Plane but associated with a contented state of oblivion. Even within Elvia's discussions about the quasi-sorcerous Christian afterlife, the celestial "Heaven" manifested as a legend, not fact. "It's a real place?" "You misunderstand," Goolagong appeared to study her face. "The meaning, I mean. _Tjukurpa katutja ngarantja_ , is not a place. It is the past, the future, and the present. It is a _map_ to tell us where we are and where to go. It is how we relate—to you—to my mob—to your mob—to Almudj. It is the story and the Dreamtime, the foundation of the Dream, the threshold to the Unformed Land." "A map?" Gwen tried to think. "To where?" "Not to where. It is the _map_ itself, one with directions which cannot be said or written down. Only when you are there will you know that you have followed it your whole life." Gwen nodded out of habit. Unfortunately, her mind felt like thrashed wool. Though she loathed the fact, her present, worldly self was far too removed from the _Om_ necessary to begin absorbing the secret, privileged knowledge of the realm Almudj inhabited. To think otherwise would be sheer arrogance, no different to Helena thinking she could control her wayward daughter. "Crap. I forgot to ask about _strangers_ ," she said after a few moments of recollection. "But… I think I get it. It's not my choice to make, but theirs. We must be responsible for our choices and the change we wish to bring to the world. I'd thought I had learned that lesson with Evee—apparently not—I think all those Mermen from the last month has been getting to my head, making me arrogant." "You have grown wise, Migloo girl," Old Goolagong showed her a painted pinky white with pigment. "Though just this much. What will you do now?" "Well," Gwen gave a heartfelt, soul-searched answer. "First, I would like to sleep for another ten hours, and then..." A portion of her brain finally kicked into gear. "Did you say _three days_?" Gwen's eyes focused on the inert Message device she had removed before her trance. "I was out of contact for THREE days?" "Four, including the day you came," Goolagong shrugged, revealing pearly teeth unmarred by a lack of access to dentistry. "Why have you gone paler, Migloo girl? Do you do big job in your Migloo world? You big-wig missus-boss? Relax—will the world not turn without you?"

Gwen slipped her Dwarven-made, German-designed Message Bangle back onto her wrist. A custom order, the multi-function device had cost a Dede-sized mound of HDMs, for its Core had come from a rare species of telepathic Mushroom Mites deep in the damp darkness of the Murk. In addition to an unparalleled ability to latch onto the pulse of notoriously unreliable Divination signals, the bangle served to amplify her Divination broadcasts. In times of conflict, together with the hierarchal Glyphs of a Magister, the unit doubled as a command module capable of piercing the fog of Spellfire. _Click_. Gwen drew the unlocking Glyph with a finger, then synched her Divination Sigil with the Core. In the next few seconds, she fully expected dozens of blooming Messages to dazzle her field of vision. Instead, her device remained mum. "Oh yeah." She recognised the problem at once. _The signal_ was absent. She was outside of the range of even the most far-ranging Divination Tower. Sydney was not London, and its countryside was more accurately described as Wildlands. From memory, the closest Divi-Tower was in Wiseman's Ferry, a hundred kilometres as the crow flies from her present whereabouts. However, location tracking should still be possible, even if Messages are not. On Gwen's middle finger, her slim digits toyed with her Contingency Ring. After all, this was Australia's open landscape, not Amazonia's arboreal abodes or the Murk's abstract dimensions. "Goolagong." Gwen forced herself up. She was weak, though physical fatigue was nothing alchemy couldn't fix. Comparatively, her mental fatigue made her ill with exhaustion, making her thoughts feel like a tumbling percussion set. "I need to go." "Of course you do. You _come_ , and you _go._ " Goolagong did not offer words of sympathy nor aid on flying with fatigue. "Bushwacking half-asleep—That's the Migloo way, yes? You decided what to do with Almudj?" "Yes, the choice is mine." Gwen nodded as the old woman held her upright. A quick Prestidigitation ensured she was clean enough to put on tights and a jacket suitable for flying, both mid-tier magical garbs she had picked up in the UK from an Enchanter. The smiling Goolagong regarded her form-fitting outfit with a critical eye. "Too skinny, Migloo girl. Almudj likes a bit more meat on his meals." "Of course, Al does." Gwen rolled her eyes, amused by the assertion. "No wonder Elf-Kalinda's tree burned. She should have worked on her glutes." "Ha!" Old Goolagon roared with laughter, shaking her fertility goddess figure. "Cheeky girl, you need more cheek to please the cheeky snake! The three sisters who Almudj visited at night in the Dreaming? They are much-much more cheeky than you!" On reflex, Gwen knew she had to retort with the right words. "Oh, right. Naturally. My Mythic don't want-want none unless Kalinda's got buns, huh?" While Goolagong grew confused, Gwen smugly adjusted her top. "You say the _strangest_ things, Migloo Gwen." The Spirit Walker chose to certify her advice by sending Gwen on her way. "Go! You make no sense!" _Oh yeah—I am the strange one,_ Gwen retaliated in silence. _As if an anaconda with a preference isn't weird. Because in that eternal bedlam of Space and Time, the Rainbow Snake dreamt of ass. That makes perfect sense._ At a suitable altitude, she waved goodbye to the kids below who had come begging for more SPAM before summoning Ariel to be her guard and mount. Once mounted, she zoomed toward what she presumed to be Wiseman's Ferry with her Omni-orb. Twenty minutes later, she saw Lulan and Richard. The Orb took her to her "heart's desire"—in this case, her desire to see family outweighed the loading dock at Wiseman's. It was a quirk of the Orb, something that Professor Brown had warned her against, least it mislead her at a critical junction, or if the Yinglong could manipulate her direction-blindness without her knowing. That or one day, she might visit Evee instead of a battlefield awaiting salvation from a War Mage. Still, the Orb had done its job thus far, from late-night Chinese takeout to destinations with names she can't pronounce. Whatever magic used to empower its Divination was far better at reading context than Human-orientated magic, proving why the Omni-Orb was considered an invaluable artefact. "Gwen!" "Saviour!" Her companions look relieved, with Lulan more so than Richard. "Lord Gunther said we'd find you sooner or later if we loitered around here listening for thunder and looking for emerald lightning." Lulan allowed the tension to fall visibly from her shoulders. "Gwen, were you attacked? You don't _look_ alright." "She looks fine." Richard disarmed their companion with a casual wave over Gwen's new clothes. "Look at her outfit, Lulu. Why would Gwen be anything other than fine if she's wearing _fashion?_ Besides, Ariel looks to be in a good mood." "EEE—EEE!" The Kirin purred. Lulan appeared to absorb Richard's advice as the three locked into flight formation. "A lot has happened." Gwen kept the news vague for now. "Anything else happened while I was gone?" "Many things," Richard spoke while keeping an eye on his Message device. "Auckland survived a two-day siege without you, and they're already missing your presence. However, rumours say that they don't want you back! Ha! Imagine that! Our auditing must have hit the Greys in the kidneys. They told Gunther Auckland can't afford the wage commanded by the Mageocracy! Gunther told them he'll do them a solid, and you'll take payment in war loot." "Whoever suggested that deserves to die," Lulan snarled in a low voice. "To put profit over the safety of the city? Of the folk they've sworn to protect? That's ridiculous." "Now, now, Lulu. Let's not be harsh. You think that's how officials work, but in reality, self-interest is the norm," Richard continued to stain the lily-white Lulu in the tenebrous ink of his wily ways. "And when it comes to personal prejudices, you're no different when our dear cousin is involved. Would you have Gwen suffer a disfiguring danger to save a hundred NoMs? A thousand, even? Having the gall to make that call and defend the cause, that's the making of a Magister." The Sword Mage grew reticent. "Dick! Stop teasing her!" Gwen chided her cousin with a playful elbow before hovering closer to her bodyguard. "Don't dwell on it, Lulu. That's not going to happen. Economic reform, contingencies and vertical-integrated strategies are the goals of our future 'economic' Tower. We'll do everything we can for those we owe responsibility and warranty. For others, only due diligence may apply." "Well said." Richard's smarmy smile never left his lips. "So, what did Al say? I can see a Barbanginy had not happened." "Thankfully," Gwen vaguely answered, thinking about the vision of the burning tree. She could still feel the heat scorching her Astral Body, sensing that great cathedral of blazing and burning within the emerald hue of Almudj's Essence. "But I did find an answer for Sufina, and thus our future Tower." Now it was Richard's turn to assume a contemplative silence. With her Orb leading the way, the trio re-adjusted their headings for Sydney Tower. Thanks to Ariel, an enormous chemtrail of Quasi-Elemental Mana followed, trailing from the tablelands toward the state's glimmering coastal city. ***** Sydney. The Tower. _PHSSSSSST—_ "Ah— _sugars_ …" Gunther Shultz, Lord Master of the Sydney Frontier, garnished his apple strudel with more whipped cream than intended. "That changes everything." "It certainly does." Alesia crushed her pie with a fork before mixing the mess into an amalgamation of textures. Happily, she spooned the offending admixture between her sensual lips. "I am glad Sufi shall have her wish." Gunther looked like he wanted to retort but instead said nothing. "Yes. You girls do as you please. I am just a humble Frontier lord, one doing his job." Gwen studied the two. That her siblings would be so divided on the matter of Sufina was still something she had not expected. What was more shocking was that Alesia, who always gave Gunther room to live large, did not give an inch regarding her make-belief surrogate mother figure. It was a situation that made Gwen the perfect mediator to the couple's rare unhappy conflict, as she both had feelings for Sufina and possessed the advantage of a cooler head. Therefore, the question left on her plate of strudel was _when_ to make good on Sufina's offer. It was a weighty word, considering the implication of what she'd seen in _Kalinda's_ dreaming. _Now_ was without question the _incorrect_ time. Foremostly, a bloody Shoal was knocking on Auckland. Surviving that, she had an expedition to Erebus, following the footsteps of Shackleton across the Antarctic to find the culprit Elementals responsible for the eruption. Then… She had no idea what else was to follow. In her old world, climate change's impacts would take decades to manifest. In her present convergence of the _Spiritus Mundi_ , the consequences could be near-immediate or be so subtle that none would believe her until the world saw its first cataclysm. _One like the Fire Sea_ , a cataclysm that Gwen felt had been a practicum used to prove a point, a demonstration to rally the Elementals behind a tangible outcome. Whatever the case, not even the Oracle of Delphi had forewarned the world of _the great disturbance in the force_ , which meant there was nothing to do but _wait_. If only she had a crystal ball! If only Diviners SAW the future and weren't just information specialists pigeon-holed into a convenient-sounding School of Magic! "I should make a detour to see Sufina," Gwen announced. "Do I have the time to spare?" "You don't." Gunther began the process of packing away the plates. "Richard, Lulan, would you like more?" Lulan obediently collected the rest of the cutlery and plates, meek as a kitten, leaving only Gwen and Alesia with their second and third helpings. "Thank you," Gunther continued. "The Shoal is still growing—a direr prospect for Auckland, one I've advised Paladin Te to resolve actively, rather than waiting for fate to take its shot." "It's still growing?" Gwen envisioned the multiple layers of swirling fish forming into something of _Dante's nine layers of a seafood buffet_. "Are they eating themselves?" The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. "Where there's a Grand Shoal, the fabric between the Planes grow thin," Gunther clarified by drawing apart the layers of his strudel. "The Elemental Princes can ferry the enormous, continent-spanning swarms of bait fish from the Plane of Water into the Prime Material by taking advantage of the natural rents that occur when such a density of Elemental beings congregate. It's another reason why we can't attack them that deep. Imagine finding yourself shunted into the Mer's home Plane. Now that would be a disaster." Gwen pushed away her final serving of strudel. "I guess the Shoal I fought wasn't that big." "During the Coral War," Alesia wrapped up as well. "The Grand Shoal of the Seven Kingdoms spanned from Byron Bay to Rockhampton, turning the sea a dark green as far as the eye could see. We had planar anomalies occur as an everyday event, sometimes a dozen times during the peak of the invasion. At some point, even the Shoal struggled with its structure." "Where the Prime Material's fabric grows threadbare," Gunther explained. "There's a propensity for other things to sneak across. To the Mer, the horrid beasts living in the Far Planes' broken spaces are no less strange and potentially hostile. Sometimes, there's nudging from the other side. Other times, forces of the _spectral_ variety could take advantage and invite _strange guests_ into our home." "Like the Triffidus?" Gwen asked. "The batch I scoured in the UK?" "Indeed." The Tower Master nodded. "We know this. The Lords of Mer know this. Without a sufficiently powerful Prince in charge, the Shoal can only gain so much _mass_ before it begins to collapse the folds of Prime Material." "Meaning you should probably head back to Auckland soon," Alesia concurred with her husband. "I fear there'll be a real attack soon—" "A final assault?" "Ha!" Alesia sternly patted Gwen's knee. "If you think a Shoal is that easy to defeat, you're dreaming, Gwennie. Once the Shoal reaches critical mass, it'll send as many Mer as it wishes to lose to attack the city and defences. Even if you annihilate the assault, the Shoal remains largely uncontested and may continue to build up its forces. In the aftermath, you've done their leadership a favour, for the survivors will be promoted, AND there's no longer an excess of fish to cause undue instability." "Right." Gwen sighed. "Hence a Shoal is to be endured, not bested. The Grey Faction has been whining about that since May." "The only real alternative is for you to challenge the Elemental Prince," Gunther suggested. "That was Master's method in his book." "I did that with the Dragon Turtles," Gwen reminded her siblings. "It was a tough fight. Dede almost died." "Aww, the poor thing," Alesia cooed. "Nyrlesvinyr's the one to best," Gwen recalled the name without trouble. "And considering she saved her brother, what are the chances Shyvaphyr's sibling fall for the same bait twice?" "Nyrlesvinyr." Gunther moved from the kitchen table to the dining. A Glyph flashed, and then a Long-Range Message Device materialised. "I've done some homework for you and Te while you were away. Asked for information to be delivered from the Shard. One moment." The activated device began to make that horrible, line-modem screech while the occupants of Gunther's penthouse suite at the Tower sat in enduring silence. "I know of this Nyrlesvinyr. I believe Alesia and I had encountered one of its... _spawns_ during our epoch of the Coral Sea War. It's a Hydra-like creature, very unique," Gunther spoke over the noise. DING! The LRM Device secured its connection to London. "Gwen, my dear! How are you?" The face of Maxwell Brown, Gwen Song researcher extraordinaire, made an appearance. "Excellent timing, Lord Shultz. We've just finished tea and arrived at the lab." "Professor Brown!" Gwen broke into a grin. It was always nice to see a familiar face. "My, it feels like a lifetime. How are things in London?" "Without you, my dear, everything has been without colour," the academic flattered without so much as a blush. "Did you enjoy the butchery?" "It's okay. How's Gracie getting along?" Gwen asked, mindful of the follower she had left behind with plentiful doses of Essence-infused Maotai. "I am here!" A second voice answered her. "I am helping Professor Brown with organising the material you wanted." "Aww... thanks, Gracie. You didn't have to do that." Gwen gave the Lumen projector a big bright smile. "How's JP doing—" Gunther coughed. "I know you're rich, Gwen, but LRM time is money for a Frontier like ours, especially a channel with this much Abjuration weaved within the signal." "Right," Gwen settled herself. "So, what information do we have on Nyrlesvinyr?" "Lord Gunther? If you could?" Maxwell Brown spoke past her toward her sibling-in-craft. The former Coral War vet muttered a few power words of Illusion, then materialised the scale model of what looked like an island swimming on four paddle-like legs. The external shell of the Dragon Turtle in question was roughly disc-shaped, conic and resembling a giant screw. The most distinctive thing about the creature, Gwen noted, was its noodle-like appendages. Upon closer inspection, these were segmented heads with enormous, multi-layered jaws. "That's Nyrlesvinyr?" Gwen pointed to the floating fortress covered with kelp and seagrass. "Or is one of its heads _Nyrlesvinyr_? What is it? A multi-headed Dragon-Turtle?" "Don't be fooled. Nyrlesvinyr is a Dragon-Worm." Gunther made the image larger. "That island is not a turtle shell. That's the fortress lair within which it makes its home. Nyrlesvinyr's core element is Ooze, though it can shift to Earth and Water with equal ease. From its roost, Nyrlesvinyr sends out itself—or more accurately, its _Spawn_." "Or Avatars?" Alesia tossed in her two cents. "Clones, perhaps? Kind of like Greater Simulacrums." "Yes," the Tower Master agreed. "They're quite a handful, considering that they fear no death and act as such. Its Ooze powers add a corrosive poison to its skin secretions and bite. It's a skill reserved for fighting its siblings and other ancient horrors of the deep, though you can imagine the havoc it might wreck if one of the appendages makes it to shore." "How large is this thing exactly?" Gwen pursed her lips, pondering how she might topple such a thing and disperse the Shoal. "About the size of Muttonbird Island," her brother-in-craft said with a smile. Muttonbird Island, Gwen knew, was one of the famous pilgrimage sites for those worshipping the Lord Master of Sydney. A decade ago, Gunther had turned the Mer-Tide with a phantasmagorical display, raining shards of Radiance across the eastern seaboard of Byron until the sea steamed with erupting seafood fighting to escape the unquenchable crystals boiling the water. Now, the barren island was a bee-hive of tiny, long-cooled craters, which made perfect roosts for the benign seabirds. "It's a kilometre long?" Gwen stared at the Wyrm fortress. "Are you serious?" "About five hundred meters diametre, but at least a kilometres deep." Gunther pointed at the sloped end, then gestured to the front. "It can move the undersea island by manipulating the currents surrounding the landscape. That said, I think its real body _is_ about a kilometre long, coiled up inside that _roost_." "Nyrlesvinyr's base life form should be the semi-divine worms that inhabit the Para-Elemental Plane of Ooze," Alesia informed her. "Both indestructible and without natural enemies. Its parent would be akin to Almudj, a being that slumbers in the Murk Mud, moving like living glaciers through the immense pressures of the Para-Plane, consuming everything in its path." "Miommiriorthyr the Deep put his who in a what?" Gwen tried her best to imagine the act, then immediately regretted her internet-fuelled imagination. "That's amazing." "Perhaps a symbiosis of Essences might prove a better explanation." The voice of Maxwell Brown banished her horrible thoughts. With a wave of his hand, the island grew transparent, revealing the body of what looked like… "A _Bristle Worm_?" Gwen stared hard at the ugliest creature she had ever seen. Sure, the scales were a pleasant rainbow colour, but its tiny eyes were utterly alien—and those jaws looked like they could do serious damage. And those noodle-like legs that looked like a thousand independent slugs jostling for space— _disgusting!_ And to think Nyrlesvinyr _had possessed a buttery bedroom voice!_ "From her voice… I had imagined a Mer-woman." _Or Ursula the Sea Witch._ "I am sure _he, or it, or she_ could assume many forms if it pleased her." Brown laughed. "We're talking about a creature that could replicate by slicing itself in half." "Why am I always up against worms?" Gwen furrowed her brows. "Sand Wyrms, Earthen Wyrms, and now this water worm-wyrm." "Are you not the _Worm-handler_ of Fudan?" Alesia chortled. "What plans do you have to fight it?" Gunther politely interrupted the mirth. "If it were me, I would set up a task force for dealing with its _offshoots_. In the crudest sense, they are portions of Nyrlesvinyr's living flesh, possessed of all the perks of a Planar Draconic species. Your problem, I think, would be the impossibility of preventing the Shoal's mistress from making _personal_ attacks on Auckland. Consider your roster of Mages. Yue might manage. A few of Auckland's elite Flights might manage. After that, you'll have more problems than you have men. Auckland's Tower, likewise, can't be everywhere. Once a push is made in earnest, who can hold back the many-bodied might of Nyrlesvinyr?" "I could handle one." Lulan raised her hand. "I'll wrangle Gwen's worm." Richard quickly lowered the girl's hand for her. Alesia looked at Lulan with approval. "You might. But I wouldn't recommend splitting up your team, especially if Nyrlesvinyr knows who you are from your fight with her brother." "She might know a few of my tricks," Gwen recalled something the worm had said in their previous encounter. "It watched me fight the Dragon Turtles. Then she mentioned she fought Sobel once and that it was not afraid of me." "Many of the Seven Kingdom's upper echelons have survived Sobel. I would imagine," Gunther replied, untouched by her conjecture. "Master was responsible for reclaiming most of the East Coast after he got his hands on his future wife. That's a half-decade of Purges going head-to-head with the Mer's elites. It's also the reason Sobel's so slippery. Now that she's a professed foe of Humanity at large, there's a great number of presumed havens her and Spectre's Rogue Mages could occupy in the Wildlands. Barr the Dragon-kind, memories are short in the Wildlands, and raw power commands a currency higher than any other." Gwen studied the holographic projection. "Professor Brown? I assume you have advice for me?" "Indeed I do. First, if you must fight it in the water, forget about it." Brown nodded with satisfaction. "Your advantage is on land or in the air. The same applies to your foe, who must, but is reluctant to enter the shallows to send its tendrils onto the shore. I'll let Gracie explain the next part." "Hi, Gracie!" Gwen waved at the pale face coming into view. Gracie waved back. "From our records on Nyrlesvinyr, I think the crux of the matter lies with its Draconic pride. Whether Nyrlesvinyr will remain within the Shoal or if it is willing to lead from the front. Here's what Lord Brown and I suspect. In time, when the moment is ripe, the _island fortress_ Nyrlesvinyr carries with her can serve as a battering ram to break the siege, allowing the Shoal entry into Auckland Tower's defence lines. Regular brutes won't be capable of meaningfully penetrating the lines, as they'll be severely injured by resonance. Not so for an old Draconid like Nyrlesvinyr. Once the Shielding Generators are overheated, Nyrlesvinyr can unleash the Shoal's Elites, the Wave Riders and the Water Witches from her roost. While chaos ensues, she can use them to disrupt the ley-line stations, disabling the protections feeding the Shoal into Auckland's kill zones." "I see. What do you suggest other than brute-force defence?" Gwen pursed her lips. "Unless this _is_ the strategy." "You could drop the Shoggoth on the Shoal. It had certainly done wonders in the Chinese catacombs," Brown added. "But that would be a pyrrhic victory. This close to the city, we'll likely have to sacrifice the entire barrier islands and the region's ecology for the next decade. And as a precaution, a general evacuation of Auckland should be carried out. That's hardly a break-even." "So we're between a worm and a hard place, eh?" Gwen sighed. "Don't fret." Brown sent away his Void-aide. "Do you recall when you defeated the Balefire Golem with Soul Tap? Or when you took in Garp? I think there's a play here. From the scant details revealed by Nyrlesvinyr, we can deduce that it never fought Sobel vis-a-vis. Else it would have developed a healthy avoidance of Gwen. I think it's likely unaware of your ability to Essence Tap its Draconic blessings." "I am sure I threatened the Dragon Turtles with it, and I Soul Tapped Zippy." "Then it will have incomplete knowledge. Not to mention Sobel couldn't do what you can," Brown added. "She can't Essence Drain higher-order beings. You're different. Are you not a Vessel of Almudj? What Essence will dare to vie for dominion with yours? Wouldn't that simply incur Almudj's ire? If the Rainbow Snake can swallow Sobel's Black Sun with only mild indigestion, it can erase Nyrlesvinyr from Auckland without so much a yawn. We only need to be wary of whether your patron will be upset at you." "Not if I digest the Essence for parts and not use it as I did with the Yinglong," Gwen confirmed with confidence. "I see. Once drained of Draconic Essence, the appendages will no longer be a threat." "And you will drive Nyrlesvinyr up the sea wall, I guarantee it." Brown chuckled. "Maybe capture it for us? We could use a precious specimen that cannot be exhausted. Even as a food supply, the value of such a near-immortal body is invaluable." "What if I beat the young one and yet another older one comes out?" Gwen asked. "I don't want to start a real war." "I'll have your back," Gunther assured her. "Besides, you are besting Nyrlesvinyr in a fair fight. For Miommiriorthyr to cross the Planar boundary would first uproot the Seven Kingdoms. For him to send another scion is a real possibility, but another Great Shoal isn't something that occurs overnight. It'll be decades before we see a reprisal, though to allow the danger of the present to dictate an unknown future would be foolhardy." "Not to mention if the old one comes, your Old One might just make a showing as well. That's never happened before and shouldn't now. In our recorded history, the Mageocracy has never seen Mythics fight with their true bodies in the Prime Material. If you recall such a thing from Tryfan, there should be an unspoken _agreement_ in place, and not tearing apart the stability of the Spiritus Mundi should be a core tenet." "So." Gwen sat back in her chair. "We organise a lure and an ambush?" "The details, you'll have to work it out with Paladin Te," Gunther said. "Brown, I'll end the call here." Before Gwen could waste more HDMs with goodbyes, the channel blinked out. "Do you know what to do now?" Her brother asked. "Yes." Gwen felt the clarity of purpose wash over her and a strange nostalgia involving a wayward memory of Hai at the beach, hitting on young women while she and Percy played in the rockpools. "You know, it's been _years_ since I last caught bait worms at the beach." "You're confident the fish will bite?" "She'll bite." Gwen gave her sibling a thumbs up. "Assuming she fancies herself a Wyrm and not a worm, answering a challenge is an itch a Draconid cannot help but scratch."

Auckland. On a cold morning in early May, the most remote Frontier on the furthermost end of Humanity's antipodean outpost saw its first true assault from the South Sea Shoal. In future textbooks, scholars would ascertain that the attack must have been the original plan of Nyrlesvinyr, the ninth scion to He who slumbers in the Crown of Corals, the ageless Miommiriorthyr, since the siege's inception. For those living in the present, it was the day Auckland learned a stern lesson on "Longitudinal Defence against Shoals". The notion that a Shaol could "surprise attack" was absurd. Nyrlesvinyr's Shoal was at least six kilometres, easily visible on the surface. Every move it made was monitored by the Divination Stations and their staff of tired but dedicated Diviners. What had caused Paladin Te Wherowhero to be struck unaware, therefore, was the endless repetition of the attacks, the mind-numbing casualties the Mer suffered, and the consequent complacency. Almost a month and a half had passed since the Shoal began to amass on the coast. Auckland had called in every available favour, including Tower Master Shultz of Sydney. As a result, the city received the aid of both Yue Bai, Apprentice to the Scarlet Sorceress, and her contemporary, the infamous devouring War Mage. After the early victories of Magister Gwen Song, Auckland was joined by the future Master of Arms of the Tower of London, Thomas Benedict Holland, who had arrived to tame a Steam Spirit. With the unexpected influx of manpower and the balance of power momentarily restored by Gwen Song's auditing of the Grey Faction, the situation appeared positively rosy for Auckland. For the first time since the original Coral Sea War, Auckland's provisions were bursting at the seams with Wands, body armour, mana cartridges, food and medical supplies. The only essential defence components they were missing were Golems and upper-tier Mages, though, with Gwen Song on call and a Lord of Exeter visiting, few felt apprehensive for the future. The high morale, combined with a month of ceaseless victories, had drugged the city's Militia with hopeful optimism that bellied the reality of their precarious position. The city's leadership had again turned from yet another assault to feud among themselves, perceiving the Shoal as an enormous, near-inexhaustible harvest of HDMs and Creature Cores that must be fully tapped before the war was over and the status quo of peace was restored. Therefore, when the assault began, six-tenth of the Militia were on reserve or were convalescing within the city. Furthermore, the once-grim defenders had lost the razor-edged mindset of perishing with the foe, their wits blunted by the propaganda of victory. The mood swing was an important distinction, for men willing to fight to the end could hold back a Shoal for a long time—while a company and its commanders who hope to survive would only lose ground. Ground which, for a month and more, Auckland did not think it could close. When the sirens blared their death-wail and the Shielding Stations thrummed with palpable agony, the Tower knew immediately that the fate of the city had taken a mortal turn. The giant Manta beasts from the South Sea, no longer gliding under the water but leaping through the air, sailed as suicide barges to crash upon the beach or flap just far enough to flatten the trenches. The collective sacrifice of their ruptured Cores was enough to overheat the Resonance shielding, spilling ten-thousand hard-shelled, multi-limbed Mer to slither from the pocket-folds of the Manta's folded flesh. The remaining defenders had instantly taken to their positions. Nonetheless, as a shimmering battle tide of fins and scales, the Mer swarmed the Greater Barrier island of Aotea, breaking upon the Shielding Stations on the peak of the island's volcanic mass. The Tower responded as well as it could, incinerating enormous, house-sized blocks of HDMs as it hovered into range, pulsing with disruptive resonance. With the aid of the Tower's lower amplifiers, a hundred Evokers and Transmuters rained down hyper-tier spellfire onto the moving molasses of shell and scale, painting the northern section of the island swarths of cobalt and vermillion. For an hour stretched into what seemed like an eternity, the Tower watched the tide invade like the growth of stubborn slime into a tidal pool. And then the ground grew fangs. Without discrimination, near the nodes used by the Maguses to apportion men and supplies to the front lines, the volcanically formed igneous strata turned to mush and mud, changing solid slate into sucking quicksand. Those caught by panic and surprise became swallowed immediately as a bristle-clad worm emerged, falling feet-first into a tooth vortex where six pairs of mandibles laid in wait. As the soft bodies of the men struck the enormous mouth, the snap-jaws did not close—instead, dozens of tiny tendrils, each tipped with corrosive motes of penetrative fangs, pierced their steel body plates as easily as slivers of molten lead through linen snow. For the unlucky survivors, the erupting flames from the worm's hairy exterior turned out not to be fire, but poisonous bristles tipped with toxins strong enough to impair Draconids. Against these, a gentle brush was enough to shatter a Mage's barrier, while the most minute of prickles was enough to turn an NoM militiaman into an instant pustule of eruptive slime. Worse still, parallel reports of flaming bristle worms the size and length of inter-city trains had spontaneously erupted in every node of Auckland's perimeter defences, paralysing the command centre with the sudden ferocity of the Shoal's simultaneous assault. "Where's Magister Song?" the Paladin's demands tore through the Tower's command centre like a whip at the ashen-faced Grey Faction Maguses. "I'll personally strangle the lot of you if she's delayed because of your antics!" "You accuse us of air!" came a protest without confidence, for the Greys knew as well as anyone else in the amphitheatre that they had lodged objections, bribed officials, and moved nothing short of heaven and earth to keep the Auditor of Auckland on ice in Sydney. "Then where is she now?" The Paladin's Ta Moko glowed the same vivid blue as the Bristle Worms wreaking havoc within the lumen projector's clairvoyance. "She should be teleporting through within the hour," an aide reported. "We're still priming the ISTC Relay." There was a pause. "That is...Magus Kuznetsova is priming the ISTC Relay." "The platform was NOT primed for Sydney?" The Paladin's scowl could have stopped hearts. "Who is responsible for this lack of preparation?" "Magus Lane and Billywort." The sweat-drenched aide glanced at his indignant Grey Faction managers. "They were readying the ISTC relay for Lord Thomas of Holland's trip to Melbourne." "How convenient for you shonky bastards—" Paladin Te's tone grew dangerously low. With an indignant digit, he pointed at one of the displays. "Does that look like a man on route to Melbourne?" "Te. Spare your wrath for the Shoal," the voice that answered the Paladin came from the door. Turning their heads, the council saw Wa Mātaatua, the presiding Magister of the Militant, still trailing embers of Elemental Fire from his tattoos. Behind the man were two Flights of Mage fresh from the fight, including the unmistakable figure of Yue Bai, covered from arm to chin with her unique ashen Ta Moko. "What else needs to be said? Even our guest from the Shard is fighting the Shoal, and here, our brothers from the Greys are abetting the foe." "Be wary of your words, Mātaatua!" The protest from the Greys rose several decibels. "Are you foolish enough to believe Lord Holland's generosity will last the war?" "I don't know about that—" the retort, to their surprise, came from the young Asian woman next to the Magister. "What I do know is that you're all bark. But you know what? This bitch bites. If the city falls because of Gwennie's delay, all of you will fight to the death. I guarantee it by the reputation of my Master, Alesia De Botton. I'll hunt down anyone in your damned Faction above the rank of Senior Mage who dares to be absent from the final beachhead at Rangitoto." The threat was so unorthodox that, for a moment, there was only silence in the amphitheatre war room. For reasons known to all, none doubted the young woman's promise. "Enough!" Te Wherowhero's bark brought an end to the barbed exchange. "Mills, Henry, retrieve Lane and Billywort. Send them to the front lines and tell them to stay there until the Shoal is turned. Mātaatua, how fares your Combat Flights?" "Minor injuries. We're licking our wounds and recovering our mana, so we'll be back in the fight soon." "Good. Then you take sectors six and eight, where that Thunder Wyvern has taken roost. Minimise casualties until Magister Song can assess the situation and decide if her strategic-class Conjuration should be deployed. Waitiki, Marama, Smith, take your Greys and reinforce sectors one to five. Keep those Barrier Engines running, preserve the Shielding Stations, or else." "Yes, Paladin." The Greys hastily made their exit. "He means or die trying!" The voice of Yue Bai chided the retreating figures doing their best to ignore her. After an exaggerated horse laugh, Mātaatua left for the Flight Deck, taking Alesia's matchless Apprentice along to avoid miscommunication with the Wyvern. "How's the Tower Master holding up?" Te turned to his aide with a sigh. "Tell her I'll be leaving with Whetu's team for the Barrier Islands. Until Magister Song arrives, I'll hold the Shoal at Aotea." "Master Hildenbrandt says her spell fatigue is being maintained," the junior administrator replied after examining the logs on his Divination slate. "That and we have another two months of nominal operating power, sixteen days at full combat capacity. Is that going to be enough, Sir?" "Not without committing Magister Song." The Paladin of Auckland studied the war map with its illusion-empowered blips. Without Gwen Song, Auckland's core focus would have shifted toward a general evacuation of the city into the inland regions held by Halflings. Their home would fall—but it could also be rebuilt if Auckland preserved its personnel. For a brief moment, Te recalled the lumen-recording he had seen of Magister Song's Planar Ally erasing the peninsular of Triffidus from existence. Should they come to that... Auckland and the Shoal would be reduced to blank slates, resetting the power balance in the region. If that came to pass, would the Seven Kingdoms raise an even larger Shoal? Or, would the loss of so many mouths leave enough of a resource vacuum to calm the Mermen for a decade or more, as proven by Kilroy's victory in the Coral Sea War? Auckland. Port Jackson Shielding Station. The Jackson station was one of two relays of Auckland, a concrete fortress of Abjuration that withstood everything from natural disasters to Mer-made catastrophes. Together with the headland of Pahi and the interceding Barrier Islands, the twin stations formed the "gate" into Auckland's sheltered bay waters, where the city's maritime fleets had fled into the city's coves and sounds. Presently, Thomas Benedict Holland hovered over Jackson. Opposite, his contemporaries, a duck from Emmanuel's and a Thunder Wyvern lighting up the trenches with liquid lightning, oversaw Pahi. In truth, Thomas wasn't supposed to be here. He did not trust his newly acquired Dragon Turtle Spirit to butt heads with its superior brethren, and his orders had been to tame the Spirit—then immediately leave Auckland. But Thomas had stayed. Within his field of vision, he saw millions of skittering limbs crawling over the Shielding Station's pyramidal, obsidian facade, attempting to crack the fortress to get at the flesh militiamen within. Thus far, the Glyph-enhanced exterior held, striking up cobalt sparks that numbed the assailants' limbs. The localised Walls of Force were a marvel of Spellcraft engineering—but they were also ancient, inefficient, and ravenous for resources. It took him a few minutes to exorcise the footsoldiers, conjuring a Maximised Maelstrom with the aid of an implement, drawing upon the new strength of his Steam Spirit to cascade the rolling banks of boiling death across the unsuspecting Mer. To the cheers of the militiamen, red-shelled seafood peeled like ripe persimmons from the Shielding Station, exploding as they fell, cooked so thoroughly that the slightest impact catalysed pressurised gasses to erupt from the Mer's blue blood. Next, Thomas and his aides traversed northward to the edge of the sea, where fresh Mer clambered over the steaming bodies with a grim determination. Nearer the water, an array of spine-throwing Mer that resembled prehistoric frog-men slathered with muck and mud blew themselves up like bell-blows—then launched toward Thomas a hailstorm of barbed spears. "Force Carapace!" Thomas manifested the spell before the spines came close enough to hurt. Six barriers, three in an open array and three closer to his body, glimmered as a freshly blooming flower of force. The spines haplessly pinged away from the first layer while wayward and luckier projectiles were stifled by the second or warded away by his bodyguards. "Transmute Force!" Thomas transformed the geometric shields with a simple invocation, then sent the newly formed battering balls to ram the slick swarms of Fishmen scrambling for land. To the Mermen's confusion, the geometric spheres were hardly deadly. Each orb seemed to possess nought but air. Unfortunately, as the rough decahedrons sat among the thrashing bodies, something within seemed to build, catalysing an alarming crinkle as cracks fissured across its surface. Thomas' grin grew cruel. "Steam Blast!" Those closest to the explosions didn't even have time to scream as the force-shards shattered, shredding through their mortal bodies with the astrophysical energy of solidified, meta-magical force. The initial blast threw the closest Mer-soldiers a hundred meters into the air, sundered limbs from ligaments, or snapped the heavy upper bodies of the fish-headed varmints in twain. From the epicentres, concentric rings of scalding steam washed over the survivors, superheating their mucus so that even if they didn't perish, they steamed and stamped, screaming as insane children as body fluids cooked the life from their searing innards. "Lord Holland!" A warning came from his minders. Not far—though far enough for Holland to have at least a dozen options, a giant Manta was making one of its suicide rushes toward the Shielding Station. Thomas spent a few seconds watching the thing launch from the sea, pondering the best way to minimise the creature's threat while conserving his mana. His choice manifested as a "Wedge of Force", an invisible pane barring the way of the incoming Manta. Fifty. Twenty. Ten meters... Thomas fortified his Astral Body. With both his Abjurer and Transporter by his side, Thomas focused his whole being on maintaining the shape of his transmuted Walls of Force. THWACK–! Never had anyone imagined that tearing flesh could make so sick a sound. Still, the gash that suddenly appeared on the Manta's underside was enough to rupture organs and spill its guts. Unlike in its ocean home, there was no way for the Manta to steer itself with only the pressure of forcibly commissioned Elemental Air. A few seconds after the impact, Thomas felt something salty hit the back of his throat. When he spat out the offending taste, the spittle was bright red. "Hmm…" He swallowed the urge to cough uncontrollably, as that would be ungentlemanly. "My new Spirit has room to grow." "You've had it for less than twenty-four hours, Sir," his Abjurer reminded him. "Even for someone of your talent, it would take at least a year before the virtues of Draconic bloodlines may be manifested—" Stolen novel; please report. Before his bodyguard could finish, the beach behind them split in twain, revealing the hideous form of an enormous worm slithering toward the Shielding Barrier. Despite its size, the creature moved like a hasted serpent, swimming across the abandoned trenches with ease, its bright blue bristles flaring with Elemental Ooze, leaving caustic excretions in its wake. Thomas felt the resolve of his Spirit shrink. Their present foe wasn't just from the same familial tree of Essences but sat on a thicker bower closer to the root. "And now, my disobedience is at an end," Thomas quietened the shivering Astral form of Zitusphyr, whose moniker of "Zippy" he had decided to keep. To the English noblemen, a turtle called "Zippy" had just the right amount of twisted, nonsensical humour to tickle his particular fancies. As for the Shield Station—either the girl would get here in time, or she would not. His duty as the Lord of Exeter was to his assigned demesne and its properties, not to a Commonwealth Frontier little more than a resource outpost. That the heir of an ancient house was here, taking pressure off the local Militia, was enough to set tongues wagging in London. Anymore fighting outside protocol that risked the resources of the gentry without consent from the House of Lords would tarnish the reputation of House Holland, itself the vanguard of these very traditions. Tapping into the rest of his mana reserves, Thomas decided he would be wilful for another ten-to-fifteen minutes. Two more spell-crafted Maelstrom with a Delay operant, followed by a half-kilometre semi-circle of Wall of Steam, was enough to secure Port Jackson from the mundane foe. As for the Draconic Worm—he was content with gifting Auckland's Mages a memorial monument. "Lord Holland." Thomas' Abjurer casually moved between the spell-casting Lord and the rapidly approaching worm. "I believe even Magister Song should be appreciative of our efforts here. I will now ask Magus Gilbert to activate the Teleportation Circle." "Agreed. I should be on my way back," Thomas spoke between his spells. "God knows what Poins will make of this." A few seconds later, their bodies grew immaterial, leaving the baffled Militiamen in the Port Jackson bunker to gawk in confusion and horror at the now-coiling Draconic Bristle Worm, barely able to comprehend why they had descended inexplicably from heaven to hell. The atmosphere in the Sky Tower's ISTC relay was akin to a sulphuric flue on Ringatoto as the Devourer of Shenyang descended on the platform. When the burning embers of Conjuration faded, a single figure moved amongst the rigid statues of guilty men and women to greet her. "Pats." Gwen breathed out as her cousin approached. Petra Kuznetsova crossed the floor with the grace of a dancer. Her white lab coat was stained a hue of rainbows by the quasi-magical ingredients used to retune the ISTC platform. "Is everything okay? How's the city?" "The outer shielding has gone to nahui, blyat!" Petra clicked her tongue as she swore. "Gwen—I mean, Magister Song, accept my apologies. I didn't think these fools would decouple the Divination Array's preset Mandala to delay your arrival." "Why the hell would anyone do that?" Gwen scanned the room, knowing that some of the staff here were responsible. She was furious not at them, knowing that "grunts" had no choice but to follow their superior's orders. As for those superiors… her eyes grew dark with Void. "Who was in charge?" "I am. Paladin Te has put our erstwhile Enchanters to use on the Front," Petra informed her before Gwen's mood further soured. "He promised the trash would be recycled." "Magister Song! Thank Māui, you're here." Their conversation was interrupted by Auckland's sheepish locals, who finally dared to inform her of the Tower Master's orders. "The Shoal has broken through the Barrier Islands and is currently assaulting the Shielding Stations at Pahi and Jackson! We're taking significant losses among the NoMs and the rank and file Mages." Nodding, Gwen took a second to reinvigorate her Empathic Links. Not too far, she could sense Dede and Gogo on the northernmost headland of Auckland's interior bay, battling another Draconid that was only a little weaker than Golos. Considering what Gunther had told her, she guessed the thing to be the promised appendage-avatar of Nyrlesvinyr. If she wanted to implement Gunther's advice, she would have to hurry. With Nyrlesvinyr wholly unaware of her delayed arrival, she had the perfect opportunity to test the superiority of Almudj's Essence. "Take us to the deck," Gwen gave the command. "We leave immediately." At the outer ring, on the far side of the combat deck, she met the figure of Thomas Benedict Holland with his Mage Flight. The young Duke wore a white-and-navy bomber jacket reinforced with bulging attachments she assumed to be portable arrays for various enhancement magics. His men wore similarly themed outfits belonging to the Royal Air Force, though theirs were a drab mustard. Seeing the grime and slime splattered all over, they looked to have seen plenty of action. "Pats, how're your fatigue levels?" Gwen walked toward them while the others followed. "Can you join us? I've got a plan, but it's risky. We'll need Resist Elements, Protection against Poison, and Restoration if any of us gets swiped by those bristles. And Extended Haste for the whole party." "Aye. I'll buff Salamander Skin and Water Form if needed," Richard added. "Both will impact mobility, though. We'll observe the worm first-hand before we commit." Petra kept up beside Richard and Lulan. "You're planning to wrangle those Draconic worms?" "Aye." Gwen nodded. "According to Brother-in-craft, they're clones of the Elemental Prince called Nyrlesvinyr. If we don't destroy one in its entirety, it'll simply regenerate and keep on rampaging. If we cut one in half or into smaller segments, they'll become miniature Nyrlesvinyr-clones. Until its Essence runs dry, there's no stopping it." Petra's intelligent blue orbs grew flustered. "Maybe Caliban can use his Wyrm form and slurp it up like a stubborn noodle?" "There's that." Gwen held her cousin's advice in reserve. However, even if Nyrlesvinyr's clones were paralysed, swallowing one wholesale would take too long, inadvertently indulging its duplicates. "Thankfully, we'll be trying a more efficient method. One that should inspire Nyrlesvinyr to be careful where to stick her tongues." Petra paused for only a dozen steps before she looked up with a face full of expectation. "Are you hoping to recreate the Balefire phenomenon? Or perhaps tame the appendage like with Garp?" "The former," Gwen informed her cousin. "I don't think taming a living part of a fully-conscious Elemental Prince with a Draconic lineage is possible." Continuing forward, she raised a hand to hail the incoming Lord Holland. "Magister Song! Fashionably late!" Thomas hollered as he approached. "I am sorry to leave you a mess, my dear, but against this Nyrlesvinyr of yours, Zippy simply wasn't having it." The two of them briefly exchanged nods. "How's Jackson?" Gwen asked. "All three nodes await your arrival with bated breath," the Lord left her with a hopeful euphemism, then passed her. "The Barrier Islands more than the others. As you know, there's no stopping a determined worm." "Acknowledge. Thank you, Lord Holland." Gwen half-bowed while Petra explained Thomas' summation of the present combat conditions. "Will you be returning to London now?" "No. I still have a Northern Expedition to lead!" Thomas reminded her with a twinkle in his eye. "To think that we'll soon be worlds apart fills me with longing. Nonetheless, assuming we both survive our ordeals, I'll see you at Christmas Mass at King's or perhaps at Lady Aston's afterparty. Promise?" "I promise. Live long and prosper, Thomas." Gwen gave the man a cryptic sign of good faith to ward away his flag-raising promise of pudding by Christmas. "Don't die in the cold, Milord Holland—We've still got accounts to balance!" The exchange passed, and the smiling Steam Mage instantly evaporated from Gwen's mind. Now, she had worms to wrangle, risks to take, and an exceedingly primordial Essence to flaunt. Aotea. "Living Punamu!" The roar of hollering invocation could barely be heard over the crash of trashing Mermen overruling the already disorderly retreat. At Whetu Tikitiki O Taranga's behest, an expanding wall of jade-green Punamu erupted from the earth in jagged crests, forming the open ground into an instant maze. Any Mermen unfortunate enough to be caught within the sharp-edged barriers soon found themselves trapped by an ever-moving vice, exhausting their muscular energy against the tectonic momentum of Mineral mana spilling from the Quasi-Elemental Plane. Though effective, the impact of Whetu's offensive Abjuration was short-lived. As a newly minted Magus, he lacked the vast mana stores of his seniors to maintain the exhaustive spell, meaning he had to make a choice between size and duration, of which he chose the prior. As soon as the punamu crumbled, the disabled Mermen were overrun by fresh ones clambering for space. Unlike Whetu's earlier experience, the mass slaughter did not diminish their assailants' morale. This time, a Draconic overseer sat in the rear, driving the waves of fish and crab-headed Mer inland, whipping them into a frothing frenzy with its concentric waves of Dragon Fear. Would my Punamu hold against the Dragon Worm? Whetu knew to ponder was futile. There were forty Mages here on Barrier Island, and each Mage he and Te's Flights managed to save would add weight to Auckland's continued existence. On the right flank, Paladin Te had already activated his signature spell, raising from the earth a Punamu idol twice the size and ten times the weight of a Centurion MKI man-operated Golem Engine. With one swipe of its arms, a dozen Mer turned to mush, sending a deadly spray of shell and carapace toward their allies like a Spellsword's Shrapnel Blast. With the tide so close, it was now his turn. Invoking the Spirits of the old Maori ancestors, Whetu activated the latent Ta Moko tattooed on his body. For several days now, the runic scripts had been soaking up mana from his Astral Soul, and now he called upon them to fuel his next spells. "Rongo! Cover me!" Whetu gave the command. "I'll bring up my guardian. Then we make for the Teleportation Circles!" Ringo's Ta Moko burned bright blue as the man compelled a Tidal Surge from the watery mana in the atmosphere. Having survived Wellington, Whetu's old IIUC teammate had become savvier and deadlier. Though the surge split to avoid Whetu, it drove the Mer back even as they swam against the white rush of blue-green water. Ten seconds later, the Punamu Abjurer invoked the lesser parallel of his Paladin's spell. "Guardian Totem!" Whetu's Clan magic was exhaustive and allowed no missteps when used by a novice such as himself. The instant he felt his mana run dry, he tapped into another Ta Moko, then swiftly injected himself with a mana potion. The combination was enough to provide the mana necessary for a temporarily conjured Earthen Spirit to take command of the mass of Punamu spilling from the Mineral Plane, roughly forming the matt emerald into the shape of a bipedal colossus. With only the sound of mass meeting mass, the totem idol moved forward, battering away Mer through the power of raw, unstoppable physics. Even against a King Crab Mer who could render apart concrete and steel, the weight of the Abjuration-conjured avatar was enough to drive the beast six feet into the earth, first swatting it against the cracked asphalt, then stepping on its hunched back to catalyse a sudden ejaculation of blue-white ichor from every orifice. "Retreat! Retreat!" Rongo continued to sweep aside Mermen from the flanks as the Mages fled the general chaos. Whetu willed his Boots of Flying to drive him backwards, gliding gracefully over the sodden earth. A part of him wanted to tear the magical implements from his feet and gift them to the fleeing defenders of the now-ravaged Shielding Station. Still, the Tower Master's Apprentice knew better than anyone that a dead Abjurer was the worst fate the retreat could face. As for the NoM Militia, somewhere still in that hell of frolicking mass of teeth and claws… Not even Paladin Te, a man famous for his sympathies, could spare the compassion necessary to secure their non-magical brethren. It was a reality that filled Whetu with intolerable guilt and helplessness. Ding! A Message spell bloomed beside Whetu's ear. "Paladin?" Whetu kept his calm. "Your orders?" "Reinforcements are on route." Paladin Te's voice was a mixture of relief and annoyance. Relief that help had finally arrived, but also frustrated and angered by the unnecessary delay. "Look to the west! Stay out of her way— SHIT!" The Message was cut short. Whetu rose into the air, flanked by his Flight. A Dragon Worm, one with bristles the likeness of living fire, had entangled Te's Punamu Idol. Even with all the mana the Paladin fed into his autonomous guardian, its exterior rapidly eroded, and cracks were forming all over its enormous green body. A conjured idol of that size would have cost the Paladin most of his mana—and the expectation was twenty-four hours of operation, more if the Paladin could rest. For the Totem Spirit to be disabled soon into the fight would have dire consequences for the battle's longitudinal tally. "Rush for the southern beach!" Te gave the command. "I'll take that thing with me!" Before the Paladin even began to finish, his idol started to run, pumping its stumpy legs with uncharacteristic haste. In its path, Mermen were stomped into fishpaste while its waving arm continued to carve out an open swarth of seafood carnage. Whetu erected several more barriers while counting the seconds. On the count of sixty, the idol erupted. For a Mineral Mage's avatar, the sound of erupting crystals was dull, lacking the pyroclastic fantasy of Fire casters. Instead, what made up for light and sound was the glacial force of the kinetic energies unleashed, aided by the mass and weight of inevitable displacement. The Idol splintered—as did the Dragon Worm, which was torn segment-from segment, leaving behind a mess of buried sinew and shattered carapace. Ancestors. Had Uncle Te done it? Whetu's hope felt as fragile as a sheet of clear Punamu without the reinforcing honeycomb lattice. That was the best Paladin Te could manage without direct interference from the Tower, for the Tower's mana reserves must be preserved. So long as the Tower hovered, Auckland possessed an un-assailable Shielding Station. Even if every ground station were to fail, they could still evacuate the city's thousands of magic users and rebuild. A half-minute later, Whetu had his answer. The recovering Dragon Worm slithered through the carpet of Punamu, its inner flesh seemingly formed of a multitude of smaller creepy-crawling things from the deep. Within a minute, its flesh stitched anew, and it was making a beeline for Whetu's Totem Idol. Unlike Paladin Te, Whetu did not possess the means to destabilise the Spirit within the idol. Once the worm finished his abjuring avatar… Whetu turned to his exhausted charges, the survivors from the shattered station. They were still minutes from the beachhead with the Teleportation Circles. In a few moments, sacrifices would have to be made. _SCHWING—!_ A shrill whine of mental sliced his dilemma in twain. A strangely familiar orison sung by thrumming steel resounded overhead. A split-second later, a slab of gleaming metal struck the still-damaged carapace of the Bristle Worm, penetrating it just behind the head with its multitudes of beady, malicious eyes, pinning the indignant creature to the floor. _SCHWING—!_ _SCHWING—! SCHWING—!_ More followed, stabbing with incredible precision, turning the twenty-meter worm into an instant specimen. Undeterred, the worm began to thrash. "EE—!" _CRACK!_ A green bolt of electricity, channelled through the instantly red-hot lightning rods, was enough to teach it momentary calm. In the same instance, a sanity-splitting "SHAA—!" tore through the fabric of space and time, landing just behind the head, gripping both maw and torso with hands akin to a woman's delicate digits. Caliban! Whetu felt the tension drain from his chest like puss from a swollen abscess. Their reinforcements were here, and it was none other than a woman specialising in wrangling dragons. Incredibly, the worm's labours could not overcome the Big Bird's death-grip, nor could its bristles penetrate past the dark, ink-like feathers covering its lower body. With another "SHAA—!" Caliban opened its enormous tri-petal maw, then frenched the worm head-first. Elsewhere, the Mer's advance had ground to a halt. Appearing above, darkening the landscape, was the radiant visage of Gwen's Thunder Wyvern, emitting a thick haze of invisible Dragon Fear, preventing the lesser Mer from attacking or fleeing. Below, the air crackled with excess mana as the monsters fought, spraying salted mud in every direction. The worm was now headless, but it still tore itself from the confines of the steel sword pins to wrap its bristle-clad body against the bird, hoping to squeeze from it whatever life the fiend might possess in its unholy torso. Within seconds, the Big Bird wore a shroud of envenomed, corrosive bristles, appearing comically as a faceless bird wearing a too-long scarf. Gwen—no, the Devourer of Shenyang, then materialised behind the pair. Whetu wasn't sure why his friend would risk mortal injury, but Gwen did just that. Dimension Dooring into place, the Void sorceress launched a dozen Void Bolts against the Dragon Worm's rear, clearing the carapace of bristles and exposing the crystalline prawn flesh. "Lulu!" Her command was a clarion call to action. _SCHWING—!_ Six enormous, distended skewers penetrated Caliban and the worm, keeping the confused mass in one place. With the likeness of a thieving cat, Gwen then landed on the still quivering "tail". The sorceress began an invocation. Inexplicably, Whetu felt his hairs stand on end. He recognised but could not identify the spell Gwen now used—but knew well the gut-wrenching, soul-shivering reflux of Negative Energy polluting the very existence of the world. Was this a new Void Magic? His mind banished his optimistic ignorance at once. No—he knew the type of magic well. He had suffered from it during the IIUC. Additionally, a few of his elders possessed the right to practice the old ways, the ancient Faith Magic of the Clans, using it to venerate the ancestors and commune with the past. Gwen's spell was unequivocally Necromancy. And not just any type, but the usurping kind, the worst of the worst. Inspirations for the anecdotes of woe the Purge Teams studied in the Tower, spells that enriched the host at the existential cost of the victim. Within seconds, the Devourer's nursed invocation manifested, kindling her dominant hand with ethereal flames, the very same that ignited the skull sockets of Soul Wraiths. Beneath her, the Dragon Worm must have sensed something as well, for its main body now exerted every inch of force against Caliban, who seemed perfectly content with its ceaseless parrying of the strangling worm's best efforts, laughing with soundless sadism. In one smooth movement, the Void Sorceress stamped the spell onto the Dragon Worm's mutton-jade flesh. Whetu felt his Astral Soul shiver. The worm grew limp on the skewers. Then suddenly, it freed itself, dancing like an insane living whip, bouncing from Caliban, sending its assailants to scatter in every direction. From its movements, Whetu was certain the creature appeared on fire—only there were no flames, neither tenebrous and inky or electric and cobalt. As though a hysterical musical note dancing over invisible staves, the Dragon Worm leapt into the air, made delirious pirouettes, fought the air itself, and then death-rolled against an invisible foe. His intended retreat, or what was left of it, seemed no longer a priority. All the Flights responsible now watched the Shoal's leading combat unit perform an existential tango of anthropomorphic agony, dancing a solo quadrille, coiling, twisting, contorting itself into abstract pretzels. A minute. Two minutes. When finally a third, eternal minute passed, the Dragon Worm collapsed from exhaustion, then sat there as a docile, confused mass. Milky ichor bled from every crack and gash, it wasn't dead, but it wasn't regenerating either. _Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!_ Whetu's surviving idol approached the Dragon Worm. He kicked it. The creature did nothing, not even when his idol picked up the worm by the mid-section and lifted it from the floor. Curiously, the bristles appeared to have lost all potency, becoming so inert that they failed to penetrate even Whetu's Punamu. "GHWARRRRRGH—!" The thunder rolling overhead announced the descent of the Thunder Wyvern and, as such, the routing of the surviving Shoal that once threatened to overrun the island. With the carefulness of a blooming Maori flower, Whetu hovered closer to the Devourer of Shenyang. His Paladin had taken over reorganising the Mages, freeing up Whetu to satiate the death-desiring curiosity threatening his continued sanity. "Is it over?" he asked as he came close. In Gwen's ink-clad crow-skin with its claw-tipped boots, her second-skin dripping with Void, his old teammate appeared more monster than a woman. "That was sweet-as Gwen, but what did you do to it?" Whetu's companion studied the unenthused worm in the Punamu giant's hands, now completely flaccid, murmuring to herself. "Gwen?" The girl looked up, her face as heart-achingly beautiful as he recalled, her paleness accentuated by the jet-hued battle suit. "Was that... Necromancy?" Whetu asked for confirmation. "Not by the Tower's definition," Gwen explained, her face aglow with the thrill of a successful hunt. "That was... _the experimental application of Sanctioned… sorcery,_ as for why Nyrlesvinyr decided to do that..." The recently minted Magister pursed her lips. She drew his eyes to the northern shoreline, where something very large and exceedingly rocky angrily rose from the shallows. Following her eyes toward the hovering landmass radiating menace, Whetu wished he had forgotten what he saw and focused on retreating. "Besides," Gwen decided to answer after all. "It's not the spell that's culpable—but _the practical application of Stranger Danger._ "

Watching Almudj's _Strange Danger_ at work, Gwen felt like a catfishing hussy whose Big Daddy was taking her unsuspecting chump to town like Rocky to a side of beef. The outcome was coincidental, for Henry's censured repertoire of magic was beyond the ken of her Cambridge lecturers, who gained data by abetting her experiments and sweeping regulatory mishaps under the rug. The same could be said of Almudj's magic, for which her knowledge was an estuary meeting a vast Essence Sea. Therefore, her "Offensive Essence Tap Field Test" was akin to the pre-Spellcraft transmutation of phosphorous by Meister Hennig Brandt, lighting up new possibilities of monster hunting like a retina-searing Lumen Globe. When her group first encountered the avatar of Nyrlesvinyr at Jackson, it was waist-deep in steamed seafood piled two storeys high against Force Barrier. The creature had snarled at her—but wasn't content with abandoning the last few thousand HDMs worth of shielding before facing its foe. That was her victim's last mistake, for Lulan instantly pinned it to the granite with her stone-shaping sword nails while Gwen rushed its rear, her body buffed with every form of defence Richard and Petra could muster. Her crow armour made light of the bristles' acid and venom. However, Gwen still found it almost impossible to penetrate the mechanical defence of the porcupine spikes. A flood of Void Bolts solved the problem, with Lea sweeping her landing before she fired up Essence Tap and stabbed the worm with gut-churning necrotic energy. The first few seconds of paralysis had been within her expectations. As with the Balefire, she and the worm entered a state of Astral shock while their Essences mingled like oil and vinegar in a cocktail shaker. The next part was the opening act to a brave new world. With the Balefire, the feedback had been instant. With Garp, she had usurped the creature's will while her superior, sapient blessings dominated its dull hypo-Essence. Compared to the Enginseer and Garp, Nyrlesvinyr's offshoot possessed an ancient and rare Essence, imprinted with the prideful psyche of a Mythic Dragon Turtle. Rather than cowering and allowing itself to either be absorbed or contained, its jaw-clenching reflex was to attack, usurp, and consume. Therefore, before Gwen's sanctioned Necromancy could run its course—her inner Almudj decided it would take no piss from an upstart turtle worm. And perhaps to remind her of her fidelity, it delivered a flashback as brilliant as white phosphorous. _Cracking timber_ _Burning eucalyptus_ _Blasted bark_ _Burning wood_ _A million-million flying embers_ _Kalinda's crystalline tears as her olive skin turned to char_ _And the smug laughter of old, cheeky Tjupurrula, cackling like an insane kookaburra._ Before Gwen could gasp, the ire of Almudj had grown to admonish Nyrlesvinyr with a literal baptism of cleansing fire. If the stranger's Essence would not assimilate, it need not exist. The result, therefore, was the manifestation of an ancient rite of the primordial universe, with the only difference being that both Nyrlesvinyr and herself were Vessels of their irrespective patrons—a pair of sly foxes borrowing the terror of their tiger mothers. And in their case, both patrons were asleep, meaning their respective Essences were left to duke it out—only her lineage was superior, even if her body was mortal. And so, Nyrlesvinyr burned. The fortunate discovery came with a caveat—with _Barbanginy_ , she could control the Essence through Ariel's feedback loop. But within herself, how could she command Almudj's flaming ire? To redirect Al's will was no different from wrangling lightning with her bare hands—and should her wilfulness grow excessive, would the flame turn her into Kalinda? Watching Nyrlesvinyr's Draconic Essence ignite like an expensive cocktail was an experience. The psychic stab must feel like a wasp sting to the nerve centre. After Big Bird Caliban had pecked clean the worm at Port Jackson, she recalled Golos, who finished up his hard-won meal and then told Dede to stay as a defender. With the usurped Essence from Nyrlesvinyr, Golos was hale as ever. As a caution, Gwen had her Wyvern acknowledge that they had defeated an appendage, not the Mud Wyrm itself. When she and her entourage finally arrived to nix her next target, the battle of Barrier Island was at its conclusion. The Shielding Station was now a ruin, meaning the centre-dot connecting the outer barrier's connect-a-three had completely extinguished. The moment Auckland's Tower left the vicinity, Barrier Island would have no shielding, opening up the city's inner sea to the invading Mermen, meaning that as of this moment, all of Nyrlesvinyr's presumed objectives had been met. Gwen woefully conceded that battle strategy was a shortfall she should address. The Mermen's grand gesture of Soviet-era tactics using waves of fodder to shatter the psychic and then the physical defence of the defenders was not something that she, a finance broker, could begin to imagine. After all, if she had told London that she gleefully sacrificed two hundred of the thousand Mages assigned to her so that her foe would grow complacent, there would be an Integrity Commission, followed by her immediate imprisonment in the deepest dungeons of London Tower. Thankfully, a good manager delegates, so in the future, she would need someone on her roster capable of planning war games, someone used to the command of armies: a Militant Officer well-versed in tactics and the management of the involved logistics. That way, she could focus on her strengths, such as her role in the Tower's promise of mutually assured destruction. But for now, she should contend with the consequence of her catfishing for Dragon Worms. In the distance, the "landmass" approaching the Barrier Islands appeared to be moved by pure menace. When Gunther had shown her a mock-up of Nyrlesvinyr's abode, it had looked like an asteroid with an embedded Exogorth emerging to take a bite out of the Millennium Falcon. In life, however, the asteroid wasn't bare rock but an entire ecosystem of vibrant coral overgrowths in every shape and colour. From its crags and caverns, hundreds of streams of water issued forth, some as propulsion, others merely flowing the way of gravity. The magic that compelled the island to move could only be Draconic, utilising the same reality-altering power as Ayxin's space-sorcery or Ruxin's verbal commands that compelled obedience from inanimate objects. The result was a living-breathing battle barge dredged from the deepest depth of man's limitless imagination. _DING!_ The Message from Paladin Wherowhero bloomed a rich scarlet. "To all personnel on the Barrier Islands, get to the way station NOW! All non-Aerial Mage Flight operations will be conducted from the Tower! _Magister Song, are you present?_ " "I am. Paladin Te, this is Magister Song," Gwen returned the response with a Divining gesture. "Where do you want me?" "Return to the deck. You've saved my men, Magister, but also crossed us over the Rubicon. The Shoal is coming, and there will be no stopping them with Barrier Island now extinguished. After consulting with Tower Master Hildrenbrandt, we have decided to escalate to the Planar Ally summoning." "Understood," Gwen looked once more at the island. From the disturbance in the sea, it didn't take a Tower to divine what was following the spearhead. She had hoped to avoid the cost of utilising an all-hungering planar monstrosity held in check only by the metaphysical forces of the Prime Material. In the aftermath, would a Void-swept seascape improve Auckland's chances? "Whetu, will you be alright here?" She asked their erstwhile companion, who was still reeling from the sight of the jumping-jack Dragon Worm. "We'll be sweet-ass." Whetu forced a smile that was betrayed by the distance kept between himself and her. "Go with Paladin Te, Magister Song. I'll round up the survivors in the rear and take them to the Teleportation Circles." "Okay. Caliban—gather the rest of the food!" Gwen commanded her creature toward the flaccid worm with the sundered sinews. At the same time, she readied the opening invocations to Elemental Swarm. The was an enormous amount of vitality here, dead or dying or living, none of which she could waste. "We'll be leaving first. Cali, stock up while we prepare. Eat everything. Shoggy will need every drop..." Nyrlesvinyr, ninth of He who Slumbers in the Crown of Corals, felt an unfamiliar feeling. _Doubt_. It wasn't that a Dragon-kin such as herself was incapable of doubt, but that doubt was a psychic affliction felt by prey, while Nyrlesvinyr was a born predator. Her Shoal had been reduced, but her most prized troops and elite Mermen remained hidden, feasting upon the flesh of the fallen and the inept, awaiting her call to sweep across the Human city to raze the hated land-kin to the ground. Unfortunately, these prideful cohorts were not so easily cajoled into combat as the fodder from the shallow seas. Behind each Elemental General and their microcosmic Shoals stood an infinitely entwined food chain of favours, betrayals and alliances by blood and circumstance stretching into the murky depth of the Elemental Plane of Water. As the Shoal's sovereign, Nyrlesvinyr had been certain that a slow victory was assured—until she lost not one but two appendages. _Slumbering Miommiriorthyr!_ If a single fraction of her Essence had imploded for a single instance, she could have stomached the loss. Yet, not only had two fractions of her Astral Essence been lost, they had been eradicated with such totality that Nyrlesvinyr could no longer feel whole. Hence, her aloof confidence turned to disturbed rage. She knew not what happened to her Essence—for she had severed the threads when the flaring pain shocked her Astral Soul—but Nyrlesvinyr knew who was responsible. Her Core had cautioned its many heads against an open confrontation with the Mageocracy's newly minted Void Mage. Some thirty ocean cycles prior, she and her Kin had encountered the girl's predecessor, Elizabeth Sobel, in the Coral Sea War. The Great Shoals had been larger in those days, the Seven Kings more united. In her memory, Sobel had been terrifying to the mundane Mermen—but posed only a marginal threat to true-blooded Dragon-kin. So why, Nyrlesvinyr wondered, was she… feeling doubt? But be it suspicion or premonition, Nyrlesvinyr knew she could not retreat. A true Scion, one born from the Para-Elemental Plane of Ooze with its primordial womb as her birthplace, possessed Draconic pride not as a quirk but as a metaphysical manifestation of her being. There were arrogant Dragon-kin. Wrathful Dragon-kin. Dead Dragon-kin. _Usurped_ Dragon-kin. But among her siblings, a cowardly Dragon-kin had never existed, or if there were, she and her siblings would tear them apart. Besides, why should she be cowed? She had not underestimated the foe, having spent more than two moon cycles testing the city's defences, drawing out the Void Sorceress, testing her abilities, expending almost a million Mermen lives to guarantee victory for Shoal, going so far as to risk her true-blooded brother. Thereby, driven by jaw-clenching credo and buoyed by confidence, Nyrlesvinyr allowed her Dragon Fear to take root in the heart of her Shoal. Only then, with her Shoal ashore, the sorceress fled and the human city dashed, would her hearts have satisfaction. Snug on the sky deck of Auckland's floating Tower, Gwen seriously considered if she should make her Tower the likeness of an Imperial Star Destroyer (™). Granted, they were not in outer space or pursuing rebels through an asteroid field. Still, the déjà vu generated by the thrumming of the mana engine, the running crewmen and the field of view was as close as it got. In the looming distance, the coral island of Nyrlesvinyr approached as a bio-organic spaceship, closing the gap with the pace and determination of a strike cruiser. For the moment, Nyrlesvinyr's abode posed no danger, though there was no doubt that a hovering landmass covered in seafood could unleash a horde the likes of which only a Leviathan-class sea beast could muster. That and the Shoal was legitimately on the move, pushing forward as a tidal cohort of coral and spines, fins, teeth and claws, swarming around and over the island for the inner bay of Auckland cove. _It's alright, no pressure._ Gwen double-checked her Mandala. By now, her Enchantment tier had significantly improved, but a year had also passed since she conjured her last Shoggoth. What preoccupied her was not the menace on the horizon but rather the lack of proton torpedoes or pew-pew lasers from the Tower. Once the inner Mandala was completed, she turned to her aide, Aria Campbell-Ravenport. For the moment, her staff from Cambridge had packed away their work, for the Pocket Plane that housed their auditing office was far too dangerous a place to be in the middle of a direct Tower-to-Monster battle. As a result, the London Mages insinuated themselves into the various departments in the Tower, offering their first-tier expertise wherever they could. To deploy the Shoggoth, authorisation was required from herself, the Tower Master and Auckland's Paladin. Aria's role was to act as London's observer, returning in the aftermath with a treasure trove of data. "Aria... pardon my ignorance, but where's our Ray of Disintegration?" When she fought the Lich in China, Gwen recalled that the PLA had been exceptionally liberal in using hyper-range spells of mass destruction. A nice death ray, lasting a few minutes and a half-million HDMs, should be able to slice Nyrlesvinyr's home in twain or at least give it caution that the Tower was out of bounds. Aria remained politely mum while directing her gaze toward the tattooed giant on the rails overlooking the Mandala. Te Wherowhero, who had joined them in person to oversee the deployment of her Shoggoth, looked sheepish. "Magister Song, Auckland is a tier 2 Tower… We have no Ray of Disintegration Mandalas." "Hmm..." Gwen racked her brain for something that could give Nyrlesvinyr food for thought. "Surely, a super-charged Fire Storm isn't out of the question. Wasn't Yue just here?" "Magister Song, Towers like Auckland are built for Abjuration," Aria reminded her of a long-ago lesson on the logistics of the Mageocracy. "Of course, there are offensive Towers in the Frontier—Gunther's, for example. And the Melbourne Tower. But this is Auckland—even if Paladin Te had a Disintegration module installed, which Frontier will they attack? The South Island that belongs to benign Demi-humans? Those Mandalas cost millions of HDMs and months to construct, and the maintenance material cost alone will unbalance Auckland's budget." "Right…" Gwen gazed at the approaching island. "I guess you guys will do this the old-fashioned way, eh? Paladin Te, I saw Mages using the amplification Mandala earlier. We can use that, yes?" "You and your team have priority, Sis," Wherowhero assured them. "However, Lord Gunther has advised that we do not tax you with this burden." "That's because while the Mandala amplifies the spells' range, damage and overall draw-strength—" their interlocutor was Petra, currently working on the outer circles of her Mandala. "—we have limited data on the amplification of Void Magic or Barbanginy. If you remember our work with Magister Brown, the Mandala cannot lend Essence or vitality." "And even if Magister Song does have enough," Aria raised her voice. "She would be left with nothing to summon the Strategic-class Planar Ally." "It was just a thought," Gwen calmed her two guardians, assuring them she wasn't about to put her curiosity to the test. After a year-long study as Brown's lab rat, she knew better than to drain her Essence to the last drop. As with Gracy and those other Void Mages she had signed up to help, a high-tier Affinity meant the need for an equal or greater offset. To drain herself completely of vitality and Essence could have dire consequences. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. "Lulu!" Gwen willed forth her bodyguard. "As discussed. Could you help the Tower with rebuffing the island? I don't believe Paladin Te has any offensive material-casters on his roster." Lulan dipped her chin obediently. "I won't be able to control the swords with Ki." "I don't think you'll need precision," Gwen said. "Just fire away and let the metal work their magic. The Shoggoth summoning requires a distraction, and I can't think of anyone better than you and Yue to keep a Mud Princess occupied." "Understood." Lulan looked to Paladin Te, who nodded appreciatively, then told an aide to lead the Sword Mage down the gangway to the Tower's amplification batteries. Gwen continued to lay down the concentric runic circles with her inscription wand. On launch, the deck section could be detached and teleported by the Tower to its desired location mid-air. There, she would summon the Shoggoth and allow it to descend, free from the interference of the water-born Mermen, who had no idea what was coming. As always, the tiny part of her that remained unused to the moral pragmatism of her new world reared its head and whispered words of doubt. Mermen… It wasn't as though she didn't know any Mermen. There was that funny feller, Lei-bup, whom she met on Chicken Shit Island back in Pudong. She had also seen and met others on her journey through the coastal regions of the UK, where the Mer "folk" of the lakes and streams co-existed and thrived beside humanity. These were sapient beings, capable of love—capable of sorrow. These were not the alien mind of the Triffidus or the unfathomable malice of the Undead hordes. To consign the milling millions in that Shoal to the Shoggoth… "Magister Song—" Petra's criticism drifted through the air. "Your lower-right inscription is one stroke away from connecting to the wrong circuit." "Whoops—sorry," heeding the admonition, Gwen redoubled her focus, making provisions for the expression of lesser woes. "Say, do you think the Mermen will accept a loss by _Shoggoth_? Or are we setting ourselves up for something more sinister later down the track?" "The full impact of something like this is impossible to predict," Richard butted in. He would be her bodyguard in place of Lulan while on the platform, using Lea's supernatural invisibility to disguise their presence and mask their mana signature. "And it's above our pay grade. For now, we are merely the Mageocracy's implements." On cue, the floor began to tremble. The Magnification Mandala was active, meaning Worm Island had hovered over the Barrier Island's northern lip and was now close enough to take damage. "Look, if you're worried about using the Shoggoth on _people_ ," Richard's next words seemed to have read her mind. "It isn't as though you're preventing the Mer from fleeing. Any that doesn't wish to perish by Shoggoth merely needs to turn tail and swim as deep and far as they can. When we make the decisions, you can give them a warning and a Lumen-caster Trailer to watch. For now, we're just doing our job." "Likely, Magister Song, this needs to happen only once," Aria was also an excellent mind reader. "After Auckland, every Shoal between here and the Seven Kingdoms of the Deep will think twice before committing a force of that size." "That," Richard added with his usual sardonicism. "Or they would hail Auckland as the perfect garbage disposal for their excess citizens." "Ah, of course," Gwen didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Thank you, Dick. The prospect of an annual Shoal has put me completely at ease. I—whoa—" Her words were cut short by an ear-splitting, teeth-grating, onomatopoeic _SCHWING_ splitting the air, joined by a chorus of suddenly manifesting metal projectiles. From their vantage, Gwen and her company saw the parabolic curve of Lulan's blades shrieking through the cloudy yonder, trailing white streaks of chemtrails as they flew. The first blade, much to their disappointment, fell short. As the trail behind it grew dense, it failed to maintain the momentum of its flight and began to dip about three-quarters into its two-kilometre flight. "A shield?" "Looks like a Vapour Barrier, an enormous one," Richard remarked as Lea manifested beside his ear, delivering a string of whispers in Elemental. "It's not much up-close, but if it's a kilometre thick, it'll work." Lulan must have adjusted, for the rest of the blades came closer. One was enough to float past the island, where a second command word from Lulan was enough to deploy a Blade Shatter, pelting the coral surface with metal shards. In the aftermath, living bits of bone, rock and aquarium interiors splattered upon the abandoned installations on Barrier Island. From the looks of the collateral, these were very dense and heavy debris, compressed by the immense pressures of the sea. The other swords, which now dotted the general vicinity, erupted in sequence, harvesting great semi-circles of sea fodder. At the same time, a spiral began forming from the coral island's misty surface, creating something akin to a lance. "Brace for impact," her Water Mage cousin notified Gwen before the mud missile materialised. A dozen breaths later, a battering mud ram leapt in an arc across the distance between the two flying structures, making for the Tower's sky deck. Gwen was already afloat, though she had underestimated the true forte of Auckland's Tower Master. Esther Hildenbrandt might be a wizened old Abjurer from Henry's epoch—but she remained the famed inventor of the honeycomb lattice employed by many a Mineral Mage. As the projectile mud-slide approached, deflecting panes of hexagonal force began to shave away at its trajectory, eventuating in the beam striking at the lower, slender segment of the Tower, where a multitude of panes deflected the blow. Several breaths later, the landscape behind the Tower erupted, uprooting ancient trees, turning stone to spontaneous mud, resulting in a landslide beginning from the cape's tip to the disturbed ocean below. "Holy shit." Gwen's brows twitched. "Good thing we didn't fight it head-on, hey?" Richard whistled. "I'd done a few lair Purges, but this is the first time a lair itself has attacked. It's kind of surreal, don't you think?" Gwen nodded. There was no possibility of her personally dealing with the mud sprout. It was one thing to fight a Magical Beast on its own and a whole other thing to fight it in its lair. She had felt incredibly powerful after besting the Dragon Turtle—but now, not so much. A part of her wanted to give Gunther a call so she could grumble—and her Brother-in-craft would likely arrive to help. Should such a thing come to pass, the spoils of victory would be tithed to Sydney, leaving Auckland with a ravaged city and no means of re-investing. That and the Factions would implode, leaving her and Gunther up shit creek. Heedless of her thoughts, the two flying fortresses continued to close in upon one another, reaching the span of a half-kilometre. With her Essence-enhanced eyes, Gwen could see every detail, including the beady eyes of the numerous heads lurking in the caverns of Nyrlesvinyr's abode. At once, each head manifested separate magics to attack the Tower. The floor thrummed. Gwen gripped her inscription wand and continued her work. A minute later, Auckland began its return volley. _SCHWING—_ Cruise Missiles in the shape of iron slabs sallied forth from the Plane of Earth. This time, the swords reached their target, embedding themselves into the craggy surface of the coral island. An invocation later, the upper surface of the landmass erupted, tearing out chunks of fossilised stone, exposing the underlayer of Nyrlesvinyr's home. "SKY Metal!" Petra recognised the composition at once. "That's no coral! That's a hollowed-out celestial ore!" Like Petra, Gwen paused her work to stare. This world, like her own, had a dire need of rare metals for Enchantments and assorted circuitry for Mandalas. A rare source of these hyper-dense materials that had soaked up the elemental energies of the cosmos was celestial ore—known to her as meteorites. To think that Nyrlesvinyr made her home in the largest deposit of rare Elemental Earth metals she had ever seen! But that made perfect sense, for Nyrlesvinyr was a true-scion Dragon. It needed to be surrounded by dense mana similar to its Elements to sleep and grow. What better bed-cum-nest than a meteor fallen into the ocean, sent adrift into the Elemental Plane of Water? Her money-making senses tingled. If they got their hands on the worm's home, Auckland might have ninety-nine problems, but finance wasn't going to be one. Shrugging off Lulan's best, the island continued its forward trajectory at ramming speed. In response, the Tower's creep ground to a halt as it readied itself either for Teleportation or to pull its gravitational arrays for a quick reverse. " _ELEFA-MUNTHREKI—_ " a blast of loud-hailing Draconic reverberated from the island, triggering a visually confirmable pulse of Dragon Fear that turned the Tower's defence matrix momentarily white-hot. When her vision returned, Gwen confirmed Nyrlesvinyr's commitment. Where the invasion wave was making steady progress, it was now surging forward at full tilt, swamping the island from east to west. From her vantage, she could see the Human stragglers—either Militia who were left behind or the stubborn inhabitants who had refused to leave, disappear under a tidal wave of roving, clambering, slithering bodies. Once the main mass of the Shoal reached the inner sea, Auckland as they knew it would cease to exist. And so, any doubts about the Shoggoth's deployment perished. The floor jolted. The Tower began to move backwards, maximising its chances of avoiding a direct impact from Nyrlesvinyr. _Focus._ Gwen told herself. _Focus on the Mandala._ She had another section to finish, and then Petra would need to check and double-check the inscriptions while she lay down the HDMs necessary to invoke the gate for her fictive "Old Ones". Turning her mind from the battle of the titans merely an eggshell's Wall of Force away, Gwen continued her work. Six arrays later, the atmosphere outside glowed a sudden amber, turning the interior of the sky decks vibrant autumn, mirroring every surface with flame. _That_ would be Yue working her magic below in the Amplification Mandala. Her heart grew sore for her companions, for Gwen knew from her academic studies that any connection with the Tower's sub-systems was extremely taxing on the mind and that consecutive uses of magic would render a Mage's brain into jello. Lacking a super-human like Gunther, it was why a Tower had a Paladin and a Master, for one controlled the battle, while the other managed the Tower's complex resources through its array of support Mages. Gwen lifted her hand each time the Tower shook and waited for a lull to continue. The process persisted for an uncertain number of exchanges between the Tower and Nyrlesvinyr, with Mages swapping in and out of the Amplification Mandala. "It's done!" Gwen stepped back as Petra stepped in to double-check her work, making minute corrections here and there. "Paladin Te, we're ready to proceed." "Thank Old Yog for that," her cousin replied cheekily. Te instantly began the process of shielding and teleporting the platform. Looking outside once more, Gwen noted that the floating island was now below the Tower and out of her line of sight. Up close, the island looked more beautiful than ever—and the "true" bodies of Nyrlesvinyr were as menacing as they were colourful. Switching to Golos' Link Sight, she saw from its flyby that Nyrlesvinyr and the Tower were engaged in a deadly, tentacle-themed tango. Nyrlesvinyr's abode had lost much of its mobility out of the water, staggering toward Auckland Tower like a drunk, persistent admirer. A dozen "worms" distended from its caverns, each a living hose of mud and acid, spraying down the Tower's exterior with all manners of ejecta, trying to latch on and bore a hole into its interior. The Tower was playing hard-to-get, equally lacking in mobility but still better than a worm-island out of water. From its lower batteries, it was hammering Nyrlesvinyr with everything from Punamu, Lulan's iron, Yue's Fire, Lightning and every other magic its Mages could muster. Golos assisted with lines of lightning, but the Thunder Wyvern had to rest between each attack, and Elemental Lightning was itself mud when used against… mud. A missing element, Gwen supposed, would be Steam—but Thomas and his team had earlier teleported out, having already overstayed and fought in a battle they were not authorised to participate. If one were to put Thomas in a twenty-magnitude amplifier—and if Thomas were to manifest a Steam Bomb... "Paladin Te has authorised the Mandala to be deployed," Petra stepped back with both hands raised, like a surgeon stepping away from a sutured wound. "Magister Song, you may proceed." Gwen took a deep breath. She stepped into the centre of the Mandala. "Paladin Te, Magister Hildenbrandt?” She dropped the Message to the control centre. "Let's end this war." As an oceanic Elemental Princess, Nyrlesvinyr knew every advantage offered by her "shell", one stout enough to withstand attacks from her sibling rivals. Yet, bathed in the shadow of an existence she could not comprehend, Nyrlesvinyr felt seized by the all-consuming riptide of a Leviathan's sea-swallowing gulp. The _Thing_ that emerged from the heavens, rending the Prime Material apart like a ragged cloth as it came, was living hunger from the Unformed Land. As it descended, the Elemental Princess became reminded of an absurd rumour she had heard from traders in the North Pacific: that a great cult had arisen near the Yellow Sea, one disassociated from the Seven Kingdoms. In battle, the Shoals of these fanatic cultists would perform suicidal rushes, eating and devouring everything in their way, howling the name of an unnamed "Pale Fleshed Priestess". If left alone—and if enough Mermen were to perish, or so the stories went, a great Kraken of the Void would emerge, with tentacles studded with eyes, consuming cultists and foes alike. Nyrlesvinyr had no idea if that rumour was genuine—but the cloud-Kraken currently being regurgitated downward certainly matched the description. Immediately, Nyrlesvinyr had ordered her troops to turn the creature back into the aether from which it came. Elite Mermen calvary riding on spirited seahorse Undines surged forth on high-rising crests to blast beams of ice and water toward the draping tendrils. These were successful—until they were not. The fallen segments of the Kraken merely took on a new life. Where the tendrils fell, they began to consume her Shoal en masse, rapidly expanding into floating drapes of oily film that dissolved scale and shell alike. As for her Wave Riders, those who charged into the lumbering tendrils soon joined the wailing chorus of existential agony. Nyrlesvinyr redoubled her efforts against the Tower—but knew that a breach would take several moon cycles while her Shoal had already entered a state of severe shock. Without her below to compel order with her Dragon Fear, the Shoal would soon disperse into the deep. Even now, only a short distance away from the loci of her presence, she could feel the hysteria brewing below, touching the sanity of the lowest prawn to the highest Shark-kin. An enormous tendril, dark and tenebrous and studded with unblinking eyes in every shade and colour, dipped into the water. When it struck the churning surface, its split tendrils erupted into an oily dragnet, each teeth-covered tentacle holding the screaming, howling form of a semi-paralysed Mermen, each singing insane orisons, pleading for death. Nyrlesvinyr fought the desire to look up—for she could not withstand the hungering gaze of that singular ocular orb staring down at the feast of fish below, devoid of feeling yet full of malicious intent. _The Summoner!_ Nyrlesvinyr knew the solution. She tasted the air for the sorceress' Essence. Then felt despair. The Vessel with the ancient Essence had fled inside the Tower, near the top, where the panes of force were thickest—where Nyrlesvinyr could not reach without first breaching its defences. Despite her growing chagrin, the volleys of spellfire pounding her shell continued unabated. After a moment of indecision, Nyrlesvinyr lifted herself from the Tower. Auckland's floating battle station pulled away from Nyrlesvinyr like a fleeing dance partner. It began to beat a retreat back to the human city, withdrawing the dragnet of echoing resonance as it went, abandoning every landmass of the islands below, including both stations on either headland. _So that's what it was._ Nyrlesvinyr read the tactical retreat at once. _So not even the Land-kin could control this unnamable beast from the Void._ Her adversary might appear magnitudes more powerful than the Coral Sea's Void Witch, but the whelp possessed no control over that which she unleashed into the world. However, that didn't change the fact that her Shoal, having been caught unaware, was rapidly disintegrating. For a while, her synaptic organs had been bleating Dragon Fear non-stop to no avail. Only those of her Essence and blood managed to respond, though, by their meagre numbers, they were subsumed by the dangling tendrils, becoming nutrients to its exponential growth. _Deep Miommiriorthyr!_ Nyrlesvinyr involuntarily turned her dozen eyes upon the unformed monstrosity. _The bloated fiend was already a hundred times the size from whence it emerged!_ She should have fought it as soon as it manifested. Perhaps then, she could have caught the summoner. Or at least expend enough of her vital force to force it back into the devouring Void. _Should I flee?_ The self-imposed question shook all three of her Cores. Nyrlesvinyr felt a sudden and unwelcome sympathy for Shyvaphyr. Somewhere in the Shoal's depth, her headless brother remained unconscious, his Essence busy at work re-knitting his sundered sub-Core. Soon, he would be nourishment for the great eye. To fight the creature now, as it continues to absorb her Shoal, portended no victory. But to flee from the creature without her Shoal—to return to the deep without Shyvaphyr—would entail shame and mockery from her siblings, torture from those who coveted her domain, and then— her Essence would be parcelled out to others. Following her anagnorisis, Nyrlesvinyr felt a sudden weight lifted from her dozen heads. To become blissfully extinct in glorious battle against the appendage of an Old God of the Planes. Or to die a worm's death. For one as old as Nyrlesvinyr, a Prince's death was far worthier than a pauper's. Besides, what if the beyond wasn't oblivion but the Unformed Land? The Yellow Sea. Deep below the surface, the Great Shoal was once more on the move. “GWEEE—GWEEEN— GWEEENGH— GWEEENGH—“ With each echoing cry, a sea shanty of psychic madness polluted the waters of what human sailors dubbed the gateway to northern China, driving any Mer caught in its mental net into a frenzy of indiscriminate feasting. "PRAISE!" Came the echoing cry of a singular voice from within the swirling vortex of the roving Shoal. "FEAST UPON THY FOES, THAT WE MAY PRAISE THE PALE PRIESTESS!" "WEEE— WEEE—" sang the Shoal in response, surging forward and in every way, rolling like a grinding mill wheel into the necrotic waves of lumbering Mer-carcasses making up the opposing Shoal. "WEEE—WEEE—WEEE—" The year-long battle for the dominion of the East China Sea had been at a stalemate for months, but today—but now!—Lei-bup, Archpriest of her Paleness the Priestess of White Flesh, was truly confident they would win! As early as the morning, when the first rays pierced the blue yonder, his un-healable void-wounds began to ooze, putting him in such exquisite agony that only the soothing songs of a dozen Mermaid Priestesses could prevent him from seeking eternal union with the Pale Priestess. Then, after a meal of SPAM and an hour's supplication at the alter of her likeness, Lei-bup knew that the time had come. _Today—no—this hour!_ — _The Old Ones would descend!_ Unlike the dozens of failures that saw the death of a hundred thousand faithful to the zombified Shoal, their current crusade would succeed. All the Shoal needed was faith and belief in the great egalitarian dream that no fish was unworthy of her Paleness' all-devouring consumption. And those zealots of Undeath! Those mad kings and princes who dared to hound his Shoal and put an end to Priestess' wild dreaming— All would be punished! All shall be consumed! ALL—MADE—EQUAL by the great devouring eye!

London. The Royal Docks. Lord Mycroft Ravenport, Marshall of the Kingdom, Protector of Albion, stood in the dreary drizzle, browsing newspapers held up by his Mage Hands, shielded by a barely visible umbrella of mana. To his left levitated the Sun and the Telegraph, each with purposeful images of the girl, not in her crow-skin combat suit but eye-catching casuals, out and about on the Isle of Dogs. The Sun had a paparazzi shot from January, with the girl showing far more leg than necessary for winter. The Telegraph sported a headshot of her mid-speech to the dock workers, with her mouth contorted mid-syllable. Behind both cut-outs loomed the latest images from Auckland—that of an all-consuming, ocean-devouring, Mermen mangling Shoggoth shucking a worm from what looked like a floating oyster shell. "USURPER OF THE SOUTH SEA," the Sun prophesied in garish red—though the implication was firmly set on the girl rather than the monstrous worm. Besides, in bold black, "AUCKLAND DEVOURED" was the Telegraph's fighting words. Both ran enough truths to remain within the good graces of the Middle Factions, but the implications invited the reader with pretty flesh, then foretold doom and gloom. Comparatively, the truth-promising METRO had produced a six-page special on the "AUCKLAND'S TRIUMPH" celebration special, together with a picture of the girl standing in the centre of a group photo with Auckland's Te Wherowhero, Esther Hildenbrandt, and much to Ravenport's surprise, the Militants' highest-ranking representatives. Mycroft rested his eyes briefly to conjure a vision of the Shoggoth as he had witnessed through Morrigan's secretive parcels. That the Shoggoth might be deployed was within the expectations of Gwen Song's Magisterial trials, even if Mycroft had anticipated a better resolution. After all, Shalkar had been such a successful demonstration of skill and subversion that the Imperial College seriously considered its inclusion in future textbooks. "Lord Father!" came a vibrant Message from the general direction of the enormous Ice Breaker Barge in the No.2 wet dock. "We're ready to receive _The Lord Marshall_. Please come to the forecastle." Quickly, Mycroft stowed away the newspaper by passing the enfolded broadsheets back to the aide who had purchased it from an urchin at the dock's entrance. He had no wish for Charlene to witness his curiosity, for a good father would never allow his child to suspect a greater interest in someone else's child, worse if that child was her contemporary. Stepping into the air, the Duke of Norfolk cast a grim silhouette as he stepped into the dock's highly-restricted airspace. Though the weather had warmed, his signature winter coat, gunmetal-grey but for the embossed orichalcum buttons, remained the Duke's unchanging uniform. Below his perfectly polished boots, the three hundred-meter Breaker Carrier, the HMS Royal Raven, sat like a splayed bird, with all its side ports open for loading and renovation. Among the milling masses of men and machines, Mycroft could spot the figure of one of his contemporaries, the disgraced-then-redeemed Eric Walken, the Grey's factional pawn in Oceania, being worked to the bone in a high-visibility vest. The Conjurer was dutifully going over the manifests, six Mage Hands holding data slates while shouting a mixture of Dwarven and common, back-hunched like a hag who hadn't slept for days. Was Walken's appointment a reward or penance? The man had failed his Faction and enraged the Kilroy loyalists—and yet, had weaselled his way back so that he now stood on the node of power that was the Isle of Dogs. Few Factions now trusted the Magister, yet, he was living as large as ever, more intimately involved in London than he had ever been in his career as one of Oceania's Ten. His eyes followed the line of rails encircling his old subordinate. Across from the Bunker's warehouses, the stand-alone Invincible-Class Carrier was a floating city converted for traversing the Black Zones of the Arctic Circle. However, this time, its mission would be in the Antarctic. Of the stout crewmen and the squat Construction Golems milling about the ship's vicinity, there was one sight that Ravenport had not expected to see in his lifetime. Dwarves on a boat. The idea was absurd, yet the Dwarven Battle Golems being loaded into the hull were an undeniable reality of a new world unfolding before his eyes. Shamefully, Mycroft's thoughts once more wandered to the girl, one indirectly responsible for the loss of his child. The Norfolk part of him applauded the fortunate outcome that Edgar had failed and died. The fatherly part of him proved a little more sentimental. Thankfully, the thought of Charlene, a motherly raven commanding flocks of the lesser families' chicks among the crew, quickly extinguished his doubts. Nevertheless, he did not hurry. He was here as the Lord Marshall of England, auditor and inspector of the budget assigned to the Royal Raven. Turning his attention back towards the Dwarven Golems, the Duke passed his learned eyes over the machines tuned for what the Dwarves called the _Himmseg_. In readiness, the combat units were remodelled for ice and snow, conditions to which the armies of Red Peak were well accustomed. His attention rested on the mat-wrapped arms of the Golems. The Spellswords mounted on the Dwarven machines were smaller, more compact—yet more efficient and powerful. Unlike man-made Wands, Dwarven weaponry was limited to Elemental Earth and its various Elemental Shifts like Mineral, Mud and Magma. However, their unique architecture meant each machine held at least two under each arm-manipulator, while the artillery variants held up to four additional modules on their backs and shoulders. What also drew Ravenport's jealous admiration was the Elemental Exo-Plating, more casually known as Golem Suits by the rank and file of the Militia. These were personal armours owned by individual pilots, akin to a Mage Knight's heirloom plate mail. These could be worn inside the Golem Units while piloting the war machines and, in typical Dwarven fashion, came armed with individual Spellswords. Compared to the Mageocracy's colonial Militias, a Hammer Guard Battle Group with a full complement of war machines possessed the firepower of six similarly-manned Mage Flights plus their hundred-strong Militias—and did not tire so long as the supporting Fabricator could drop anchor and draw mana from the Plane of Earth. From Charlene's manifest, he knew that somewhere in the Royal Raven's belly sat the Fabricator Crawler, the pulsing Cores of a Dwarven city, loaned from Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth to grace the interior of a floating castle. Anything was possible with the Fabricator and its crew of Runesmiths and master Engineseers. If the expedition ran short on fuel and supplies, the engine could produce small amounts of HDM fuel from ley-lines nodes. Should they require metal and parts, the same machine could cannibalise broken Golems or even the Royal Raven to fabricate what its Engineseer desired. The latter was why the ship was undergoing extensive renovations, converting its Kraken-Core Ether Engine into one that meshed with Dwarven Runic Magic, vastly increasing its power output and reliability in a Black Zone without dry docks or supply lines. Likewise, the Breaker Carrier's exterior was being remodelled to hold and deploy Dwarven Golems en masse. Additionally, the hammer-bow had been re-clad in Dwarven Cold Iron, the surface reworked with Runic Glyphs to shatter the thickest ice in a single blow. On paper, though the HMS Royal Raven was an "unarmed" carrier ship, it may eventually possess more firepower than any other ship in Her Majesty's Royal Navy. What would Gwen—no— _Charlene_ encounter on that stark continent of snow to need so much firepower? Would the combat potential of a multi-Flight, Magister-class Expedition field-lead by a Void-empowered War Mage be enough to resolve the obstacles in their way? The Northern Expedition had already confirmed that Spectre and the Elemental Princes of Fire and Water were in cahoots against the Elves— But what had given the girl enough confidence to move heaven and earth to invest so much, and was she expecting to profit, or was this all a haphazard gamble? Or—was her confidence a product of her Patron, the Mythic Serpent of Australis? Or was the girl's paranoia of what she called "Climate Change" a secretive legacy left by Kilroy to his Apprentices? The old Mage had cast a long shadow, one with too many unresolved secrets. For this reason, it made the Duke uncomfortable to know that he had to allow events to play out to gain hindsight rather than face the future with foresight. "Lord Father! Welcome to my home for the next few months." Now that he was close enough, the emerging Charlene was exuberant. "Ask us anything, go where you please. All is laid bare for the Kingdom's Lord Marshall." Ravenport chuckled. His daughter had been very happy of late, especially after her marriage had been indefinitely put on hold. For this, Mycroft was of two minds, for more heirs meant more alliances, but he also wanted his daughter to fulfil her potential and be happy. Unlike his miserable ingrate, an Icarian boy spoilt by Everleigh unto death. "You have been busy." He made a show of inspecting her work. The Duke nodded at the awe-struck dockworkers and addressed the junior officers assigned to her cause. Once done, he returned to his child. "Is the Royal Raven on schedule?" "Ahead of schedule." His daughter walked him down the inner gangway beside the forecastle until they entered the ship's interior. Inside, long tunnels pierced the dividing bulkheads. "It's all thanks to Master Bronzeborn." Charlene rattled off a list of statistics while Mycroft counted the steps within the ship's lengthwise bulkhead. Closer to the mid-ship, the Duke's nose wrinkled instantly at the heavy scent of industrial-strength alcohol, which after a moment, he recognised as the thick, oat-coloured dregs the Dwarves drank as a part of their lunch meals. Inside the cargo bay, the stratum bulkheads had been removed to create a vast space capable of housing the Fabricator Crawler and its support Golems. Among constant showers of sparks, Dwarves in their personal Golem Suits were manhandling molten sheets of steel or carrying materials by the ton like dockhands with crates of fresh fruit. To Mycroft's senses, it was a chaos of noise, Dwarven swearing, and judgemental accusations from Masters to Journeymen. Still, the learned part of him saw an order to the anarchy that no human workforce could replicate. " _Hi-ho…hi-ho…_ " there were also the strange mutterings of a work-song among the Transmutation magic. "You've made extensive modifications..." The Duke remarked. "It's just as well our House paid for the ship in full. Her Dwarves seem well motivated." "They've been at it for two months since installing the Fabricator Crawler in March." Charlene's face contorted with uncharacteristic compassion. "Some of them work around the clock, stopping to get plastered on beer, after which they're rested. Originally, we had planned our schedule around human hours. Until the Dwarves complained that too much time off was unsafe for their mental wellbeing." "An admirable and Protestant work ethic." The Duke sighed with appreciation. "They must be keen to repay their _Debt of Haj-Zül_." Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. "Aye, such an opportunity would not present itself so easily," Charlene agreed. "I wonder. Gwen is very confident that we shall be pushed to our limits. She even acquired seeds from Tryfan. And then there are those gentlemen from South East Asia. We were supposed to pick them up on-route—but they came to us instead." "Oh yes. Have those Frontier Mages from Manipur settled in?" Mycroft asked. "Yes, they're extremely obedient, almost to a fault." Charlene furrowed her thin brows. "I told them to rest—and they did that for two days until I went in to check up on them. They hadn't eaten or drank in that time, just meditated..." Mycroft recalled the reports provided by Morrigan. "Is that so? I believe troops under the Geas-dominion of a Dragon tend to do that," he advised his child, glad to be of aid before her feathers were fully grown. "They will die for Gwen without question. They have been forbidden from overt individual needs and will attend to every order with absolute conviction. So take care with their use—if they should perish, it shouldn't be by your command, but hers." "Understood." His daughter was quick on the uptake. "Still, I have a question for our Lord Marshall. Three Mage Flights of Magus-class assassins, half of which are aligned with Elemental Smoke. Isn't that dangerous for anyone to possess so... casually?" "No more dangerous than her shadow-hopping Rat-kin," Mycroft smirked. "Curious, no? Gwen's putting together quite the strange force for her future Tower. Her Master, the late Lord Kilroy, was comparatively a purist. It's an interesting dynamic, don't you think?" "And unpredictable, if you ask me." Charlene invited Mycroft to land among the workmen, slipping around the Golem suits to direct the attention of an indistinguishable Dwarven labourer. Once the helmet retracted with a hiss, the uplifted visor revealed the fierce face of Hanmoul Bronzeborn, whose facial profile Mycroft knew well. "Boss Ravenport. Yer art here. Will yer be giving us ter authority ter get floating?" the Dwarf also recognised him from their initial meeting when the Dwarven delegation first arrived. "Yer also here earlier than expected. Does the lassie need us?" "Not exactly, not yet—" Mycroft looked around the chaotic cargo space. Finding no papers from the morning, he used a Silent Message to beckon an aide to Dimension Door beside him. "But your _lassie_ has been doing God's work down south, paving the way with Mermen bodies. Here—allow my aide to produce a copy of the METRO, Master Bronzeborn—there's a great deal to know about Gwen's present whereabouts and a great deal to discuss regarding your month-long voyage, first to Auckland—then south to the Seat of Frost." Auckland. The Sky Tower. Behind stacks of folders taller than her head, the Devourer of Shoals worked hard at balancing the financial affairs of a near-fallen city. Her liver-busting dedication was to Auckland and herself, for though Pyrrhic victories were acceptable, Gwen had no desire for Auckland's aftermath to mar her impeccable resume as an up-and-coming Tower Master-in-waiting. Outside her team's private Pocket Dimension window, the city was a buzzing hive of demolition and construction, with ships arriving from every port from Brisbane to Melbourne, encircling the whole span of the inner bay. Unlike before, each new boat slowed as they passed what was once the Great Barrier Islands of Aotea because an eerie silence now haunted the uncertain sea between the island and the headland of Leigh. It wasn't so much that a million or more Mermen had perished here—but that the island and the headland had been reduced to an extraterrestrial landscape resembling wind-swept crags on the Elemental Planes of Dust, devoid of all life. Once, the Barrier Islands had held a host of ten million sea birds of every form and size. Once, the isle's shores were dense with seals and other quasi-magical mammals basking in the sun. Once, its shores were home to countless tonnages of coral and a kelp forest so vast as to contain a unique ecosystem. Now, each seafaring Captain had only their memory to remind them that this was once a vibrant Frontier rich with life. Now, bare rock devoid of even lichen lay in shambles, collapsing and falling to the impact of the ocean waves, crumbling in the absence of roots that formed natural nettings. The sea itself was also a strange matt hue. Perhaps, long ago, the kelp forest had given it a particular shade, capturing light and releasing nutrients to its residents. That was no longer what the seafarers witnessed, for even mindless, floating floatsams avoided the patch of absolute erasure conjured by the Shoggoth's passing, creating a new and undesirable landmark for the recovering city. The result was a lesson for London's Mages, who had furiously transcribed the spectrometric readings for their respective Magisters of the Colleges. All had wondered how the Shoggoth would fare in its first foray—many felt that if the Shoggoth had fought Nyrlesvinyr alone, it might have been banished. The titanic contest, lasting half a day, was a testament to Nyrlesvinyr's Draconic vigour. However, with several million victims feeding it from below, Nyrlesvinyr grew eventually exhausted, allowing the Shoggoth to penetrate, enter, and hollow out its main body from its meteorite home. And once the Shoggoth was done with Nyrlesvinyr, it allowed the shiny, pitted shell of the island to fall into the sea. After that, it began to move toward Auckland. As with her earlier experiment, Gwen had admonished it, compelling the creature through the contracts formed via the Planar Ally spell, threatening its very existence. When it got too close, the Tower opened fire, burning another hundred-thousand HDMs through Yue, Lulu and its supporting Mages. The Shoggoth… understood, or at least, it chose to halt. However, it had continued to feed, wiping every mote of algae from the sea, distending its tendrils dozens of kilometres from the Aotea until parts of it had mounted Auckland's northern-most headlands. The Tower once more admonished Gwen's pet. Unfazed, the Shoggoth's patience-testing plundering had continued for several more hours, with the city's leadership grimly observing the consequence of their choice. Thankfully, Mid-morning the next day, Gwen notified the others that her Shoggoth had begun to recede. Three days later, she compelled the skyscraper-sized creature to return to its Elemental Plane, slipping into the crack from which it had arrived like an octopus sliding between the gaps of a ship's gunwale. Golos made unhelpful remarks of mockery toward his colleague, boasting that "The Mighty Golos" could play as long as it wanted—to which Gwen acknowledged by sending the bored Wyvern back to its brother's bachelor pad. Dede had offered its sympathies with a quack. What's left was a workload no less taxing than the Shoggoth. Within the month, trade between the city and Australia's east coast had to be resumed. The shattered Militia had to be replenished and reorganised. The shipping lanes had to be remapped as safe passages. The Mermen who invariably made it to shore had to be banished or put down. The rebellious Mer-folk native to Auckland's coast was another diplomatic can of worms only Caliban could wrangle. That and Auckland's dire financial straits had to be addressed. For the latter, Gwen's position as the Director of the Isle of Dogs was more precious than all her capacity as a War Mage. In her time split between IoDNC and Tonglv, she had filled her Pokédex with power-holding managers connected to many of Mageocracy's infrastructural institutions. Of her top picks, she knew several corporations that would go ham at the news that a small island of precious metals had fallen into Auckland's lap—even if Auckland lacked the means to retrieve it from the bottom of the Firth of Thames. As a guarantee, she had Te's Divination department produce certified readings consisting of Mithril, Orichalcum, assorted Cores and most importantly—a collected mass of raw Adamantine. From the unusual composition, it would appear that one of Nyrlesvinyr's abilities was to consume, purify, and then add these mineral compositions to her home—which in hindsight, made perfect sense for a primordial scion from the Para-Elemental Plane of Mud. Therefore, forsaking her signature percentile stake out of the unimaginable goodness of her heart, Gwen had sent out feelers to her choice of England's BHP Billiton, Shanghai's Sheng-Hua Minerals, and The Hong Kong Shanghai Banking Corporation, a key stakeholder in GlenCORE, the American mining giant. In this world, where money "grew on the ground", few corporations were as obscenely wealthy and in possession of liquid capital as the mining conglomerates. Her message was simple—she was looking for a partner corporation to purchase "more than your competitor" a volume of Reconstruction Bonds offered by Auckland's government, either through themselves or their network of financial institutions, to boost the Bond's stock value. Once accomplished, she would give up her "spoils of war" so that "a" lucky companies might turn a super profit through mining the mineral island. Should no buyers invest to her liking, she would wait out her Dwarves and pay for the island to be dredged. Then—with the help of her Dwarven allies, who can refabricate the mineral island into ingots, the IoDNC alone would profit from the city's reconstruction profits. Together with the carrot and stick, she also offered a nailed bat. With great politeness, she had explained in her letter that having herself transmute and sell the ores would be a calamity. In her haste to help Auckland, there would be no choice but to undercut the market with a flood of precious metals, unwittingly impacting the bottom lines of everyone involved. To the awe-struck Wherowhero, she had then rationalised that the mining corporations were only boosters for Auckland's "initial IPO offer". From London and beyond, Lady Astor, The Marchioness of Ely, the Norfolk Fund, and her Dragon-partner at the House of M would guarantee another twenty-five per cent purchase of Auckland's released bonds. After their friends make the initial purchase, the mineral corporations would make theirs, and thereby, new Bond Stocks would inflate—drawing investors from the true chopping block—London's greedy nobles and others from around the Commonwealth. And once Auckland's futures began to circulate, it would stabilise the city's credit strategy, meaning they could borrow more HDMs and resources from London. Thereby, her allies would profit. The mining corporations would eventually profit. And with careful management, Auckland would not only rebuild—but turn a profit from the act of borrowing money itself. The illustrious image her Illusion School of PowerPoint illustrated was shocking enough for both Te and the Tower Master to inhale breaths of frigid air—and regard the "Profitess" with more fear than they had felt for the Shoggoth. Concurrently, Gwen had also offered Auckland the possibility of Chinese investment—though both Te and Hildenbrandt grew wary at the prospect of a regional power buying up their debt. No matter how much she explained the irrelevance of debt ownership in a multi-national, globalised human world—her clients remained unconvinced. And so, with the equivalent work of a dozen Shalkars piled on top of her desk, Gwen had immersed herself in the sorcerous act of financing the rebuilding of a sundered city's coastline, breaking only to stretch her limbs and Purge wayward Mermen. For weeks on end, never had Auckland's ISTC burned so hot, nor had its three-decade-old systems required so much maintenance from Petra and the Tower's resident Enchanters. Working six days a week, Gwen held enough meetings with creditors for Auckland to ease the Tower into expending whatever funds it had left, rapidly establishing a supply chain from Sydney and Melbourne, attracting talent of all stripes. The winner of her Bond-selling competition, GenCORE, went as far as sending in a team of Magisters specialising in retrieving shipwrecks to slowly displace Nyrlesvinyr's island onto the barren shores of Aotea. On advice from Eric Walken, she then extended a gesture to Elvia's folk, the Ordos responsible for the Mageocracy's wellbeing. The Ordos did not refuse—nor did they send Elvia as Gwen had hoped. Instead, the powers behind the Knightly orders sent her manpower in the form of migrants and refugees with magical abilities, retired men from the military, and other bodies that would rapidly refill Auckland's depleted Militia. When she did ask for her Evee, Elvia's Abbess kindly informed her that Elvia, like Gwen herself, was occupied saving the world in insignificant but important ways. Unable to unify the trio in her spare time, Gwen spent her Sundays picnicking with Yue, which meant the pair and their bodyguards went about looking for Yue's favourite trouble, Crab-kin in butter and garlic. It wasn't how she had imagined her future with Yue while studying in Blackwater, but it was close enough to temporarily fill the gap of her five-month separation from the absence of their cherished No.3. Day after day, week after week, even as Nyrlesvinyr's home became a Commonwealth-famous attraction that drew national debate on privatising public wealth—Gwen worked tirelessly in what she deemed the "true" work of a Magister. Auckland's Greys, on order from their superiors across the sea, swallowed the wand tip and stood down their stubbornness, opening their relations to facilitate trade openly. The Militants, on orders from a stock-tipped Thomas Benedict Holland, likewise suspended their competition and focused on protecting the shipping lanes and clearing Auckland's surroundings. Outside Wellington, the Halflings of Hamilton emerged in force, piling Auckland's warehouses with countless volumes of preserved and fresh produce, even venturing from their copy-righted hole-homes to aid the survivors of Wellington in their reconstruction. For almost a month and more, Gwen played the shepherd to Auckland's reconstruction, guiding that rare honeymoon of congeniality in which cooperation overshadowed grudges, allowing hope to flow unmolested. Then, on a cold day in the ide of July, forewarned but still, a shocking sight—The Royal Raven sailed into Auckland's port, signalling the next chapter—Mount Erebus.

Auckland. Port Fitzroy. "BY THE SJU DORFRAN—LADS, WE'VE MADE IT ALIVE!" Gwen's _WELCOME TO AUCKLAND banner_ , and the Mages who stood by the docks, were completely ignored by a deluge of suddenly appearing Dwarves who spilt from the lowered loading bay to kiss the ground, weeping bitter tears of uncontrollable, existential joy. Taking a sudden interest in their shoes, her company of Mages from the Shard, together with Te Whereowhero and other representatives from Auckland's Factions, collectively ignored the howling public spectacle until Charlene Ravenport emerged, red-faced and looking like she'd been in a long hangover. "Is Hanmoul somewhere in there?" Gwen asked as they shook hands, hers warm and Charlene's like a sack of bones. Behind Gwen, ten thousand spectators were lined up, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Dwarves. Instead, they saw bearded men, or women, drunk off their rocks and bawling, kissing concrete and weeping in Dwarven. "He's making himself sober." Charlene's expression appeared covered by a cloud. "They drank… the entire way." "Christ…" Gwen grimaced. "Did you run into trouble? Could the ship defend itself?" "We fended off the remnants from the Shoal you dispersed, I think," Charlene affirmed her worries. "Curiously, alcohol does not impede the Dwarven capacity for war. In fact, the drunker they became, the more fearless and less seasick they were. It's a physiological miracle." _Ah—seasickness…_ Gwen suspected that was why the entire ship was sloshed. Somehow, the dis-coordination caused by inebriation likely offset the induced nausea. "I'll enquire no further. Welcome to Auckland, Charlene. It's good to see you." Gwen embraced her partner Ravenport. Once they parted, her nose wrinkled. "In anticipation, I have prepared accommodations and showers… and fresh food." "It's amazing, isn't it…" Charlene's face grew slightly brighter and hotter when she heard the word _shower_. "We have the best Filtration Engines money can buy, and still, the potable water reeked of alcohol. It's the Dwarven Beer, I think. It even soaks into the metal, bonds with it." Gwen nodded solemnly as the second loading bay opened, noisily falling flat against the dock. This time, the crowd was properly wowed, for what emerged to crack the concrete was a handsome Golem Engine of immense size, as squat as it was wide, with brilliant spellswords under both fore-limbs, while on a platform held aloft by four crab-legs, an array of foursome artillery swords refracted the light. "We could have used some of those for sure." Te sighed with appreciation, golf-clapping along with the jubilant crowd. "One of those could fill in for four of ours." More Golems emerged until the Hammer Guards formed a wedge facing Gwen. With a hiss, the cockpit popped, revealing the deep-diving helm of Hanmoul Bronzeborn, son of Dwomrul, grandson of Handrek, Captain of the Iron Guards. Following his lead, the other cockpits also opened, revealing many familiar faces, such as the Engineseer Signerlig Bronzeborn, the Runesmiths Thulgig Flinthide and Danmurim the Glum, as well as the woman responsible for the Fabricator Engine, the Alchemist Yossari Vildrenbrandt. With great ceremony, the group dismounted and met Gwen upon the city's threshold, placing their gauntlets against the Core seated in their chest, which the Tower had to accommodate by fine-tuning their remaining resonance barriers. "Esteemed guests from Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth," Gwen spoke in perfect Dwarven. "It is with great pleasure that I welcome you to our tiny corner of the Himmseg. Captain Hanmoul. Master Yossari. And my very good and honourable friends of the Citadel—Welcome to Auckland!" The crowd that lined the harbour from one side to the next burst into cheers, throwing hats into the air, an act that confused the Dwarves, for a stout mining helmet from a good height could easily crack a young digger's skull. But OSHA aside, as the Royal Raven was the only distraction from the endless toil of the future, the passions shown by Auckland's people were far too exuberant. After ten minutes, with the applause, whistles, cheers and "Good on yer, mates!" refusing to cease, Gwen had to escort the Dwarves past the crowd with the help of the local Militia. As communicated by Charlene, the Dwarves had little interest in Auckland, but they were keen on visiting their local cousins—the Halflings of Hamilton. Though their races were thinly related, the popular myth among Hanmoul's folk was that Halflings were Dwarves who were cut off from Deepholm by some unforeseen tectonic shift a hundred generations ago. Lacking access to a Deepdowner and the Hall of the Ancestors, they evolved on their own into a wholly different breed of Elemental Demi-humans, adapting to the Himmseg by changing their innate magic for overland survival. As one of the rare groups of Dwarves to come into contact with the Halflings of Hamilton in the last century, Hamoul's people were interested in exports. In particular, they wanted to know if their cousin race had developed better food stock capable of thriving in the Murk, with higher yields than the legumes and fungi the Citadel cultivated in the tunnels. That and Yossari would gift Hamilton a marker beacon, useful in an uncertain future where the Dyar Morkk re-opened. "I'll leave the handover to you and Aria." Reading her friend's desire for refreshments, Gwen held Charlene's hand to affirm her continued support for the Ravenport. "Rest up. Once we return, Hanmoul's folk will need their drinks." "I'll leave it to Aria." Charlene allowed her hand to be held, affirming their working relationship and continued cooperation. "My organs almost atrophied trying to be polite with their invitations to drink. We Dust Mages and our constitution—but you know how that is. One more thing. Are our supplies ready?" "Yes, it's ready." Gwen parted from her partner. There was a special pleasure in working with competence, and both of them knew it. "We can sail in three days. Once the Dwarves return." "Lovely. I'll see you in the Tower then?" "Aye," Gwen affirmed her friend's anticipations. "Don't forget, you have dinner with the Paladin and the Tower Master tonight. And the Faction dinner is tomorrow. Then we're off." "You'll introduce me to the Apprentice of the Scarlet Sorceress? Won't you?" Charlene smiled. "I've heard a lot about Sydney's future War Mage." "Of course." Gwen smiled, even knowing that Charlene likely thought of Yue as a useful cog in the Mageocracy's gears; her gesture was something to appreciate. "Take it easy for a few days. Don't say I didn't warn you, but there's soon to be five thousand kilometres of quaffing between Mt Erebus and us." Hamilton. Evening. After drinking their Halfling cousins under the barn house table, the proud Dwarves of the Red Citadel's promised encounter with their Himmegg cousins concluded with many incidents—but no fatalities. One such happening involved Sydney's famed "Little Scarlet", who, in her excited, inebriated state, got into an argument with Thulgig Flinthide about the firepower-firepower-FIREPOWER of an Engineseer tuned Spellsword versus a traditional Fire Mage's maximised magics. A spontaneous contest then broke out, presided by the Halfling's impassioned Headman, which resulted in the loss of an enormous warehouse when the stowed goods a hundred meters away spontaneously combusted. Once that was under control, the drinking moved to another section of the pastoral municipality, where Lulan fell into a berserker rage after being taunted by "Rori" Vildrenbrandt, cousin to Hanmoul, that Gwen would be safer if nestled within a custom Golem Suit, then Matryoshka-dolled into a Golem Engine, than being protected by a _lassie_ with "twigs for arms". Without the aid of alcohol, Gwen was sure Lulan would have held her tongue—but one swig of the Firewater was enough to activate some terrible talent within her, giving her skin an oxide-like sheen of rust. To prove that she could best any Golem Engine, she challenged Hanmoul's Cousin. Rori promptly materialised her suit and an intermediate armour from her Storage Ring, and the two duked it out in the middle of the new dining area, unshielded by any Walls of Force. The second barn was soon lost among cheers and laughter and much quaffing, with Lulan emerging the winner when she managed to drive a Sonic Blade between the leg-joints of the Golem while surviving a gut-punch to the side that left her bruised and bent but smiling wickedly. After that, Gwen decided it was best the Dwarves leave Hamilton before they burn it to the ground and that any future visits should be in small delegations. She left the mayor of Hamilton, Ruari Littlefoot, with a generous promise to rebuild the lost infrastructure, then asked Hanmoul to gather his Iron Guards, leaving only Yossari and a squad of Honour Guards to finalise trade with the Halflings. Upon their return, when the new day dawned, she found Charlene bedridden with ill health from overwork. Though seemingly counter-intuitive, she left her partner with a generous bottle of infused Maotai to improve her delicate constitution, then returned to the docks to oversee final preparations. At the harbour, she was joined by Aria, who asked Gwen if she would like to address her Shadow Mages. "My what?" was Gwen's immediate reaction—until her Dwarf-addled brain informed her these were the "help" promised by the House of M, or more precisely, by Ruxin. Immediately moving to meet her "troops" on the ship's deck, she felt a slight chill upon seeing her new allies. The leader of the Shadow Flight was a middle-aged woman with a jaded, thousand-yard stare called Astha, with no last name to speak of and no expression. " _Seven_ —would be my preferred title." Her new employee informed her. "And these are Sixteen, Eight, Twenty-Nine, Seventy-Two…" Numbers for which Gwen later gleaned from Astha, to be their assigned number while undergoing the trials, intended as such so that their "user" won't form attachments. In Manipur, home of the Shadows, only a small portion of candidates can join the austere group, with the competition being a Hunger Games celebrated by the local lords. Against expectation, selected families were very proud of those who survived, and entire Clans built the foundations of their lives upon it. Of the fifteen odd Mages sent to her, "Seven" was close to the prowess of a Magister, while the rest were Senior Mages or at the tiers of Frontier Maguses capable of hybrid magic. What made them special was that the principle Flight was entirely composed of Smoke Mages specialising in stealth. Comparatively, their second Magus Flight was more balanced in their specialities, while the final Flight consisted of support, with a Diviner, Abjurer, an Enchanter and two Healers. "I would like to roster you all under my company, the IoDNC," Gwen announced after speaking at length to each member and learning their names and call signs. "You will be paid the same wage as a Mage in the Shard. You will be given time off, and Danger Pay during operations." "We do not need payment," Astha protested without emotion. "Tell us to die for you, and we shall." "Nonsense." Gwen sighed after a few more minutes of futile back and forth. After glancing at her ticking Message Device, she realised the futility of further debate. "Whatever Ruxin says, you're now my employees, and you now have rights. That's an _order_." "Understood." Astha glanced at her kin. Looking at the younger Mages, Gwen hoped she had spied a secret relief of sorts and that the others weren't simply reacting to Astha's mental command to please their eccentric mistress. "Here's some money." Gwen passed over a Storage Ring. "Go into the city, buy whatever food and drink you fancy. Eat at a restaurant. Go to a park and relax. See how the folk here do things. Come back before tomorrow morning. Oh, and buy something warm, for Ruxin's sake, if not mine. We're going to the Seat of Frost. You're dressed for the tropics." Astha's face finally seemed to crack. As suspected, monk shawls used to wrap the shoulders and left to trail the floors were NOT the right garb for the southern cold. Charlene had cold-weather magical garments on board, but Astha wasn't one to ask for equipment. "Go now," Gwen commanded, wondering if Richard could talk some sense into these esoteric warriors. "Auckland may not have too much to offer right now, but by God, we have a wealth of seafood.." On the promised third day since the arrival of the Royal Raven, the city of Auckland turned out to see its saviour and destructor leave. Te Wherowhero had originally requested a parade. However, Gwen wasn't sure her pride could survive the event of a whole city turning out to throw rotten vegetables at the woman who took them to heaven, then hell, then heaven, then the uncertainty of a decade of rebuilding. What she did appreciate was the time the city's stakeholders had taken to meet her at the docklands. From the Middle Faction, the Tower Master made a rare appearance to shake her hand and offer her METRO the corresponding front page photos. The Greys also had sent Magisters who did not completely loath her guts or had recovered enough of their opinions to at least bow and simper in public. The Militants, unsurprisingly, took the opportunity to hail her as one of their own, heaped her with praise, and then promised hot air should she return. Her most sentimental moment came when finally, she had to say goodbye to Yue and Whetu. For many months and a long-long while, she and her old friend had bonded again over Mermen Purges and seafood, enjoying one another's near-constant company. Comparatively, though her friendship with the gentle giant had grown cool, she knew well why the young man had kept his distance, asking only that time would make the Abjurer more mellow to his PTSD over her taming of Nyrlesvinyr. Leaving Yue's bombastic, hot-bodied embrace behind, Gwen inwardly sighed. Her friend would continue a familiar life in Auckland, returning later to Sydney for promotion to more senior roles in Gunther's expanding Militia. But she was once more off to be a stranger in a strange land. By the late morning, the inspections were done, and Aria and her crew had embarked or were returning to London via the ISTC. Richard had done his due diligence with Astha, becoming a trusted companion to the Shadow Mages of Manipur after acting as their tour guide. Comparatively, Petra had spent her days snubbing the young nobles who came with Charlene, rebuking their advances by confining herself to the ship's Enchantments. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. When finally, at noon, the "face" of each stakeholder party separated, Gwen swallowed the slow simmering sentiment eating away at her chest, then waved goodbye at the folk who had worked with her for what had felt like a small, microcosmic lifetime. Kalimantan. Samarinda. Bambang, head Foreman of his canoe, was in the process of gaining a new "religion". For untold millennia, his tribe of Humanity who had survived the paradise island's shores had ascribed to a simple narrative—that everything belonged to their God King, the fabled Bali aka Balli—Dewa Cawu. Unlike their distant neighbours in Singapore, theirs were a life of endless agrarian toil, producing food they rarely ate, gifting every joule of energy from their sun-beaten bodies to their lord and master, a true friend of the Dragon Bedawangiwiwi. For the tired men and women of Bambang's fertile basin, their lives were the hard-won prize of their lord and saviour. Legend had it that aeons ago, the Rakshasa, _preservers_ of the Elemental world, had sought to turn Samarinda into a sea of fire. To gain help, the original Dewa Cawu sought aid from the great volcanic Land God, the Magma Drake Bedawangiwiwi, a greedy and untamed being of hunger and lust. Being an intelligent and wise ruler, Dewa Cawu observed the Dragon for many years, coming to know its preference for a rare delicacy—beautiful young girls, especially virgins. Cawu then approached Bedawangiwiwi with an offer it could not refuse—that he would give the Dragon a hundred virgin daughters of his tribe for the monster's patronage and promise that he would keep the Rakshasa at bay, allowing Samarinda to prosper. After much blood, toil, and a vow of blood and magma, an agreement was made. And thus, for hundreds of years, the simple folk of Samarinda had sent their young men into the fields and their prettiest daughters into the palace of Dewa Cawu to serve as the king's adopted children, Bambang's included. And every decade, on the first hint of the monsoonal season, Dewa Cawu would take his troop of flower-wrapped young women up the hill, watched by their tearful loved ones, so that Bedawangiwiwi would be appeased. This season, however, an unwitting change had come to an unchanging land. In February, a great deluge of water had swept Bambang's home, bringing unimaginable misery. In March, the arrival of Undead Fishmen had polluted the estuaries and ruined the harvest. In April, the plague which had come with the flood and the Undead had brought an already stricken city to its knees. Throughout the months, their Dewa had promised salvation—but their bamboo-city could not gather enough healthy young women for his pilgrimage. Then, uninvited strangers had sailed up the river in a metal city-raft. Strangers who refused to yield to their Dewa Cawu. Strangers speaking the trader's tongue, with unfamiliar titles like the _Dragon Slayers of St George_. Bambang was not a stranger to foreigners, for their Dewa Cawu often sold his slaves to the dark-skinned Sea Captains who came to bid for crew and supplies at the city's markets. These men were frightful fellows with uncouth manners and insatiable appetites for the city's simple fisher folk. They harassed fishers' wives, carelessly murdered the young men who defended their kin and seemed to pay respect only to the Dewa and his royal Mages. Thus, the fishing folk of Samarinda were greatly surprised when the Dewa's war skiffs failed to stop the entry of these new foreigners with their enormous foreign ships. They became yet more confused when, after landing, fair-skinned Mages with hair the colour of sunbeams emerged, clad in blue or red or white robes and resplendent amour, to deploy not weapons of war but tents with large red crosses. Healing Stations, the foreigners called them. And they were _free_. "Free"—the very word made no sense to the simple fisher folk of Samarinda, whose lives were not free even in the simplest sense of the word. Their bodies were not theirs, nor their homes, nor their children. Yet, without demanding barter, these foreigners incanted sorcery with the warm light of the morning sun, banished illness from the stricken, and brought new vitality to the sallow cheeks of their stricken kin. On the first day, barely a hundred attended the tents. On the second, a thousand souls received new benedictions. By the first moon cycle, half the city had felt the blessing of the "Ordo", and the local street artisans had sold countless wooden idols of their newly minted Pantang Mayag, the fair-haired Goddess residing within the cross-marked, canvas walls, Dewa Elvia. By the second moon cycle, Dewa Cawu's palace had been all but abandoned by the people, with the city now operating to and from the giant pavilions set up by the foreign folk. And so it was that finally, on the first day of July, their erstwhile Dewa Cawu's patience had run short—heralding the cataclysmic arrival of his true friend, __ Bedawangiwiwi. Like a rolling lava burst, great Bedawangiwiwi had descended the mountain, its bullish neck as thick as its waist, its eight-limbs dripping ash and sulphur, its fish-like tail sweeping aside giant like charred tinder. Down the hills, the great beast slid, a living engine of ultra-violence, transmuting Bambang's family's huts into smouldering coal as it made its way through the abrupt chaos. From their pavillions, fair-skinned Mages with their crimson cloaks had emerged, their cloaks as red as the setting sun on a hot summer's eve, painting the shallow sea the hue of blood. Presently, safe in his hiding place behind the pallets of metal-tinned supplies, Bambang heard his new employers speak in the tongue of the traders, their tones cool and unimpressed. "So that's the _Dragon_. An ancient Magma Basilisk, and not even an intelligent one at that, "the tall one who spoke had his hand on the pommel of the largest sword Bambang had ever seen, an implement almost as tall as the man's shoulder, slung on reinforced, brass-bound straps from his waist. "There's as much Draconic Essence in that thing as a fist-sized newt from the Ying-long's mountain." "I know it isn't the promised Naga, Mathias, but it _is_ a good accolade for your Knight Companion, don't you think?" The second Knight, whose shield-crest wore a large "X" over a cross in embossed gold, comforted the first. "You warmongers always say that." The blonder of the knights glanced in Bambang's direction as he spoke. Bambang instantly transformed into a part of the inanimate drapes covering the supply crates. "Foreman," the ash-blonde Knight called Mathias and addressed him directly. "It's a bit late to run, so stay here where it's safe. Don't come crawling to Elvia later when we're inundated with the injured." Bambang nodded furiously. By now, more knights had sauntered forth from their stations, each bearing spellswords with markings from their "Ordo". When the Goddess finally emerged, Bambang felt a sign of sudden and inexplicable courage fill his heart. There was an aura about the fair-haired Cleric, something like an invisible halo, immaterial and yet, so substantial that Bambang felt its weight on his Astral Soul. Unconsciously, his hand slipped toward the idol hanging from his chest, with its rough-hew cutout of her likeness. There was a warmth from the still-green wood, dispelling fear and doubt and filling him with indescribable optimism. A hope that was oppressed only by the stench of rotten egg-sulphur from Bedawangiwiwi, who was now only a few hundred meters away. With the knights who emerged, an older man with the look of a scholar made his presence known. "Elvia," the old man in the regal red robes spoke with a tone of kindness, like a grandfather revealing his child at the Dewa's ceremonies, not knowing that the smiling Dewa was far worse than any Rakshasa. "You may begin." "Yes, Seneschal Ashburn." The Goddess did not step into the air but instead dropped to one knee. With a flip of her hand, she produced a golden implement inscribed with a rune Bambang could not recognise. At the same time, what looked like a trio of bells began to trail incense smoke, shrouding her petite figure. Next, she began a prayer. Strangely, with his hand on the idol, Bambang understood her words. _"O Living Lord_ _We art thy unworthy lambs_ _I ask to be their shepherd_ _To carry a shield of faith_ _And bear the sword of your words_ _O, Gracious Lord._ _Allow me the praise to be_ _Thy Minister of Chastisement_ _That in our victory_ _Your name be sung…"_ The idol in Bambang's hand grew so unbearably hot that, for a moment, he wondered if the young sapling wood might burst into flame. Then, just as the rampaging Bedawangiwiwi reached the bottom of the valley, the semi-circle of Knights drew their blades. "BY THE NAZARENE'S WILL!" The resounding echo from the Goddess' knights filled the valley like a thunderclap. Bambang's Goddess gave the final word. "MURDER FIEND—BE CONDEMNED!" The air distorted overhead. Something akin to an enormous glowing cross began to manifest from the havens—from thin air—materialising from nothing, causing no elemental ripple. A shield? A barrier to halt the charge of Bedawangiwiwi? Bambang's heart was caught in his throat, a faithful hope reciprocated by the hundreds of thousands of his fellow fisher folk in the valley, a captive audience to their doom or salvation. Soundlessly, as a spontaneously manifesting shooting star, the sky-scraper stake descended, moving to intercept the incoming body of the smouldering eight-legged magma flow. Just before it struck, Bedawangiwiwi moved its torso just so—and managed to avoid the pin-point of the stabbing implement. Had the Goddess' protectors misjudged? Bambang's doubt stung him like a wasp and filled him with shame. "GUARRRRRAWK—?!" As if in mockery of Bambang's lack of faith, a howl of agonised surprise escaped from the monstrously-legged viper, loud enough to shake the valley. The cross had continued its penetration into the earth until its left arm caught the creature by the mid-section, driving the monster deep into the ground until Bedawangiwiwi was wholly pinned. The force of the impact was such that an eruption of magma—or whatever an ancient Elemental had for body fluids, splattered in every direction, creating such a heat wave that buildings near the impact burst into brilliant flames. Try as it might, even tearing its charcoal scales and cracking bone, Bedawangiwiwi managed only to extricate a single limb. "Kiki!" came a call to arms from Bambang's Goddess, her voice far colder than Bambang had heard. At her bidding, a thousand tendrils suddenly erupted from where Bedawangiwiwi had fallen, each as thick as a sail ship's riggings. And like riggings, these prehensile tentacle-ropes threw themselves into a frenzy, then snared the sizzling Bedawangiwiwi like a carp in a hemp net. "GUWWWAARRK—!" The tempestuous Bedawangiwiwi roared, transforming the ground into magma to loosen its bindings. Its aura flickered as some latent, innate ability triggered, transmuting the closest ropes to stone—only for the stone to crack and new vines to form within split seconds. Still, thanks to the momentary loss of tension, it slipped one foot free—pulled itself up by the claw of another—then— "SEN-SEN!" The Goddess glowed like the golden sunrise, her aura so rich with intangible energy that the air began to drip with resplendent dew. From Bedawangiwiwi's blindspot—a fact made possible because of the creature's blind panic, a Goliath grew from the ground, a faceless humanoid that looked to be comprised of knotted old ropes and roots. A Rakshasa of the Man-eating Potato? Bambang's mind flashed to those terrifying moments when he had to hide from the men-eating Mandrakes. Just when he thought the tree would punch Bedawangiwiwi into submission, a dozen and more tendrils split from the root-man, joining the floral vines already enmeshing the Basilisk. "Proceed, Knight Companion." The ash-haired old Mage's confidence cooled Bambang's panic. "Three is the number of your trials. Make haste to complete your last. Let it not suffer, lest more innocents are caught the Dewa's immorality." "Yes, Seneschal. Sen-sen! Kiki!" Bambang's Goddess nodded adorably, her face as grim as it was heart-achingly beautiful. A few seconds later, following the opening of what sounded like a benediction of compassion, her aura grew momentarily solid. Nearer Bedawangiwiwi, the Goliath released arresting tendrils the likeness of golden ropes of molten metal, but these did not burn the Basilisk, Instead, the creature's injury began to mend. Bambang's eyes grew wide. Were these foreign Mages hoping to tame the Rakshasa like their Dewa? Did this mean that his people would soon have a new master? Bedawangiwiwi, like Bambang, grew confused by the warmth suffusing its body. It even ceased its struggles to gauge what its opponents had in mind. Bambang held his breath and waited, one hand clutching the idol of the Goddess. Not far, the knights who had stood guard shifted into battle stances. " _Guwrr—GWARARRK?!_ " As the arresting golden cross began to dematerialise, Bedawangiwiwi's aura of magma grew suddenly unstable. The golden ropes, which had held it immobile, were suddenly sinking into the scales of its flesh. Bambang quickly rubbed the ashen dust from his clouded eyes. It wasn't that the ropes were biting into the creature—but that the beast was rapidly enlarging! It was expanding unnaturally, like a frog that the village's naughty children had cruelly bloated with a pump. And like those unfortunate amphibians, even as the creature grew increasingly confused by its fate, its flesh continued to engorge, cracking its previously impervious armour of shale-like scales, making it once sleek and predatory figure so rotund that its eight legs could no longer properly catch the ground. With a guttural howl, a part of it began to shift—for Bedawangiwiwi could change its shape when it willed—but the golden energy infusing its body seemed to ignore the commands from the monster's body. Now in a renewed panic, Bedawangiwiwi began to roll and thrash, becoming comical as the tragedy of its ballooning belly continued. "KNIGHTS! LOCK BARRIERS!" came the command from the ashen-haired old scribe, his voice rolling across the valley as lowering thunder. "CONJUGATION OF FAITH!" The different uniformed Knights moved in as one, manifesting a multi-shield array that formed a semi-dome over the top of the mewling stone lizard. Below the creature, molten magma was oozing from every orifice on the Basilisk, forcing it to gag and cough. Its burning eyes glowed so vividly in pain that they resembled a pair of mercury beads in clay kilns. Then—as anticipated, something gave from within the Basilisk's body. As the root-Goliath and the floral vines dimmed, a stream of bright orange magma, mixed with what looked like flesh and offal, jetted from Bedawangiwiwi's flank. After the initial spurt, the pressure release quickened like the pressurised deluge from a newly opened dam. A dozen breaths later, even as Bedawangiwiwi's orbs rolled into its skull, the stream continued, turning a whole portion of the shielded arena into a magma pool with an explosive gust of sulphur and heat—one thankfully impeded by the Mage Knights' efforts. Bambang wasn't sure if he had breathed the whole while, though he was aware of the idol in his hands pulsing with warmth. When he recovered, Bedawangiwiwi's inert body had cooled, transforming from magma into brilliant boulders that, when cracked, would consist of priceless Dragon Glass. The semi-circle of Knights sheathed their swords as though they had practised the rite a thousand times. "Check the surroundings for survivors, bring them to the triage tents," Senechal Ashburn commanded the others. After a pause, the man stepped beside the Goddess. "Elvia, do you have enough Faith to continue your work at the clinic?" "I do," the Goddess exhaled, tired but in high spirits. "Please don't turn anyone away." "You're as tireless as always." The man appeared to study her. "Well done on your third trial, child, though none of us had doubted your faith." "Thank you, Seneschal." The Goddess bowed her head. One of the knights, the ash-blonde, reached her side. "To have found so much support from the Ordos… Mathias and I could not have prayed for more compassion from better members of the Mageocracy." "You still speak as if we are not Companion and Commander." The old man, incredibly, laid a hand on the Goddess' head, then patted her in the same way Bambang would comfort a crying fisherwoman's lost child. "Don't push yourself so hard. When we reach Tianjin… you will have our support. The Ordo isn't what it used to be in the epoch of Victoriana, but the CCP and a corrupted Mythic—we can still chastise." "It's not the Mythic that worries us, Seneschal." the Goddess' smile was as sweet as it was disquieting. "In this Brave New World, we must ensure there will never be another Elizabeth Sobel." " _Brave New World?_ " the old man shook his head as he seemed to ponder the worlds, seemingly enjoying how the sound rolled off the tongue. "Another one of her Gwenisms?" "She's full of them." The Goddess' laughter was like pealing bells on a clear cold morning. "The cost will be high…" the old man's melancholy was palpable. "You may yet pay the dearest of prices. And if you survive, her hatred shall be a fate worse than a clean death. As your elder, I must question your wisdom in exercising your passion. Her pride and misjudgement is, after all, not your cross to bear." "Seneschal.. are our Ordo not the Poor Soldiers of Christ?" The Goddess appeared unyielding in her conviction. "Isn't dying for others' sins our motto?" The old scholar laughed, shaking his head as he did so. "You're worldly, child, too wise for one so young and sheltered. Had the Yinglong's famed Divinations seeded those words? Or are they your own?" The Goddess said nothing, but her eyes seemed to drift toward the sky as her mood grew reticent. With a finger placed on the golden broach that fastened her cloak, she spoke as though to someone far and distant. "There will be an end. And I know there will be agony—but for her goodness to remain, Seneschal—I shall be glad of another death."

"Magister Song—" "Good morning, Magister." "A moment of your time, Magister…." "May God's grace be with you, Magister Song." Strangely, in the microcosm of the ship and its crew of youthful Mages, the oldest of whom was in their thirties and the youngest just twenty, Gwen finally felt less like a cuckoo egg. Charlene was their official leader, respected for her charisma and her associations. Comparatively, the respect she commanded was different, for hers were based on the promise that her Shoggoth possessed more destructive potential than all the Mages on the ship, rivalled only by Hanmoul's mechanised infantry. On the sea map, the voyage to Ross Island, the seat of Mount Erebus, would take ten days, nine if the seas are fair, and twelve should the weather encourage detours. Charlene had taken great care of the voyage's potential misadventures, however, and had brought along one of the aspiring "genius" Diviners from the Queen's College, skilled in clairvoyance and steering the Royal Raven away from mishaps. When Gwen asked about the paradox that Mayuree had prescribed, the Diviner intimated that she divined minor aspects of the journey, such as the conditions of the ship's parts as _canary_ objects, as well as the health of certain members of the crew who loved or hated certain weather conditions—then pieced together something akin to a data field to plot the ship's course. For a "foretelling" Diviner, the young woman had explained, talent in foresight wasn't necessarily a good thing—for the details of progress were far more important than the end itself. This "Big Data" approach was a genius form of circumvention Gwen had not at all expected—and thus, could only nod and marvel at the methodologies of Cambridge University's elites. On the first night out of port, she, Charlene and the young nobles, together with the Dwarven leadership, convened at the castle to discuss matters moving forward. Together with her new favourite, the Diviner Magus Marley Dixon, they mapped out the threats ahead. The first and foremost threat to any shipping into the Black Zones was the giant sea monsters that made their home in the cold waters of the South Sea. Krakens, despite their reputation for being homely lair monsters, often ventured from their Pocket Dimension sea homes to attack ships, arguably out of beak-clenching reflex. Ningen, the whale-monsters with wing-like arms and operable digits, also made their home in the Antarctic, though these were known to be docile, with the rare "Priest" capable of reason and communication. The worst-case scenario was an encounter with a _young_ Leviathan, one exiled from the Elemental Plane of Water by competition or curiosity. These simple-minded island-fishes are usually enslaved by the upper-class Elementals of the Seven Kingdoms, becoming living pleasure barges or siege beasts for their underwater wars. "The region is sectioned to the Sixth Swell," Charlene explained, appending that a "Swell" was the corrupted translation of what the Mermen termed the tears into the Elemental Plane. Each of the Seven Kingdoms, dotted in unknown depths in the North and South Pacific, was home to such a "Swell". Some Magisters argued that the Swells were moving, living entities tied to their Ancient Mythics. Others compared them to the World Trees of the Elves. The current conjecture, however, was that none of that mattered as no human being had seen one, much less studied a "Swell". What was known was that the reigning monarchs of these Swells were old beings of the Elemental Planes who had chosen to stake their claim in the "New World". A monarch now well-known to Gwen was Miommiriorthyr, the ever-slumbering Dragon Turtle of yore, tagged by Charlene as the lord of the Fourth Swell, controlling the regions from Fiji to the Coral Sea east of the eastern Australian coastline. The South Ocean was the domain of Odidi Vel, the Supreme Seat of the Sixth Swell, a title that sounded as intimidating as it was alliterative. "And?" Gwen asked, sipping her Maotai in contemplation. "There is no _and._ " Charlene's grey eyes remained puffed and watery from the wafting alcohol permeating the ship. "We only know of him or her from the traders who traffic Mermen through the Grey Market. There's nothing this far south for us to be interested in, and the Sixth Swell rarely gets involved in the war with the Commonwealth, unlike the First, Second and Fourth Seats." "Hmm…" Gwen sat back. She was a classic landlubber, and her maritime knowledge consisted only of lessons taught by conscripted instructors in Auckland, not personal experience. "Don't yer worry, lassie." Hanmoul was optimistic as always, trusting only in firepower. "We'll blast 'em right back into the Elemental Plane of Water, come squall, Kraken or maelstrom." Gwen nodded. Of that, she was confident. With the Dwarven mercenaries on her side, their ship temporarily possessed a repulsion Core that could rival a Tower for several days. Additionally, her Diviner had already predicted that no catastrophic danger would threaten the integrity of the Core's functions. And should a creature brave the destruction of its Core to assail the ship, the barrage of the Mages and the Golems on deck would transmute it into grilled calamari. The concern that remained, therefore, was their limited information on their destination—the southernmost volcano and one of the largest on Terra, _Mount Erebus._ When Charlene had promised to bring every shred of data the Mageocracy possessed on the volcanic island-peninsular, Gwen had anticipated topographical maps with illusion-empowered overlays, information on the beasts and monsters, as well as routes and lanes for both sea and land. What Charlene instead showed the crew were reproductions of hand-drawn maps from 1909. "The last harrumph of Ex-Meister Shackleton," the Ravenport heir spoke with reverence, her grey eyes twinkling with remembrance. "According to his biography, Sir Shackleton survived there, in that sunless Black Zone, for six months while waiting for rescue, battling Frost Howlers, hunting the Ivory Seals for meals, wearing their skin and eating their gut-linings to keep his surviving crew fed." "Final harrumph?" Gwen remarked. "The biography didn't sell well?" "The expedition ruined him." Charlene sighed wistfully, fingers caressing the running writing that Gwen could read through her Translation Stone. "If I were born a century earlier, I would have funded him personally, but the Royal Geographical Society wasn't so keen after he lost the most expensive sail ship ever equipped to an Ice Elemental maelstrom. After which, over the next six months, he lost five Mage Flights in a time when a single Flight could hold down a regional colony." Gwen felt a twitch from her right eye, hoping their expedition would fare better. "It didn't help that several of those Mages who died were the second-sons of their households, who went with Shackleton out of love and respect for his spirit of adventure and discovery. In that disaster, almost a dozen bloodlines were diminished, and an Earldom was entirely extinguished once the heir was forced to participate in the Great War in place of the spare." "And all this—"Gwen swept a hand over the maps. "Is what remains of his legacy?" "Yes." Charlene gazed over the replicated parchments printed on enchanted linen indestructible by water or fire. Gingerly, her fingers brushed by what looked to Gwen to be a family crest. "This is all that remains of House Shackleton. __ Nonetheless, _By Endurance, we Conquer._ " " _Endurance_ ," Gwen said drily, taking from her parallel history. "The name of Shackleton's ship." "Yes. I wanted to call the Royal Raven that." Charlene laughed. "But father said it was an ill omen." "As opposed to ravens?" Gwen scoffed. Did this world have Coffin Ships? "What's wrong with ravens?" Charlene raised a brow. Gwen said nothing. Instead, the group refocused their attention on the maps. "Holy hells." Her eyes fell on the topography. "I knew Erebus was big—but is that for real?" "Fret-not, lassie. Tis a wee-little hill." Hanmoul, who had seen his share of mountains, was only mildly impressed. "Four thousand human metric units? We'll scale it no problem." "With luck, I don't think that would be necessary." Gwen quickly performed her best PowerPoint(™) sorcery to transform the map into a three-dimensional projection plotting the points on the hand-map through her mind. As a Lightning Mage, her spatial awareness was already leagues above the average sorceress. Dimension Door, with its higher demand for cognitive analytics, was a very stern teacher. A few minutes later, a crude map of Mt Erebus, or more accurately, the island peninsular formed by the lava from its dome, made itself evident. Their navigator, a Viscount-in-waiting named Able Burton, helpfully adjusted her misreadings. "We will cut through the ice sheets. Here and here." Charlene pointed to an alcove just below the mountain's saddle, where the slope was steepest. "Our journey inward isn't so bad, according to the Meister's notes. September is the period of peril. If we cannot leave by mid-August, we'll be locked in until the spring melt—around January." "We might just do that." Gwen slowly turned the map. "I don't know what we'll find, but if we are to beat back the Fire Elementals, I don't think it'll be a single battle. Add in logistics. It'll take time." "You're confident about that, I see." Charlene motioned for their navigator. "Bertie, if you could?" Bertie could indeed. With great gusto, the man added to Gwen's geographic details, such as a four-kilometre lava lake called the "Hole of Terror." Unfazed by the name, Gwen continued to plot the dangers. "And here, we have the Saddle of Ice Horror—and this would be the Valley of A Thousand Cuts—" "Hold up." Gwen waved her hand through the illusion, halting Bertie. "Who came up with this stuff?" "Sir Shackleton's cartographer, ma'am," the young man replied. "These are quite literal, I fear. The saddle, we can assume, would still be home to Frost Horrors—degenerate Frost Giants more beast than man, cannibals who hunt and kill anything that moves, while themselves are hunted by the Lava Wyrms from the Hole... and so on." "I see." Gwen allowed her imagination to do the leg work. Certainly, Auckland Tower's library hadn't prepared her for such a literal and dynamic Black Zone. "Carry on." Bertie continued, slicing their destination into six major sectors. Taking up bits of the journal, he explained that Shackleton's landing, a relatively newer portion of the peninsular, was an uncontested beachhead with a sheltered cove of breakable ice to the northwest. This location would be their sector one, where they aim to land. Sectors five and six were the mountain itself, one for the ever-smoking peak and the other for the lava lake to the peak's northeast. Sector three, east of their landing and west of the peak, would be their presumed goal—for that was where Shackleton had recorded his encounter with the fabled Rime Wardens of Illhîweth. Bertie cleared his throat, then read the exert attached to the paper map. " _We met strange and alien Elves, with faces of delicate beauty, each an ice sculpture from a master's hands. These sported an upper body both lithe and regal, akin to their cousins from Tryfan. Their lower bodies, conversely, distinctly deviate from the norm. The Frost Wardens were the strangest of all, sporting arachnid limbs from a sleek hip, gliding over snow and air with a grace that would put the Royal Ballet's prima donna to shame. The priestesses, conversely, were humanoids, though their complexion would appear near-transparent as if the clearest glacial ice."_ Shackleton's stricken crew had lost several Mages to the Frost Wardens before the Frost Flower of Illhîweth, a Demi-Goddess Shackleton named _Illhîwenthiel,_ spared them. __ Later, on the plains overshadowed by the eternal plume from Erebus, the Meister witnessed the Frost Wyrm Illaelitharian's grand battle against the encroachment of a Lava Drake. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. After the titanic, mythic-class conflict, the hapless adventurer had begged for aid from the Elves. Perhaps his presence had caught the interest of the Lady or her Wyrm, or maybe the effort of helping the lost Humans was lesser than the effort of slaughtering them—Shackleton was able to safely return to base, after which his subsequent treks no longer violated the sacred region he dubbed the Pillar Grove of Illhîweth. As for the grove, the explorer wrote thus: " _Different to the brutalism of Erebus, the Grove of Illhîweth stands as a forest of fumaroles, as the Society would label them—but each a pocket dimension upon itself. The smallest of these ice trees stood taller than our tallest buildings—some kilometre high, while in the distance, my men and I spied such a structure as human eyes could not conceive. A TRUNK of Ice that seemed to hold up the heavens itself and lend support to the very reality of Elemental Space in its surrounds! So enormous was this construct—so immeasurable that we chose to give it the name of 'The Pillar'."_ After Bertie finished the reading, the meeting room took on an atmosphere of contemplation. "So... yes. We are following the steps of Meister Shackleton himself," Charlene broke the silence. "We're making history, Gwen, Master Hanmoul. In more ways than one. We'll be the first Dwarves and Humans to set foot on Erebus and Ross for almost a century." "Officially." Gwen decided to douse Charlene's fire a little. "But I reckon some enterprising fellows would have come here or drifted here by chance or purpose. If I know my Humans as well as you, I wouldn't doubt that." "It doesn't count." Charlene's smile grew crooked. "Unless you bring back a map and a trade route. Most, I'd imagined, died here." "Well." Gwen returned her attention to the map and its notes. "I sure as hell hope we live to tell the tale…" On the third day, the crew spotted their first bit of self-fulfilling prophecy. A Kraken, its burning-orange elongated shape just visible under the noble-green waters near freezing temperature, could be seen pulling alongside the ship, staying just far from starboard that the gung-ho Dwarven artillery could not purchase a formidable impact. For hours, the Kraken and the Royal Raven sized one another while Gwen, Lulan, Richard and their best Mage Flight circled the ship from forecastle to poop, anticipating the Kraken to make a move. By evening, with the Dwarves blasting lumen flairs that lit up a kilometre of the sea, the Kraken and its Shoal thought better of antagonising the Royal Raven, electing to return to the depth. Their path, their Diviner, had later explained, had been a Goldilock's zone inspiring indecisiveness, straying somewhere between two Kraken's lairs. On the fifth day, the ship side-swiped a storm and detoured by sailing perpendicular to the weather phenomenon. As the torrential pour blasted the ocean, turning the bean-green waters white, they saw a flock of Thunder Birds frolic in the kilometre-thick clouds. At once, sensing its desires, Gwen released her Ariel, who sailed into the heavens to join the joyous flight with gleeful cries of "EE-EE!" A few minutes later, Ariel returned with a dead bird the size of a horse, its limp neck still bleeding liquid electricity from her Kirin's bite-holes. Immediately, Charlene ordered the Resonance Chamber to be set to a seventy-five per cent threshold—though there was no need. Sensing Ariel's Draconic lineage, the birds dispersed, ending the thunderstorm and the detour. _Were the birds the cause of the storm?_ _Or did the storm summon the birds?_ That was a phenomenon the Cambridge scholars debated but lacked the evidence to ascertain. Away from the familiar climes of the northern hemisphere, the South Ocean was a place with unpredictable everything, at least by the standards of Human Magecraft. On day six, an albatross joined the ship. Immediately, Richard and Lulan began to salivate, boasting that the lone bird was great practice and a source of income. Knowing her Romantic Poetry, Gwen grew instantly wary. For one, this was no Albatross that a simple bolt could strike down. With her spatial perception, Gwen guessed the creature to be somewhere between twenty to twenty-two meters from wingtip to wingtip, making it a contender for Golos. On that account, Gogo's absence made great foresight, for she recollected how easily the Wyvern attracted the Da-peng in Amazonia. Had Gwen brought her ally, Golos would have attacked and eaten the Albatross without a word. And if such a noble bird died, Gwen was sure that some otherworldly God would make the Royal Raven pay a tax in suffering. "A Chasm Chaser Albatross," one of Charlene's lackeys, a zoologist Conjurer by trade, named the bird after filming the thing for several hours. "Extra-planar beasts that hail from the Elemental Plane of Air. It's likely looking for a way home. They're related to the Big Birds of yore, the ones your Magistership met during the IIUC." By the late afternoon, the Albatross had attempted to come closer to the ship several times. In response, one of the Magus nobles asked if they could open a "path" to the Elemental Plane of Air with a Maelstrom. Charlene gave an affirmative order, and an impressive, dozen-meter wide hole was made manifest into some unknowable portion of the Elemental Plane of Air. With a shriek, the Chasm Chaser transformed into a shrieking arrow, shot through the vortex, and then was gone, leaving only giant feathers as souvenirs for the Mages. "These make excellent ingredients for implements of Flight." The zoologist Dimension Doored from the sea just as Gwen wondered if the man had signalled a death flag and was about to be eaten by a giant fish. Charlene berated her junior officer, though the happy scholar was happy to compose a ten-thousand-word reflection. "Do you think it knew?" Gwen asked her crew. "It seemed to know what it was doing." Richard stared coldly at the door where the happy Conjurer had gone, eyeing the enormous feathers cradled in the man's arm. "It knew too well." "I'll be down below." Lulan walked away with a bored expression. Charlene's nobles, who could not at all penetrate Petra's crystalline coldness, had elected to pursue the exotic Sword Mage with praise and gifts. As an answer, she offered them one path to getting horizontal—harrowing Mage Duels. When she had asked for the same, all politely declined. Gwen watched her companions go, then returned her attention to her Omni Orb. Intelligently, Ruxin's priceless gift sparkled in the sun's dying light. Her miraculous device was as much of a navigator as their collection of Diviners. The furtherer they travelled, the scarcer the sun became. By the eighth day, the Diviners had anticipated that there would be no more light and that the crew would have to utilise their low-light vision implements and enchantments to avoid the ship becoming a beacon of disturbance. In August, the Diviners had said, the Royal Raven may not see the Plane of Radiance at all. This far south, the air had also grown frosty. Were it not for the strange conversions the Dwarves made to the ship, there would be hoar frost covering the barge's decks. At the same time, the giant icebergs passing by were making her Cameron-inspired PTSD flare. However, Gwen had been assured that there would be no "Titanic", certainly not with Mages like Richard aboard who could drain a dozen freight holds of water without breaking a sweat. Together with their Dwarven companions, who could repair the ship so long as it remained in a single piece, their only worry would be that which was unknown. Day Eight. The unknown. First came the clouds, so dense as to have substance. Then came the darkness, an absence of light so total that even low-light vision, perfect for starlight, had reached its limits. The arrival of the Antarctic winds had likewise defeated the mechanism put in place by the Dwarves to radiate the residual heat from the Fabricator Engine, forming slippery ice deposited by clattering squalls of sleet. After that, the drift ice, the long-promised menace of the South Ocean, made its presence known in the form of screeching scraps and crunching groans against the barge's side. Progress, which had seemed fair for the last seven days, slowed instantly to a halt. The Walls of Force that reinforced the hull flickered, offering hysterical bursts of light as the heavy-duty Ether engines thrummed, adding to the effect of Shatter spells used for deep excavation. In addition to the weight of the ice, the Royal Raven's Militant Faction Captain had to keep the ship in perpetual motion, for the ice became living things of constant dynamism. Though the Raven could arguably free itself, a moored Breaker Barge more than likely found itself ensnared by ice up the sides of its hull, which, if significant enough, would make them sitting ducks for predators from the Elemental Plane of Ice. Once the weather fouled, the Mage Flights scouts were wholly withdrawn, as the darkness made anything other than clairvoyance futile. Even the Diviners unhappily reported that Elemental Ice and Air were so thick in these parts that any monster of these Elements would be undetectable as long as the weather continued, making the ship arguably blind. Ergo, they were up against the unknowable, undetectable, and unseeable. Of course, Gwen still had the Omni Orb to correlate with the Diviners, meaning they couldn't be lost for long. Ergo, focusing only on avoiding dense ice, the Royal Raven barged its way south, negotiating for Humanity's re-entry into the South Pole. Day nine. Gwen saw nothing but snow, glimmering in the perpetual twilight from bow to stern. White as linen and limitless as the horizon, the snow spread in every direction, with only the trail of broken ice left by the Royal Raven as evidence that they were in motion. Then, to the steam-exhaling crew's amazement, their Magister opened the double-sealed doorway—then stepped into the fresh morning ice, her hair billowing in the cross breeze. And while the others wore magical garments of warmth like armour against the chill, she wore only her crow-suit. After a moment of circulating her Almudj-blessed mana, Gwen affirmed a hypothesis. As suspected, she was impervious to cold, at least in terms of climate. She acknowledged the bone chill, but the adverse sensation was temporary. Instead, she felt akin to Bondi in autumn, where the first few minutes spent in the sea made one's teeth chatter, but quickly, after dozen waves, the wetsuit voided the cold, and activity only made one cosy. "You're insane." Charlene arrived beside her, wearing an attractively silhouetted armour built for the extreme cold, shivering despite the HDMs invested. "Your armour has only a Tier II Weather Seal." As the young woman spoke, her breaths turned to mist, making her criticism comical. "I'll be fine." Gwen smiled back, seeing that she was joined by Richard, Petra and Lulan, who had all come to observe the spectacle. "But let's inform the teams. We'll start our acclimatisation training now, and let's see if we can find some locals to test our mettle." Day Twelve. Hours before arrival, the crew gathered to survey their future landing. The leadership of the Royal Raven stood on the forecastle, forming a reverse V, each with grim expressions as they surveyed the path ahead. Their ship had yet to arrive at the destined cove, though it was now close enough for the Mages to marvel at the glowing furnace of a mountain dispelling the fingerless dark. No longer did they rely on their low-light vision, for only in the brilliance of a thousand Day Light orbs fired from Dwarven Spellswords could the scope of the catastrophe be ascertained. "What the hell is this?" Richard half-leaned against the rails with Lea hanging overhead, arms wrapped against his body to keep her Master warm. "That doesn't look like soil." "It's Soot." Gwen touched a clawed finger to Ariel's fur after her Familiar retrieved a paw full of mushy snow. From the looks of things, there was more ash than powder, with the slush-pack instantly melting in her hands, staining the boat's grey dock and her dark gauntlet with the stink of old sulphur. "Weather's not particularly frigid." Charlene opened the collar of her protective suit. "I can even feel my fingers." The Ravenport's observation was answered only by the moaning of the unseen wind, carrying a scent that was both rotten and foetid, dredging up memories of Shenyang. "It's winter," Gwen murmured, her blood cooling more than the others, knowing that the implications of what she saw held a far larger impact than volcanic pollution. "It's dark as well. Yet, it isn't freezing here, and everything is covered in soot. The weather—the Elemental Balance is completely off the charts." "SHAA—!" Caliban, playing the role of an impromptu measuring stick, slithered up the ship's side. A few of the Mages, joined by Hanmoul, ran to her mewling fiend and ran what looked to be a measuring implement across its lower body. "Himmseg above, lassie. It ain't looking good." The Dwarf returned with the bad news. "The Elemental Ash reading is over twenty times what yer Meister recorded on his visit." Her Cambridge staff confirmed the Dwarf's finding. Gwen gulped. But even as she tried to digest the direness of Hanmoul's words and read the writing on the wall, her Divination Senses gave no quarter. _DING!_ Several Message spells bloomed at once. "SHAA—SHAA—!" Caliban contorted itself, pointing its faceless head toward the distance. A few pinpoints of light, bright orange and with the likeness of fireflies, appeared and disappeared like air traffic signals on top of desolate skyscrapers. Gwen focused both mana and essence on her eyes, forcing her vision into a strained state of hyper-clarity. She saw… long necks, a hound's jaws, wings… no tail, culminating in a flock… of fiery things, half the size of Golos, but more than making up for the loss with quantity. "Charlene, tell the crew to prepare for battle," she gave her recommendation at once. Whatever these flying lizards were, they were not approaching the ship to trade or demand tea. "Wyverns, likely Chimeras of sorts. They look like bats, but with a protracted torso." "Ashworld Wyrmbats, your Magistership." The zoologist interrupted her flow of consciousness, holding a magical looking-glass in one hand. "We should be careful. The ash they spread is highly corrosive, and burn wounds cannot be cured with non-magical means." "ALL HANDS—BATTLE STATIONS!" Hanmoul was suit-clad and clattering down the ship's metal deck before Charlene had finished giving her human crew the orders to crack up the shielding and the Resonators. With a roar, a dozen War Golems on the foredeck began to steam and thrum, their backs opening to reveal the receptacle for their Golem-suited pilots. Elsewhere, the sides of the ship, heavily modified by the Dwarven crew, began to blossom like an iron flower, revealing gunning platforms, each housing the Iron Guard's artillery units. Gwen shouted into her Message device, telling her Shadow Mages to protect the ship and crew in the instance of an unlikely boarding, advising that they leave the ranged fighting to the war machines. "Master Hanmoul!" Charlene's voice came over the shared intercom channel for the commanding officers. "Do we hold our position?" "Nay—lassie!" Hanmoul's gruff voice was aflame with battle passion, mixed with the distinct clang of cranking shafts slotting mana crystals into micro-furnace chambers. With a hiss, the Spellswords on the backs of his artillery squad grew erect. "FULL STEAM AHEAD, lassie! Let ter Iron Guards show yer how us Dwarves defend a Citadel!"

Between the firing of the mortal instruments and the first blossoms of death, Gwen bathed in the glowing caress of the phantasmal spellfire. Beneath her claw-tipped boots, attended by the stench of hot ozone and the stink of Undeath permeating every inch of the soot-clad snowscape, the Royal Raven's surface-to-air batteries made the ship a carnival float celebrating obliteration. At the foredeck of her battle barge, her Void and Lightning Dogs awaited, each horse-sized beast commanded to act as living shielding for the Golem units. Superior to the range and scope of the Mageocracy's Spellsword units, her Dwarven crew wielded Runic sorcery, which delivered physical payloads with relative accuracy to almost two kilometres away. Once the shells struck the flock, these aerodynamic carvings manifested into localised Runic Mandalas. From these, latent energies from the "spell shells" were released, transforming into concussive, explosive force, simultaneously creating shards of red-hot metal and obsidian, piercing leather and armour alike with ease. Each runic "firework" took artisans hours to compile. However, with the Protestant work ethic of the Dwarves, Gwen had been assured that there would be no longitudinal shortage of munitions so long as the Fabricator Engine remained operational. With thunderous applause, the flaming flowers bloomed. The first volley took the Wyrmbats entirely by surprise, for few dodged or dived, trusting their toughed exteriors of tempered scales. Their arrogance was a costly mistake, for a direct hit was enough to shred a car-sized bat-creature wing-from-body, while a side impact could snap bones or break their finger-wings, sending them tumbling into the soot-clad snowmelt. "Six… Eight… Ten…" Gwen heard the body count from her Message Device as she readied her crew for close encounters of the ashen kind. Lulan was already firing away, her flying swords pealing as a choir of death-dealing shards from their innate sonic vibrations. To the aft, Richard, together with Petra and a half-dozen Abjurers and Enchanters from Charlene's retinue, reinforced protections around the ship. Somewhere above, Ariel and Caliban perched near the ship's elevated bridge with instructions to keep the Captain, Charlene, and the ship's navigational instruments clear of Wyrmbats. "Rear defences have been deployed… Resonator at eighty per cent." Charlene's commanding voice pierced through the comm channels. "All forward defences deployed. Gwen, you have command of your Flights. I will support your needs from the bridge as much as possible." "Roger that, Commander. Engaging in thirty seconds." She replied in kind. For assurance, Gwen touched a hand to a thickly padded section of her battle suit, where the Ilias Leaf sat snug against her bosom. Sensing its inertness, Gwen reminded herself of the promise from Tryfan that there would be means to contact the Frost Elves once they were deep inside Erebus' shadow—then redoubled her focus for the battle ahead. The survivors of the minute-long barrage were now emerging. Much to her chagrin, there was little to indicate that the slaughter of their vanguard cowed the Wyrmbat "Tide". "Ariel, get ready." She called to mind the invocations for a Maelstrom. "Cali, don't stray from the bridge." "EE—EE!" "Shaa—!" _BOOM—!_ Gwen's sides lit up; her silhouette made silver by hysterical spellfire as the volleys closed in for the last few hundred meters. _BUNG—! BU-BUNG—BOOM—!_ Cobalt and phosphorus flowers, the former possessed of purifying plasma of the smelting caskets, the latter the purifying heat of the Heart Forge, ate into the bone and sinew of the lanky Wyrmbats. As creatures of Negative Energy, they were paradoxically weak toward, yet resilient to heat, meaning a certain threshold had to be crossed. " _SKAARRRRRK!_ " The returned cries from the victims of Dwarven artillery were shrill threats tugging at Gwen's Astral Body, promising a measure of agony far worse than death. Lulan skewered the largest bat without blinking—only for the bat to continue its course without the slightest hint of discomfort until she expended the mana to "Shatter" her projectiles. Still, Gwen remained patient, forcing her molten-lead adrenaline to cool. She was a veteran now, and a veteran either acted with foresight or reacted with wisdom. Now wary, the flock that descended invaded the ship's resonating barrier, slowing their ascent as their cores shuddered under the influence of invisible arcane wavelengths. Those closest to the ship's bow coughed white ash as their Cores lost control of the latent energies, erupting into fantastic bursts of necrotic cloudbursts. Others, slipping through the expended barrier, opened up their throats to unleash torrents of what looked to be white-hot, corrosive flames. Richard and Petra immediately invoked their abjuring sorcery, diverting the destructive spray to the ship's side to eat into the dark slush. The ship's crew also opened up with Wands of various Elements, adding to the pyrotechnical display raging over the shimmering shell of the Royal Raven. Gwen watched the swirling cloud of bats, feeling the time was ripe. "Ariel— Maelstrom!" She allowed her conduits to conduct their magnificent choir, feeling more powerful than her pre-Auckland self. Bolstered by lightning and Almudj's Blessing, she tore the heavens asunder, inviting into the world a swirling vortex of blue-green lightning that quickly transformed into a kilometre-wide pancake hurricane. Those closest to the Maelstrom were sucked almost instantly into the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lightning. Others who fought to get away were castigated by lashing bolts of destructive electricity, whipped into submission and stunned by the sudden Positive Energy so that they could only be obediently carried off into the gaping gash Gwen made in the Prime Material. Yet, despite their incredible effort, the fortitude of the Wyrmbats, their red-hot charcoal eyes livid with madness, still pierced the ship's perimetre. Fighting off both resonance and destructive wards, dozens landed on the ship's deck or came close enough to scale the Royal Raven's tower and turrets to wreak havoc. There, they met Gwen's Faithful Hounds, together Commonwealth Mages armed with some of the most exorbitant implements HDMs could afford, and well-fed Shadow Mages from Manipur who threw themselves upon the creatures without fear. "Cali! Keep the Alpha away from the bridge castle!" Gwen called out, both eyes rapidly scanning her surroundings while her mind's eye drew a topographic map from Ariel's Link Sight. Her Familiar responded by bodily mounting the Alpha Wyrmbat. Compared to its brethren, this was a magnificent beastie with a white mane the colour of superheated flame with more Draconic features adorning its face than a bat's. Caliban's Big Bird guise crushed it against the castle's Wall of Force and clamped its maw around the creature's neck. The Wyrmbat's response was to crane its neck at an impossible angle to gnash Caliban's belly—only to be met with a maw-full of corrosive secretions. As both were Negatively-aligned beings, neither bat nor fiend seemed to show agony or passion, resulting in the strange spectacle of two beasts methodologically picking each other apart even as they fell from the ten-storey bridge. With a fantastic furore, the pair crashed, with the bat fighting through immunity to pain while Caliban's Big Bird fingers tore out its guts and innards. Compared to their leader, the other Wyrmbats had better luck. Having survived the shielding and the wards, they lunged at the artillery Golems, stopped only by the combined force of shadowy sinews from the Manipuri Mages and the bodily blockade of Gwen's Hounds. Where the Wyrmbats penetrated both, enormous destruction ensued, with the destroyed machinery burnt white by the smouldering ash. Even in the chaos, Gwen heard her over-inquisitive mind cry out in woe. For creatures of such absurd elemental purity to survive for long in the Prime Material, there was little doubt that the Elemental balance was shattered, and various portals akin to the Sea of Flames now dominated the landscape around Erebus' howling, flame-spewing lava lakes. "Zengraff Unit! Ejecting!" An orange Message spell blossomed. A Golem too close to the fray was caught by a Wyrmbat, who tore through the upper armour with brute strength and corrosive ash-tipped claws, leaving the pilot no choice but to pop the rear and make a haste retreat. Victorious, the Wyrmbat made a half-howl before Buck, Gwen's leading Familiar Hound, took it by the neck, holding it down for the six-odd seconds necessary for the skeletal bat to become engulfed by spellfire from a dozen Mages and surviving Golems. Each mature Wyrmbat, Gwen acknowledged, would have possessed enough of a challenge rating for the Mageocracy to field a Flight of seasoned Mages. Only thanks to their floating fortress—and the power of her Dwarven Iron Guards—could they repel the onslaught of these ashen monstrosities to achieve their next objective. _Ding! Ding! Ding!_ Blood red blossoms from her Message spells exploded beside her ear. "Magister Song! Captain Hanmoul! Hostile readings in the water! We may be surrounded! Prepare for maximum repulsion!" "Roger! Evaluating a breakthrough!" With her confirmation, Gwen sent a silent message to Lulan, informing her that her bodyguard should prioritise their Dwarven allies. Gwen took flight even as her torrent of spells continued, wielding Lightning Bolts on her right while her left hand completed the invocations for Void Bolt. With the ardour of a blazing Yue Bai, she leapt into the air to levitate above the Royal Raven. Unconsciously, she focused her Essence upon her eyes to compensate for the flashing light and dark. Below, where the ship was grinding through the soot ice, the black masses building up against the ship's exterior had come alive, sprouting limbs to scale the Royal Raven. Upon closer inspection, Gwen realised that it wasn't the soot that was alive. These were Mermen—dead ones with grey eyes and mouths full of green bile and brown scum, using their suctioned feet and slimy limbs to clamber up the smooth sides of the ship. _VREEEEEE—_ The thrum of the Dwarven-made Runes lit up the darkness with the pale glow of Abjuration, building to a brief crescendo. With a resounding _TWHACK—_ , the Walls of Force shuddered, retracting before expanding rapidly, throwing off the stowaways with such a violent force that they instantly disintegrated. Others were thrown dozens of meters from the ship to land back in the water or to roll across the choking wet soot. "Be wary, men! These are no ordinary Undead Mermen!" Charlene's warning blasted across the comms. "Earlier, we couldn't detect them because of the noise from the Elemental Ash! By her Grace. I haven't heard of the Ashen Undead in living memory! That category of Necromancy was a relic of the Great War!" As usual, Charlene was right. The Ash Wrights, Gwen recalled from her history lessons from Cambridge, involved rare Ash-aligned Mages who, in an attempt to stave away the death-apathy of Ash, steered their path of Spellcraft toward Necromancy. Assuming the caster could even survive the double burden of possessing both Ash and using magic derived from Negative Energy, these Flesh Grafters could create hordes of ravenous Undead with high resistance to Elemental Fire—the fundamental offensive magic in the war against Undeath. Buoyed by the flow of mana bloating her conduits, the same train of thought also brought the familiar face of her Uncle Jun to mind, filling her chest with sudden, desperate yearning. Uncle Jun, the _father_ she wished she had, a man whose back was broad enough for her to rest all her burdens, who also dabbled in Necromancy—or whatever the Song family's secretive magic could afford under the Communists. His was the creation of a Soul Well using the Kirin Amulet as a medium, acting as both filter and storage to stave away the worst aspects of Elemental Ash. With its blessing, he had survived the apathy of high-Affinity Ash, and those who benefited from her uncle's sacrifice had remained willingly ignorant. For a while, Gwen had been afraid that the other shoe would drop and "Captain Jun, Hero of the North", would suddenly become a pariah—though now, there was Ayxin to ensure that the CCP had nothing but praise for Jun. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. And then there's Percy. How was her brother doing? Would he, too, learn the Song's secretive art? Her sentimentality lasted only a few more seconds—enough to conjure Ayxin's flawless face mocking her mental weakness—then she was back in the heat and frigidity of lightning, ice, Void and the moaning Undead. "I'll purge the starboard flank!" She informed her troops as she looped to the right, cutting the cross-wind. "Keep an eye on the port!" Fracturing arches of electricity danced from her fingertips. Her mastery over the basic Lighting Bolt was now so complete that a token syllable was enough to complete both invocation and the circuit. With Ariel's growth, her Affinity for Lightning had also grown, allowing the power to flow from her hands with the natural ease of the conductor of an electric orchestra. The other Mages soon joined her efforts. Like old rust oxidised by raw plasma, sheets of Undead, roasted to cinders by lightning, fire and assorted arcanistry, fell from the Royal Raven's sides. The battle was going well—but Gwen knew as a veteran of an Undead campaign that longevity marked the measure of success against the un-living horde, not spell power. "Charlene, rest our men if able," she informed the crew, mindfully filling the power gap for those commanded to ease their use of high-tier spells. Taking a deep breath, she drew upon Caliban's stowed vitality, then opened up a new Maelstrom nearer the ship's forward passage. With the sound of shifting snow and soot, a two-hundred-meter-wide vortex opened, drawing all movable mass toward its all-consuming centre even as something tentacled and hungry sought to escape the tear to enter the Prime Material. A moment later, Gwen regretted the move. As a result of her spell, a revelation was made for what lay beneath the black snow. There weren't just thousands of the Undead Mermen, but hundreds of thousands, thick enough to form a blockade of bodies which would have impeded the passage of any ship lesser than a Cruiser Class breaker barge. To make matters worse, the island upon which the Undead rested was also moving. "KRAKEN!" Gwen gave the warning as soon as she spotted the lazily writhing limbs. Unlike the slick red of the Krakens from their voyage, these were stark and sickly, with mangled bits of rubbery meat and randomly placed sucker mouthes lining the tendrils. Quickly doing the maths in her head, Gwen chose to conserve her vitality. "Hanmoul! How are we looking?" She requested heavy artillery. "Charlene, I need help with the squid." "The flyers are THINNING, Lassie! Give us another cog-cycle, and we aught ta bring the big guns to bear _soon_!" " _Not soon enough!_ HARD TO STARBOARD!" To coordinate, Charlene gave the command. "Hanmoul—bring our reserve batteries online. Bertie—route the mana to the Golems! Don't let that thing grapple the ship!" The Royal Raven's internal mechanisms whirled, though Gwen was only vaguely aware of the mechanical changes below her. She instead rose into the air with a brilliant challenge for the Kraken and its murk-eyed Shoal of carcasses. Caught between the whirling bats going into a frenzy and the swarming Undead below, she was beginning to wonder if fighting further was a matter of the frying pan and the fire. "Ariel!" She gave her command the less, materialising her Kirin from its invisibility as Ariel's horns grew white-hot with Essence. The pair waited until the Kraken had turned enough of its body to bring its limbs to bear, revealing an eye as large as Gwen and Ariel stacked head to paw. If such a colossus could grab hold of the battle barge, the Royal Raven may ground to a halt—a fatal consequence, considering the sheer volume of rotten fish inundating the waters. Hardening her senses against the cognitive torment of borrowing the Rainbow Serpent's otherwordly power, she unleashed the castigation of one who did not like strangers. "BARBAGINY!" Twin streaks of Chain Lightning, her strongest spell, connected the distance between herself and the Kraken some two hundred meters away, turning the polluted ice-scape a brilliant emerald. Just as the bolts were about to strike, Gwen felt the incredible sensation of her attack slowing—seeing the light becoming warped by the innate resistance of the Kraken's magical Core. Then, like twin needles piercing through a veil, her spells slipped past the creature's Sea God-given protection against invasive elemental assaults, surging forward until both became volatile balls of trapped lightning. "Oh, dear…" Gwen instantly confirmed that the spell lacked the energy to jump to its secondary targets—but was attempting to expel its collated energies. Unsurprisingly, her anxious anticipation was backed by pings and needles from her Divination Sigil. "EVERYONE—BRACE!" She howled out her warning with a Clarion Call, knowing what happened the last time a Barbanginy was confined in a tiny space. The trapped spell on the Undead Kraken grew momentarily brilliant—and then burst with a thunderous roar, expelling its energies so violently that it drove the giant squid's body into a U shape, punching it back under the sea. The rippling shockwaves and superheated air were enough to dispel the soot and ice, shatter the ice sheets within several hundred meters and rock the Royal Raven as its gyroscopic stabilisers thrummed. As the shockwave passed, the shielding erected by the ship's Abjurers grew instantly white, then rapidly dimmed to reveal an enormous crater, around the edges of which decaying squid flesh by the tonnage lay splayed and spread like an exit wound. Still, the Kraken came on. "Alright, lads! Let 'em have it!" Hanmoul's fire order came without delay, sending a hundred streams of spellfire from the Royal Raven's starboard. Compared to the bustling Flights of Mages, the Dwarves had been focused almost entirely on keeping the circling swarm of Wyrmbats at bay. By now, the bats strong enough to penetrate the resonance shielding had already perished, while those who remained—some hundred or more—were either biding their opportunity or too wary of risking their Cores. Compared to the wholesale Purge of the Undead, their battle was a tug-of-war, see-sawing between the ranged assault of the Dwarven guns and the gobs of flaming ash that rained from the white-skinned skeleton bats. Using the momentary window, Hanmoul's Golems adjusted their Spellwords, with the lower implements sweeping the sea for Undead while their upper mounts continued to harass the darting Wyrmbats. Hundreds of eruptions exploded across the Kraken, driving it further into the water and leaving enormous tendrils, now severed, to linger on the surface like huge sea snakes. But as the creature was already "dead", it would be back. Even in victory, the Royal Raven had to keep its shield, speed, and breaker capabilities at certain expenditure rates to avoid the squid's death grapple. "How long has it been?" Wiping the sooty snow from her Raven mask, Gwen asked the aide from Charlene's command bridge. After that Barbanginy, even the Devourer had to take a breather. "Almost thirty minutes, Magister." Came the reply. "How are our men?" Gwen had felt like they were fighting for hours. "Lord Hanmoul reports sixteen disabled units, no fatalities. Our forces have twenty-four casualties, six with serious conditions. No fatalities. Mana levels are holding steady." "SHAA—!" "EE-EE!" Her Familiars also reported that they were in good condition, though without victims brimming with vitality, Caliban's long-term capability was of significant concern. "Continue pushing to our base camp, and keep our Diviners on the lookout for the Kraken." Charlene's command concurred with Gwen's anticipations. "Yes, Ma'am." "Gwen?" Chalene enquired. "How about you?" "I am fine." Gwen narrowly deflected a glob of ash fire with a double-glazed shield, then glided back into the thick of battle as Lulan took care of the offending Wyrmbat with three pairs of skewering Falling Star Swords. "Lulu, conserve your energy!" she scolded her bodyguard even as the sword blossomed into metal flowers, sending the bat plummeting downwards like a rock. "Keep your cool. I said I am fine." Her guard nodded, though Gwen suspected the battle-hardened Sword Mage might still fall under the spell of the berserker that came with her sorcery. Even with Ryxi's restoration of the lost arts, the fact that the magic was made for men—and that women were forbidden from its practice, did not change. The main difference now was that Lulan had access to the best healthcare HDMs could afford and a genuine instructor, a far cry from her battered past as a notched blade left to rust. The dead sea grew bright, and the starboard roared again, clearing whole swathes of slimy things from the deep. "The ice sheets are thinning. We're increasing our speed," Charlene told them through the communication device. "Our Diviners report that the Undead Mermen have limited mobility. We should be able to outrun the Shoal and wear them down from range." Gwen checked on her followers from Manipur, then checked in again with Hanmoul, Richard and Petra. "Then we hold the line!" She encouraged the others by releasing dozens of highly visible Ball Lightning to bombard their foe, tearing a literal hole in the cloud of swarming bats. "FORWARD UNTO EREBUS!" Six hours. Gwen was seriously beginning to see why mechanisation was such an explicit focus of the United States compared to the Mageocracy's preference for talented manpower. By the end of the second hour, even the rested veteran Mages were reporting to be on their alchemical limits, and even the noblemen officers from Charlene's corps lost their appetites. Richard had done marginally better thanks to Lea taking the brunt of the work, while Petra had been drawing energy from the Royal Raven's Core, supplemented by Dwarven Runes. Amazingly, Lulan's breathing techniques and Affinity were enough to keep up with Gwen. This fact made the Sword Mage even more worshipped among the starry-eyed Brits, who had already considered the Draconic Disciple exotic beyond comprehension. Then there were the tireless Dwarves, whose bodies and machines tired only when their Spellswords grew too hot. Even then, a maintenance crew in Golem Suits would emerge from the ship's belly, clank toward the units demanding replacements, and then mount and dismount their crystal matrix within minutes, allowing a refreshed rate of continuous fire for several more hours. True to Charlene's anticipations, the Undead were numerous, but the ice sheets around Erebus's island shelf were also vast beyond comprehension. In theory, the Ashen Undead drew sustenance from the Negative Energy of Ash—meaning there was a limitation to the range and scope of their operations. The furtherer way from Erebus' burning ash lakes, the Elemental Flame gave way to water and ice, growing increasingly hostile to creatures "out of their Element". Thankfully, true to the textbooks, the Wyrmbats gave up their pursuit once the Royal Raven fled some twenty nautical miles from where they first encountered resistance, skirting around the lava side of Erebus for the western fringe of the mountain's slope. As soon as the Wyrmbats lost sufficient motivation to pursue, the Undead rapidly thinned, leaving only the Kraken to trail them for the next dozen nautical mile until it grew too languished to continue its harassment of the Royal Raven. When finally, only the plinking of hot mana engines rapidly cooling against the dark, sooty ice remained, the ship entered a fatigued calm. "How long until we reach our waypoint in Sector Three?" Gwen, still on patrol, enquired from their Navigator, the kudos-accruing Viscount Able Burton. "And any signs of the Grove of Illhîweth? If it's anything like Tryfan, it should have a signature like a perpetually falling meteor." "Nothing on the Divination charts, Magister," the man replied through the comms. "We're adjusting our course according to your Divination Orb." Gwen once again touched a finger to the Ilias Leaf, affirming her singular desire to meet and speak with the Frost Flower of Illhîweth. Ever since the Fire Sea, she had deeply suspected the Elementals had something substantial planned, with or without the help of Spectre—and now her suspicion was affirmed by what she saw. At the same time, Gwen didn't know how grand such an "elemental shift of the Planes " really was. On paper, the unreliable map of Meister Shackleton boasted that Antarctica was five thousand kilometres across, meaning that the ice sheets exceeded an albatross' flight from Santiago to Nova Scotia. Even if Erebus painted five hundred kilometres of ice black with soot—would that _truly_ destabilise the Planar Pillars of the Spiritus Mundi? That was the _scepticism_ almost every scholar of her present world shared. But then again, she was a child from a world where even the tiniest degree of change had sown unfathomable destruction, from hurricanes to floods to droughts to super-sized forest fires. For this world—a freakish hurricane on the Florida coast might knock out enough Shielding Stations for the trading stations to fall to the reptilian Theocracies of the Everglades. A longer and stronger Moonsoon might awaken more Elemental monstrosities than Human cities like Bangkok or Kolkata were equipped to handle. Long-standing alliances built on balance, such as the Israelites and their precarious neighbours, might fall into sudden chaos if crops fail and the Jackal tribes' numbers swell or burst with the ensuing civil wars. Humanity, the Mageocracy, and their Kingdoms were like fragile porcelain, full of cracks constantly mended by hand, stopping just enough water from seeping that the entire vessel remained filled and whole. And finally, another dread loomed over her with the weight of the perpetual dusk hanging over the Royal Raven's bow. As an accountant, her wonderment at what they've accomplished as explorers and saviours was compromised by the grim knowledge that the Dwarves were firing solid chunks of HDMs and that the ship was burning HDMs. They had used enough funds in six hours to offer Blackwattle full scholarships for every student for the next hundred years. There were enough materials expended, both precious and mundane, to build a skyscraper to rival her best on the Isle of Dogs. Their expenditure was enough for Auckland Tower to defend itself against the Shoal for a week. She knew the costs well before the trip, but a reflexive, cynical part of her had to ask. _Where was the profit?_ And without profit—even if she were to rescue the world today— _how could she motivate the world to save itself tomorrow?_

"LAND AHOY—!" Gwen rested her arms on the poop's rails, flanked by their reticent officers, a contemplative Hamoul, and her patient companions. After a moment's thought, she requested clarification from the very embarrassed Marley, their talented Diviner, inexperienced sailor. "Do you mean land-ho? But we're surrounded by soot, slush and darkness. What's there to _ho_?" "It isn't visible in this eternal dusk, but there's solid ground yonder," Bertie, their navigator, spoke while holding a handkerchief to his nose, one enchanted to dispel loathsome smells, such as the stink of perpetual death lingering over every inch of the once-snowscape. "The cove we're in now is Shackleton's Rest, where presumably the Endurance was trapped. We'll suffer the same once the dead of winter arrives, though we're far better provisioned, and our ship, not the wilderness, will be our supply base." Gwen reassuringly allowed her memory to sweep over the multi-ton rations of SPAM in the cargo hold and knew that her crewmen were spared from finding food in this land of fresh Undeath. Presently, she was overseeing the landing itself. Charlene, who had left them earlier to check the manifests, was far too busy a woman to make talk with the combat crew. As the expedition's commander, her duties were tiresome and unending, making Gwen glad for the delegation of responsibility. "Marley, how's it looking out there?" Gwen asked after their Diviner again. Beside her, as an eager bumble bee, Ruxin's Omniscient Orb hovered toward the east, egging her onward. "The mana signature is extremely polluted," their Diviner replied after drawing a series of mid-air incantations visible only to herself. "However, the orb seems to have the right direction, as triangulating my predictions against Bertie's chart, I'd confidently say that way lies woe—and thus the Pillar Grove of Illhîweth." "Good enough." Gwen nodded. "Alright then. Per our discussion on the bridge, I shall take Magus Huang and Lulu and venture out to find Illhîweth. We need to make contact as soon as possible." "Acknowledged, Magister. Meanwhile, Commander Ravenport and our allies will set up a beachhead and initiate a deep probe of the region," the Diviner replied, mindful that their Dwarven ally was also surveying the land with a critical eye. "I'll send Kuznetsova and Harrington to man the Divination Tower. We will need to test the effective range of our mobile towers and where to deploy them if we are to create a viable defence matrix. Master Hanmoul, is there anything I've missed?" "Aye, the lads will need ta build the base ON the bedrock fer the Fabricator to draw mana," the Dwarven Iron Guard reminded the humans. "Bring her a-ground, Mister Navigator. We'll break the ice and nest her right and proper, then offload the Golems and establish a perimeter." "Right you are, Master Hanmoul," Bertie promised with a bow of his head. "Will you leave now?" "I shall." "And a final reminder for your Flight, Magister." Marley tapped her rings to remind Gwen and the others. "This far from the Commonwealth Towers, your Contingency Rings will only bring you back to the ship. Until we can safely broadcast the Divination signals, there will likely be delays or an outright failure if you are caught in a Pocket Dimension. So please be very careful." "We will," Gwen assured them by lifting into the air. "Lulu? Richard? Are your mana levels sufficiently recovered?" "Yes, Magister!" Lulan snapped to attention. After discarding her Ash-eaten combat robe, her new garb was one of Charlene's gifts, a light combat garb that marked the best London's Enchanters had to offer. Her cousin also responded with a snappy salute, with Lea mirroring her Summoner's action. "Marley, inform Magus Kutznetsova that we're ready and that I would like her assistance in bringing Golos," Gwen finalised another minute the crew had marked on their final meeting. If they were to intrude upon the land of both the Dragon _Illaelitharian_ and _Illhîwenthiel's_ Enclave, it was probably safer to have representatives that could speak for both. Golos was close enough to Draconic royalty that the Frost Wyrm would give six seconds of consideration before nixing the Yinglong's toddler, enough for her to whip out the Ilias Leaf. "After that… then let's hope there's an end to this ash and dust..." East of Erebus, Gwen's team meandered in the limbless dark with only sparks shed from Golos' passage lighting up the perpetual dusk like a prison's searchlight. "Should I be worried," Richard asked while trailing behind the wind-breaking Wyvern. "That the air is temperate here? Quite nice for early winter in the Antarctic." "We are travelling TOWARD the dome of Erebus." Lulan gave her two yuan. "So it goes to reason that it's warmer, yes? The close we get to the fire, the hotter it becomes." "I don't think that's how it works if we're also flying toward the Seat of Frost, my dearest bludgeon." Richard's perchance for turning to humour to hide his dismay was on full display. "The Grove is meant to keep the Elemental Fire subdued and repressed, so we are undoubtedly travelling into interesting times." "Yeah, there was nothing like this in the journals of Shackleton," Gwen informed them. "Erebus is a naturally occurring phenomenon, a balancing force of the Prime Material. Usually, it's a node of flame set against an entire region of Elemental Ice. Assuming it's been like this for months or more, this climate is unquestionably out of season and out of the norm. Usually, there should be permafrost." "Permafrost?" Lulan drifted closer. "Permanently frozen ground," Gwen pointed out the obvious by sweeping her hand over the darkness, where they could spy strange rockeries and slushy streams. "Nothing here is natural. All of this shouldn't be visible if ice is filling the gaps and snow is capping the ice. I mean, do you think it's supposed to be this dark? Even Gogo is feeling the challenge." "Calamity, cease speaking in tongues," Golos complained from below. "Why is it so dark? Is it sorcery? I can see very well even when it's lightless and stormy." "Usually, Radiance reflects from snow," Gwen explained simply so that the avatar of brute strength could understand. "Even a smidgen of light, once refracted, makes the perpetual dusk possible for low-light navigation. With the snow gone, and the soot we see everywhere, there's no refraction or reflection. That's why we're travelling through this blackness, even though there's starlight—" "—Hush! We've foes!" Golos hissed, banking to the right so sharply that Gwen and her crew almost ran into the turning Wyvern. "I smell birds…" Compared to their compromised vision, Golos' mana-scenting nose proved a far more capable radar. Within a minute, the slow hovering crew saw the approach of a trio of flaming avians, first as embers, then as flapping fireflies tossed against a matt black screen. Gwen squinted. "Looks like Ember Rocs, the pure fire variant. Patrols, you think? Or would this be a genuinely random encounter?" "Either way, we can't hide." Richard cocked a thumb toward Golos. "There's no cover and hardly enough Elemental Ice for me to form a membrane that'll convincingly camouflage all of us. Even if we detour, neither you nor Golo can achieve velocity AND subtlety." Six swords materialised beside Lulan, each an enormous, rotating skewer. "No need for subtlety—I shall lure them toward us." Golos grinned cruelly, likely drooling at the prospect of pruning the pretty feathers from the Roc's breasts. Though her understanding remained vague, Gwen knew that most _Big Birds_ and the Dragonkin were competitors from before Men, hence her Wyvern's eagerness. "We can't let them escape or return to their nests." "Agreed… Caliban!" Gwen called forth her lightless fiend in its Da-peng form. As for Ariel, the Kirin was far too conspicuous a creature for an ambush. "Cali, hide… and strike when Golos gives the signal." "SHAA—!" Caliban dutifully tucked its white-fingered claws back into its feathered underbody, making it near-invisible thanks to Golos' eye-catching juxtaposition. "And remember, Gogo," Gwen gave another piece of advice in case Golos lost himself in the passion. "We need their Cores intact." With three Roc Cores safely nestled in the bellies of Golos and Caliban, the group travelled east for another hour, following the directions of the Omni-orb before it slowed to a halt—then steered northward. "Are we too late?" Richard's eyes followed the orb. "It would be a shame if we arrived to find a stump." "Not to worry, Dick," Gwen mentally commanded Golos to adjust his course. "From what I've seen from Almudj, a Great Tree can be felled, but the effort and time required are usually measured in centuries. Likewise, since Illhîweth is well-rooted and native to the Seat of Frost, our invaders require immense volumes of mana to thrive against the push from its role as a Planar Pillar." "Meaning—" Richard followed without question but not without curiosity. "The thing you proposed back in March?" "Yes, I truly believe our allies—either the Dragon Illaelitharian or Lady Illhîwenthiel—are suffering but safe. Back in Cambridge, the faculty and I theorised that the battles for Elemental preeminence in both the north and south should have reached an existential equilibrium—assuming my suspicions of a dual-pole Elemental invasion are correct. Tipping said scales further would require magnitudes more power and mana than unfriendly Elementals can afford to bring to the south. That's the rationale behind our expedition and its overabundance of firepower—to tip that balance in the right direction." "I don't understand," her soldierly Swordmage confessed to her incomprehension of the macrocosmic consequences of exploding birds with metal shards. "But I know that whenever Dragons are involved, the landscape changes." "And in our case, a Dragon is likely soaking up the damage to both itself AND the landscape," Gwen hypothesised. "But we'll find out soon, I wager… Yes, Gogo? What's wrong?" "Calamity, I think we have arrived… I can smell it." Golos slowed to a crawl. "The stench has grown. AND I dare say it's alive." "What's alive?" Gwen touched the tips of her fingers to her rebreather. The Dwarven design was extremely robust in dispelling the various gasses and stenches of the underground caverns, equally viable for sulphurous lava as it was for toxic methane. "Can you not smell our foe's hostility?" The Wyvern mocked her. "How foolish to abandon one of the five senses to your _Magitech_! Do you not know that our Draconic body is impervious to mortal perils?" Seeing sense in her Wyvern's unusual wisdom, Gwen depressed a button on her head unit and allowed one of the filtration capsules to pop. In the next moment, she was nearly balled over by something akin to concentrated Surströmming collated in a pot and slowly simmered by warming weather until every microbe and bacteria participated in an orgy of stench. "DON'T—Dear God—Don't REMOVE your masks!" She quickly replaced the filtration tablet, then sternly admonished her Wyvern. "Gogo, that was deliberate, wasn't it?" The Wyvern's cackle indicated it knew what it had done. Ignoring her admonition, her Wyvern replied by condensing the circulating lightning around itself into a Daylight Orb. Gwen saw and knew then that they did indeed arrive. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Thanks to Golos' disembodied, frazzling bulb, they could now make out the landscape below and a little more in the distance. Only a few hundred meters away, a shadowy forest of fumaroles began. Without the snow cover, Gwen found it difficult to encapsulate what she saw. From the ghostly silhouettes in the dark, the _Grove_ seemed an utterly alien landscape, constructed not of trees but enormous calcite deposits, some hundreds of meters tall and so wide that the skyscrapers she had financed on the Isle of Dogs felt miniscule. A forest of ice? Or perhaps, a stone forest, now uncovered? But where were the trees? The famous Rime Oaks promised by Shackleton? Whatever had once thrived was now at the mercy of the Negative Energy oil slick that permeated the base of every "construct". "Golos, can you sense Illhîweth?" she asked her Wyvern as they glided closer. "Also, is anything down there… alive in the animated sense?" What Gwen referred to, now that they were close enough to feel the clammy cling of rot and decay like wet fingers clambering upon their Positively-aligned souls, was the liquified bodies. _A hundred thousand carcasses?_ A _million_ cadavers? It was impossible to tell, for the warming air had stripped scale from skin and flesh from bone, creating something of a dark, putrid soup congealed into a dead-fish jelly lake. Countless eyes, their glassy membranes still intact but their pupils white or vomit-green, refracted the pulsing light from Golos' light sphere, animating the dead. "I sense hostility." Golos' perception navigated the impossible mass with ease, making Gwen glad. "I could Lightning Breath a path and see what hails us." "No, no." Gwen swallowed. "Don't do that. Knowing our encounters on the sea, I have a good inkling there's probably something large and tentacled hiding in all that muck." "There must be a whole Shoal here…" Lulan repositioned her iron slabs to act as shield and sword. "A GREAT SHOAL," Richard considered the scene. Lea, a creature of water and life, hugged her Master tightly, loathing the death below but unwilling to leave her Summoner alone. "Assuming the thickness of a single storey—likely more—there are as many Mermen down there as there were in Auckland, if not more." "How did they all get here?" Lulan asked. "Mermen can't travel far from the water. Nor survive the ice." "Necromancy, of course." Richard pointed toward what seemed like a small island making up the upper body of a mountainous turtle creature. "Someone transported them here… Maybe an ancient Juche Summoner?" "According to my Master's notes." Gwen had been pondering the same thing. "Even Lich-like Necromancers muster no more than a dozen elite companions, paired with a hundred or more disposable troops and thousands of temporary fodder. What's here looks like the work of a conspiracy of Necromancers, with the sole purpose of polluting the land with Negative Energy." "Aye, it's not easy—but it IS a common enough tactic," Richard explained to their vanguard, whose education of history under the CCP was limited by magnitudes. "The fallow land fuels the generation of more powerful Undead. During the Great War, the first sign of an Undead incursion was the zombie waves, whose remains would turn the land into putrid fields of Undeath to support the awaiting army of skeletons and Death Knights. The "No-Man's Land," as the popular vernacular went, both demoralised us and made our ground operations impossible, while Undead forces were both energised and bolstered. It was a perfect stratagem." "How did the Mageocracy win against such a force?" Lulan enquired, likely pondering what her swords could do against such a wall of unfeeling flesh. "The Mageocracy hunted the Necromancers with Hunter Killer Flights." Richard grinned. "I am not sure these isolated Elves know to clean up after every battle..." Gwen pointed out a presumed naivety of the Frost Elves. "Which could be why this disquieting aftermath is still here and why it's so… richly laid out." "True enough," Richard concurred with a smirk. "Necromancy is, after all, the most capable of magics. Don't you agree?" Rather than replying, Gwen urged her Wyvern forward, ignoring the slithering something below, trying to bait their curiosity. "How much further do you think this stone forest will go?" Lulan asked a little timidly. "No idea." Gwen pondered with some seriousness. "Which is why we need to keep Ruxin's Orb handy. Once we're in deep, it's safe to assume we'll be no longer entirely in the Prime Material." It wasn't often that Gwen felt validated—though this time, she would have preferred to err. There _was_ a reason why the atmosphere outside was so supernaturally calm, and that was because, like Tryfan, the _true_ Grove of Illhîweth did not begin until an hour's flight into a Planar Distortion. At first, Gwen was sure they were trapped within the spatial folds of some strange dimension, for their Message devices were all dead, and her Divination clued nothing to indicate weal or woe. Even Golos, who could navigate by instinct, felt disorientated and confused. Yet, Ruxin's orb triumphed—conceivably, its operations fed on principles far more mystical than instinct and thus directed them in zig-zags until, like a pin piercing a veil, the foursome emerged into the fable snowscape of Illhîweth. "My god…" Gwen held her breath as the fabrics aligning the Planar tapestry unwrinkled, turning dusk to dawn. "Lea, cover us with a refraction barrier. Make sure we're invisible," Richard instructed Lea to shield the party as they adjusted to their shaken mental state. "Well, well. You've found your tree, Boss. It _is_ happening just as you predicted. How about _that_ , eh? _"_ The _that_ which Richard referred to with feigned nonchalance was the very thing stealing the hope from Gwen's gaping lips. Ahead, in the uncertain, immeasurable distance, rose the gnarly visage of the Great Tree of Illhîweth, an enormous fumarole enchased in crystalline ice, branching out at the highest peak into a semi-dome display of sparkling, translucent, surreal magnificence. And around the base of this immeasurable pillar of Para-Elemental Ice slept the great serpent Illaelitharian, the Ice Wyrm of Illhîweth, its body somehow coiling around the circumference of the tree, forming a protective barrier against the putrid forces laying siege. A besieged World Tree—Gwen's heart shuddered with horror. As a Mage of tenure, Gwen had seen plenty of spectacles by her twentieth year. Yet, the notion that something akin to a Pillar of the Spiritus Mundi could be _sieged_ was as novel a notion as seeing Illhîweth itself. With her Essence-enhanced eyes, she could make out the milling-millions—whole cohorts of half-frozen bodies, some moving, some still as statues, roving across the disturbed fumarole pillars to clamber upon the torso of the Great Wyrm, which laid still as the landscape. Great gashes were visible upon the magnificent creature's elongated length, for many of its sleek segments were besotted with craters of smoking flesh like dormant volcanos, around which the ice-white scales had turned green-black with disease and rot. From these festering sores, Gwen's learned eyes saw the seeping signs of a Necromancy that drained not only vitality but diminished the Dragon's Essence. It wasn't her Master's sorcery—but she had seen it performed first hand, many years ago, in a more innocent time when all she wanted was to escape poverty and mediocrity. It was the Necromancy used on Almudj's Egg, or at least, possessed the same potent purpose and design. Below the unmoving Wyrm, she could spy with her eyes the marshalled Rime Wardens of the tree, few in number but superior in prowess, sweeping away the encroaching tide with Elemental sorcery beyond the ken of Humanity. True to Shackleton's memoirs, the majority were the male spider-Centaurs exercising destruction through their upper arms and fore-limbs, slashing and tearing through the Undead Tide, perhaps searching for the Masters of the foetid horde. As for their tools of war, Gwen noted that many wielded complex sculptures of ice that were half-glaive, half-bow, capable of both close and ranged combat—with a capability no less than Hanmoul's Golems. Comparatively, the female Elves were few and dispersed, hovering over their glaive-wielding guardians. These Rime Witches reminded Gwen of Solana, for they shared the same air of effortless grace, their svelte figures stark white and wreathed with frost as they hindered the tide. Whatever assailed these maidens of frost were instantly slowed and frozen solid or were blown apart by unseens tendrils of wind that seemed to fill their surroundings, visible only by the dark ichor. From their vantage near the edge of the Pocket Plane, Gwen could see tracts—enormous furrows and burrows carved by some unknown arcane force, criss-crossing the root-scape of the World Tree as valley-sized scars. Cobalt sap froze into jiggered shards of eldritch ice where the cuts were still fresh. Other sections, long worn or repeatedly assailed, had turned dark and sodden, with the trunk becoming spongy, puffed like stubborn mould. Closer to where the Frost Wyrm Illhîwenthiel laid, a solid carpet of diced Mermen spread in every direction. In the parlance of Gwen's urban-minded observation, if the Great Tree itself were a city's glimmering Tower and Illhîwenthiel its glittering suburbia, then the Undead were a solid, multi-kilometre band of slums, abandoned and neglected until the sewers overflowed and streets turned to rot. "By the Nazarene, for how long have they been fighting?" Richard inhaled a breath of frigid air. "Weeks, perhaps a month or more, from the looks of those wounds in the tree. The worst of it seems over, though." Gwen took in their new circumstances with a learned eye from the Fire Sea. "Whatever made Illaelitharian into that state is thankfully spent—else they would have toppled the tree's defences long ago and invaded its inner roots. What we're seeing, I am guessing, would be the equilibrium—meant to keep the tree from recovering and the weather patterns of the Prime Material off-skelter for the next phase of their operations." "Gwen, are we going to help them?" Lulan's voice came across their localised Comm-devices. "Without support from Master Hanmoul, I cannot condone committing our limited forces." Below them, a deeply disgruntled Wyvern made a disapproving snort. "Nonsense! Calamity, as a fellow Drake, we ought to attack!" Much to Gwen's surprise, Golos's tone lacked its usual flippancy. "What's happening here isn't fighting among ourselves to strengthen our flights. We need to put an end to this calamity. As Ryxi's pet, you should know better." For a few brief breaths, all felt Lulan's Elemental Iron flare red-hot. "I concur—BUT—" Richard cut in before Lulan proved herself by dashing forward with a berserker howl. "But let's also acknowledge that we're in no rush. The Necromancers down there are human. _We're human._ They're Mages, more or less. _We're Mages_ —if we rush into to aid the Elves, how do we present ourselves as allies? Gwen's magic is hardly... aesthetic. Nor is Caliban. Did you see that Warden with four arms? That damned thing burst a Corpse Hulk at a thousand paces with his centaur bow. And those Rime Wardens are throwing Hail Strikes like Magic Missiles!" Gwen could not deny that, as wondrous as it would be to ride into the siege like the Riders of Rohan, carving their way through the Necromancer's blockade of the tree, this wasn't Gondor, and they were not the Elves' friends, and she wasn't Gandalf. But she also knew what to do. With an understanding as natural as photosynthesis, prompted by the flawless face of Solana nodding in approval from a Plane away, Gwen's fingers wandered to her breast. Deftly, she retrieved the Ilias Leaf, removed both her gauntlets and then held the eternally vibrant Elven device against the flesh of her palm. With all her concentration, she bathed the leaf with Almudj's Essence while focusing her mind on transmitting the scene below, relaying every ounce of horror and every mote of urgency. Before she had even finished, the Ilias Leaf pulsed in turn, speaking clearly and with utter clarity as though it knew it precise second she would call. "Take the seeds…" the declaration came. "…Plant them where the land still thrives. The woes of the Hvítálfar... should be solved by the Hvítálfar." In her hands, the Ilias Leaf grew bulbous, as though the hundreds of seeds within were sorting themselves into regimented order. When she tipped the leaf pocket's opening against her palm, two pods, each bulging at the seams with seed, slid from the slick folds. " _This time, My dearest Child of Kilroy._ " the impressionistic vision of the Bloom in White flashed against her frontal lobe, making Gwen feel as though the woman was a Force Ghost. She also sensed a smidgen of mischievousness in Solana's tone, even if the overall message had an air of command. " _Do not impede the tree's growth, else you would truly upset our rarely impatient Arch-Warden Eldrin._ " "I shall," Gwen acknowledged her next task. She wondered at Solana's prophesy but also knew that this much interference was already beyond the scope of Tryfan's Credo, the consequences of which were only acceptable because to do nothing would be more catastrophic. "And just you know, it was neither cheap nor easy getting here..." What answered her was Solana's emotionless, polite mirth, then silence. The leaf was replaced. The gauntlets were slipped back on. The seeds sat in the palm of her glove. She met Richard's smirk with dignity. "So… The Elves simply lacked the means to migrate from Tryfan to The Grove of Illhîweth." Richard touched a thoughtful finger to his chin. "I guess they knew we would get here?" "You guessed correctly." Gwen felt used, but to stymy whatever the Necromancers, Spectre and the Elements planned, she was willing to fund a multi-million HDM blackhole. Whatever the case, she hoped the world would be a little more united after news of it hits The METRO's front page. "You're right, of course. We're merely couriers of Tryfan's will. But… you know what?" "Go on?" Her cousin appeared keen to see how she'd react to her latest indignity. "International freight, my dear Dick," Gwen spoke as she rolled the seeds back and forth between her fingers, calmer now that the solution to her sunk cost AND the Great Tree was on hand. "Is calculated by weight and distance! After which, compounded with labour costs, shall make for an _extensive_ invoice."

True to her promise to the Bloom in White, Gwen allowed no rats to gnaw Tryfan's magical beanstalk. Under the shelter of Lea's invisibility membrane, the foursome landed away from their entry point, found a fumarole where snow and ice remained clear, and then dug into what was left of the permafrost. Ten seconds later, tired of the almost impossible progress, Golos tore the earth a new one with his mace-tail, excavating the icy calcite until finally, something akin to soil emerged. Gwen tossed a pod in each ditch. The seedlings proved beyond eager, for the second they kissed the virgin soil, roots as thick as Gwen's arms sprouted from seeds no larger than her thumbnail, growing so fast that she and the other had to vacate the vicinity. Up and up, the trellises climbed, effortlessly finding purchase in the air, forming the foundation, inscription and gate in a long-drawn, spontaneous burst of fecundity. The Trellis Portal, the same phenomenon she had witnessed in the Fire Sea, soon built a monolith in the linen snow. One by one, the vine-wrought inscriptions thrummed with vital mana, flooding the surrounding space with a sudden onset of spring, melting the slush and cleansing the foetid air. Like the spiral shell of a snail, the entwining bowers unfurled, rending geometry and space as they blossomed outwards, reaching higher as ambitious brown fingers until, from every knot and cuticle, white flowers burst into being. "Gardenias?" Gwen's nose wrinkled as she decoupled her mask to take in the thankful scent of life. "How very English countryside." "I am hungry." Golos, whose element was bolstered by Positive Energy, eyed the dew-dripping Trellis Gate. "Is Hierophant Sanari joining us? I like her scent. _Hee-hee._ " Lulan, seeing that Golos was her Master-Uncle, said nothing of their Drake's impertinence. Richard, however, cracked an off-colour joke to steer the Wyvern's interest. A dozen breaths later, a humanoid warrior emerged from the shade of the flowering bower. Arch-Warden Eldrin, beetle-black since the dawn of the World Tree's first blush, hovered across the muddy snowmelt, held aloft by currents of unseen mana. Without regard, the man pierced Lea's veil, his golden eyes drinking in the traumatic scene of Illhîweth's abuse. " _Necromancy…_ " the Warden spoke the Elven word for Humanity's unique magic in the same tone Gwen would swear after a bad day of stock trades. " _Will the blight brought by your kind never end?_ " "… Is he talking to me?" Gwen spoke to Richard, who was closest to her. "I don't see any other Necromancers around here…" her cousin joked. "A true Calamity." Golos, as usual, delighted in Gwen's awkward self-awareness. The next row of Wardens to emerge from the Trellis portal were more akin to the army Gwen had in mind. Row upon rows of Elves, each clad in their scarab-shell carapaces, looking near identical in their shimmer garbs. These came on quickly. Within minutes, she counted seventy-odd of the professed pruners of the World Tree. Curiously, despite the petrol-sheen colouration of their plates, Gwen could distinctly feel the unique mana of the Prime and Para Elementals among the men. "Elementalists." Richard's face was pink from the excitement of seeing a scene recorded only in history books. "They're all Elementalists…" "And their mana is at least at the tier of Magisters." Lulan, as well, was enjoying the stickybeaking. "Seventy-two Magisters through a single Portal… that'll drive the CCP up the wall." "Oh, they're far more capable than our so-called Magisters." Richard pointed to the implements strapped to the Warden's bodies. Some had wands carved from the branches of Tryfan's World Tree. Others had insectile implements that resembled glaives and curved swords, many as long as their already elongated bodies. "What's the chance one of our Magisters could take on one of theirs in ranged or close combat?" "I want to fight one," Lulan professed. "You can ask Eldrin to spare a body to satiate our curiosity," the Water Mage joked. "Call it a cultural exchange program." "Oh— There's Sanari!" Gwen interjected when finally, another familiar face emerged. Unlike her usual, gossamer-attired self, the Druidic Hierophant wore a dour leather mantle with highlights in the colours of autumn. Two more women followed, their long limbs aesthetic and svelte, their faces serene, until one's gaze met the unfeeling reflection of their jewel-scarab pupils, looking upon the world with haughty apathy. _Sanari… as the junior of the trio?_ Gwen's mind mulled over the scene of the emerging women in what must be Tryfan's druidic battledress. If her friend followed the others as a Hierophant of the Sixth Circle under Arch-Druid Isilynor, what marked the others' seniority? With Elves, it was never as simple as looking for the wrinkles of experience—for all were ageless and expressionless. Nor did their uniforms offer distinctions of rank since all Elves cycled their duties over the aeons. An Inscriber might have been an Arch Warden; a Hierophant of yesteryear might be a senior cultivator of Ilias Leaves. Whatever the case, the Elves were wasting no time in making good their promise of a resolution. Even as the elemental commotion of spring in their corner of Illhîweth exposed their position, Sanari and her triplet sisters strode on sprouting carpets of flowering clover, turning the land underfoot into the same biome Gwen had experienced in Wales. As she passed, the Druid nodded an acknowledgement of thanks, to which Gwen answered with a wave. "How do you think they'll fight the Undead?" Richard pssst to her. "Regular magic isn't going to fare much better than what the Snow Elves are doing." "Not sure…" Lulan appeared torn between awe and jealousy as the ageless women glided past. "But we'll be seeing it first hand in a moment." In the distance, dozens of black silhouettes rose into the air, wreathed in viscous miasma, some skeletal, others dripping flesh from bone. These, Gwen could see, would be the recently "risen" Draconids spawned originally by the Frost Wyrm Illaelitharian, now converted by the sword to the forces of Undeath. Their prowess, Gwen suspected, was likely bolstered by the necrotic river swamping the space outside Illhîwenthiel's Pocket Plane domain, the source of the Necromancers' confidence against the Southern Seat of Frost. The cabal of Druids paid no need to the approaching threats, allowing their Wardens to fan out into arcane positions in a wide semi-circle radius. Sanari, the "youngest," coaxed an elongated root from the Trellis portal to distend around her feet, penetrate the weakened permafrost, and expand into a mystic-looking vessel akin to a Grecian urn. The Wardens, meanwhile, casually took up positions both on the ground and in the air, seemingly preoccupied only with their secret work and not the impending threat of what looked like a mishmash of Wyverns and Drakes, including one specimen as large as Golos itself. “Calamity… should we…” Golos' battle blood was up. "Hold your position," Gwen gave her command. "If Eldrin wanted our help, they would have asked for a quote. Let's hang back and look for where the Necromancers might be holed up. If anything… I have an idea of how we will deal with those pits of necrotic energy the Undead are swarming around..." From the fight given by the Frost Elves, Gwen had deduced that the Rime Wardens weren't at all experienced in fighting the Undead. Their main focus was on rebuffing—or incapacitating the Mermen, which eventually allowed the battlefield miasma to revive the bits and pieces still glued enough to crawl, creep, or slither back to the trench pits dug by the Undead. These "Corpse Pits", Gwen could see, were something akin to battlefield waypoints for the Necromancers, nodes where their sorcery could be channelled, where their minions could recombobulate. Assailing one was both tedious and hard-won, for the density of collated Undeath was magnitudes higher than on the open field, reminding Gwen of Shielding Stations both in their tenacity and near-imperviousness. Closer to home, the battle between the intercepting aerial forces of the Necromancers and the scions of Tryfan erupted as spectacularly as Erebus. With a cohesion that would make the Royal Griffin Knights blush for shame, the Wardens drew their bows, woven into place strings of elemental sorcery, then unleashed their rebuke of Undeath. From a range of over two kilometres, Eldrin's warrior-peers wove spells of Elemental Air, Ice and Lightning, some even tapping into the pure force of Positive Energy, to discharge a barrage that would make Hanmoul quake in his armoured boots. As an uninterrupted orison, the released bolts from the Tryfanian bows materialised a hailing cloud of shrieking, screaming spell bolts, each racing its neighbour as their heading magically adjusted to the will of the caster. When the volley reached the climax of their crested arch, the Frost Arrows erupted, transforming into seeking streams of elemental destruction. These were followed by the thunderous howling of rapidly discharging Lightning, scattering among the Undead Drakes as rampaging masses of ball lightning. Those that survived suffered the most indignant defeat, for the invisible Gale Arrows, capable of puncturing Golem Plating, were one of Tryfan's more infamous exports. Caught unaware, spontaneous orifices with exit wounds the size of car tires opened up where chitin had fallen away or where the membranes of wings and sinew were unprotected. Lulan's blood was boiling. "Damn… they tore them to shreds." Golos nodded, nudging the girl's shoulder thoughtfully with his spikey chin, perhaps putting himself in the Undead's place. "… _To shreds_." Gwen, comparatively, was more cognisant of the magic now brought to life by Sanari and her sisters. Utilising Tryfan's lifeforce, the trio concocted something unimaginable to mortal eyes, detectable only by those who had experienced the majesty of a Land God like Almudj. Sensing the raw, vital elixir pool in the vine-wrought receptacle the Druids had coaxed into place, Gwen felt goosebumps all over her skin. _Surely they're not thinking of conjuring Tyfanevius?_ Her mind reeled at seeing an ancient Wyrm, potentially as ancient as Almudj, manifest on the other side of the world. She wasn't sure what consequences such an occurrence might bring, though the Beast Tide of the Seventies, attributed to Vynssarion the Black, came to mind. Whatever was brewing inside that vessel—Gwen understood instinctively—was something anathema to her particular constitution, especially toward Caliban. " _Timeless Tyfanevius!_ " the deep, resonant voice of Eldrin addressed the vessel held between the three Druids. " _Unnatural befoulment, O'Lord protector of the Waking Realm, has pervaded these sacred Groves of Illhîweth. We who art the Tree's children beseech thee, bring back balance!_ " Eldrin's ceremonial request was answered by an empathic "wrath" so volatile that the three women had to step back from the now levitating vessel. " _Sanari—_ " "Yes, Lord Warden…" The Hierophant bowed her head. " _Ilyana—_ " "Yes, Lord Warden…" Another answered the mystic rite. " _Seldanari—_ " "Yes, Lord Warden…" The final Druid bowed her head. " _As Arch-Warden under her eternal white bloom, I release the Elxir of our Lord Protector to thee_." Eldrin stepped up as he spoke, his body brimming with what could only be the Essence of Tyfanevius, the "Serpent" of Tryfan. With an unseen stroke of a blade Gwen could not see, the Arch-Warden allowed the shallow wound on his palm to drip an admixture of semi-clear, ichorous blood and the golden-sap Essence of Tyfanevius to infuse the strange cocktail laying dormant in the wooden vessel. The conservative part of Gwen desired to watch as an audience—though her inner cat soon sought suicide. Like a charmed feline, she edged a bit closer to see the true contents of the vessel. Inside the man-sized jug, she saw not a seed pod but… "… IS THAT MOULD?" Every strand of her lovely hair stood on end even as she retreated, feeling as though the black specs were already invading her nostrils and nesting in her lungs. "Er… we're not going to summon an army of Treants to stomp down Isengard—er… I mean, the Necromancers?" "Treants? I suppose this is a Treant of sorts. Yes, child, these are spores of the Great Shambler, our Lady's _Moss Beast of Saelethil._ " Eldrin did not rebuke her Gwenism, for he appeared no fonder of the furry mass of rotting wool than she did. "The Moss Beast is a strange kin, even for Treants. Once energised, it feeds on Necrotic energy and perpetuates with the single-mindedness of a Void-conjured glutton like yourself—until exhaustion, where it perishes, completing the cycle of life by becoming an enriching nourishment for the fallow lands." "Does er..." Gwen kept herself at a respectful distance, for her Divination Sigil was screaming like Edward Munch's infamous masterpiece. "Does Mossy identify friend and foe?" "Without recourse." Eldrin grinned, inviting her to come closer. "The Moss Shambler knows its Necrotic foe." The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. "Of course." Gwen willed Golos closer to provide her with some surety while she circulated Almudj's blessing through her conduits. The Warden wiped his hands with a suddenly appearing silk cloth, erasing his palm wound like a whiteboard checkmark. A slight susurration followed, re-gloving his exposed hand with a new carapace. "Behold the Wrath of Tryfan, Lost Child. Let the Shambler of Saelethil cleanse the Grove where Illaelitharian has been wounded, and the Undead Hordes lie thickest." Eldrin said seriously. "But recall our Bloom's request—that your employment is not yet ending. In the aftermath, you must commune with the Rime Wardens and Illaelitharian." "Me? I am not familiar with these Frost Elves," Gwen clarified. "And why should the Wyrm, or its Mistress, listen to us and you? Are you not their kin?" "It is no secret that Tryfan is unlike the other Groves." Eldrin gave her an impatient look. "Merely accept that The Rime Flower Illhîwenthiel does not bow her haughty head to the Bloom in White, though it does nod when saviours of a neutral Faction come to their aid, especially the _Vessel of a Primordial lineage_." "Aye." Golos bobbed his chin sagely as he sniffed the vessel, his neck feathers flaring in eye-catching colours. "This 'Moss' isn't so bad, Calamity. Looks almost edible, like the black mushrooms Ryxi cultivates for Father." Eldrin gave the Wyvern an expression that unquestioningly questioned its intelligence quotient. Gwen pushed Golos' thunder-breath mouth away from her face. "So, how does Mossy _work_?" She gestured to the vessel, thinking of Michelin Man's march through Manhattan, which would be tremendous. "Shall we be expecting a colossal mushroom?" "Work?" Eldrin's gaze swept across the vast planes sprinkled with white snow and a plague of Undeath. "The Shambler is working as we speak..." In Gwen's mind, the Elven Column should have moved forward with the mechanical precision of a Roman Legion, erasing swaths of fishy carcasses as they approached the unmoving Undead Corps, pun intended. Instead, Eldrin's revelation that they would not be marching any closer to the Grove of Illhîweth provided an unwelcome insight into Druidic biological warfare. As three separate "Shoals", the Undead horde making up the masses had sent its despoiled tendrils toward the newly arrived Hvítálfar, slithering across the blasted landscape like the tentacles of some oily, ink-stained Kraken. Armoured shock troops in the form of white-eyed crustaceans formed the frontal column, tirelessly barging through the snow, skittering on limbs no longer sensible to fear or fatigue. But unlike the flying monsters, these were not repelled by spellfire. Instead, the approaching Undead grew more languished the closer they came until about two football fields from Tryfan's phalanx…. they fell apart like mud idols caught by a sudden squall. Gwen immediately upped the Essence residing in her ocular organs. Unlike Human-oriented Zombies or Skeleton Soldiers, the seafood Undead were a mishmash of strange beings from oozing jellies to van-sized crabs, slithering, flopping, walking or hopping their way across the darkened snow. Yet, where the horde now halted, Gwen saw a brilliant garden of fungi—some pink, some blue, others vibrant and green, looking exactly like the aftermath of one of her lazy weekends where the rice cooker was left unattended. Colonies—countless colonies of mould—and what looked like sinuous strands of mushrooms were rapidly taking over the Undead, feasting upon the Necrotic energies that drove them mindlessly onward. A good portion of the Undead collapsed where they stood, becoming masses of soil-like substance interlaced by strands of living slime. "That's…" Gwen licked her lips nervously, pondering what Dystopian horror might emerge should such a spore cloud be unleashed in a human city. "Highly efficient…" "It was no easy feat to gift your kind a time to pant during its darkest hour." Eldrin's tone remained characteristically arrogant. "Though many judged that your kind should have been left to wipe itself off the Prime Material, the Bloom had felt great compassion for the mortal races. For her mercy to strangers, Tryfan's distance from our kin had grown immeasurably. Were it not for her obligations to Kilroy…" Eldrin, perhaps noting his lack of stoicism, said nothing more. "Master sure liked to meddle, eh?" Gwen tried to map the chronology of the Great War and what she now knew of Henry Kilroy's pre-industrial origins. "Did Master—Whoa! _They're moving?!_ Did you animate them?" Her thoughts of Henry were instantly banished when, against all expectation, the spore-smothered Undead made a gangly about-face, then started to march back from wherever they emerged. "That's incredible," she voiced her wonder. "Is this a variant of Necromancy?" "That would be Biomancy," Richard, who had been keeping an eye on her and the Warden, cut in from beside them. "Very different to our Faith Magic. True Biomancy… the type your Master wielded if I had to guess." "He coined it as Prime Magic," Gwen concurred. "Had my Master mastered such a trick, Warden?" Eldrin paid no heed to his mortal wards, gesturing only to the trio of Druids behind them who appeared in a trance. In the distance, the roving bands of fungi-infested Undead grew from hundreds to thousands until a counter tide of shambling formations began to surge back toward the darkened plains with its oil fields of foetid fish. From what she could see, unless the Necromancers hidden within that horizon-to-horizon battlefield made a personal appearance and began to lay down direct damage to the spore-zombies, their forces would eventually—be it days, weeks or a month, be converted unto fertiliser. After a dozen more clashes, more Undead tendrils stopped in their tracks, turned to fungi—then began a slow-motion counter-revolution. Be it might or magic, there was no stopping the slow spread of spores. From the near-silent chants of the Elven Wardens, Gwen could feel the flow of Elemental Air altering where they stood, falling into a depression so that the wind bore more and more of Sanari's fungi spores toward the awaiting lines of moaning Undead. Meanwhile, the distraction was enough of a disturbance for the skittering Rime Wardens to regroup and retreat, closing enough of their ranks to begin clearing a _no-dead_ land between the resting body of Illaelitharian and the sieging horde. "Scion of Kilroy." Eldrin's voice once more sounded amid the droning chants. Following the Warden's extended finger, she saw the bulging, festering node of one of the Corpse Pits regurgitating more Undead, reconstituted from the ichorous soup of Necrotic energy at its centre, a pulsing, revolting gash of Negative Energy. "It is not our duty nor our will to punish the transgressors of your race. _There_ you will find your foe." "That specific pit?" Gwen followed the man's directions. "You're saying the Necromancers are there? Under that unassuming spot? _Really?_ " "The spores are drawn to the source. The Shambler's hunt is instinctual and primordial and cannot be fooled or perplexed." Eldrin's golden gaze could chill cocktails. "As for your prize, the practitioners of unsanctioned Necromancy are the object of bounties within your Queendom and your Central Continents. Before you accost our soft-petalled Bloom out of jaw-clenching greed, would it not be proper for Kilroy's child to engage in honest labour?" The corner of Gwen's lips twitched. "I suppose that be proper and within my duty." "Then sally forth." Eldrin looked down on her stiletto-heeled self from the lofty height of his arrogant nostrils. "Go, Lost Child of Kilroy. Be as your Master's design. Purge the Unclean, as you were made to do." "If that's the case." Gwen gathered her trio of cousins and Drake, already having a general notion of how she would like to resolve Illhîweth's infestation. "I'll do my dues, Warden. But promise me, Ed. If a Lich pops out of that box, I'll be right back here, and you better payout..." Though Gwen had made her promise, she possessed no interest in risking another IIUC exchange with the Soul Reaver and the Lich. She already knew that a Cabal of Necromancers had to be responsible for an Undead Tide of this size—what she couldn't know was their exact makeup. As she had previously observed, the pits were arguably unassailable so long as the Necrotic mana supplying them did not fail. Much like a Shielding Station, these world wounds connecting the Negative Energy Plane drew power from energies far more powerful than any individual Mage could muster. Thereby, Richard's localised tsunami would not move such a structure, Lulan's swords could not demolish such a blight, and neither could her Lightning pierce deep enough to disperse its core Enchantments. But who was she? The Saviour of Shalkar! Faced with such a dilemma, she could only respond with a devious ploy, one unorthodox enough that few would ever plan to ward against such an underhanded method. As soon as they landed south of Erebus, Hanmoul had informed her that the land of the Frost Wyrm Illaelitharian lay on permafrost as old as the formation of Terra. The Dwarve's confidence in establishing a Royal Raven Fortress lay in the fact that tunnelling through hardened igneous stone was an impossible feat for beings not native to the Plane of Earth, be it a fiery prince of Elemental Primacy or an eldritch Lich-fiend of Undeath. Once past the surface layer with its broken snow, not even Golos could brute-force aeon-old mudbanks compressed by stratum of ice into impervious deposits. Perhaps if they were outside the Pocket Dimension, there would be Purple Wyrms, half-centipede, half-Draconids, that plague the Murk—but no such aberrant monsters could exist in the sacred soil housing the Frost Tree, neither as a scion of Illaelitharian nor a carcass for the Necromancers to raise. Thereby, Gwen hypothesised with confidence that the Necromancers would not have provisioned for an underground assault—and even if they did—they would not be ready for one at the scale she envisioned. Caliban, whom she had withheld from expanding too much of the vital forces stowed since Auckland, was promptly sent underground to slowly and silently transformed into a void-empowered _Garp_. Then silently, over several hours, it slithered toward the particular Corpse Pit Eldrin had hand-picked. Mayhap there was a Shrodinger's Lich in there. Or not. But there would certainly be a run-of-the-mill cadre of senior Necromancers and their Apprentices. And if a Lich popped out, pissed as a trodden cat, she could bolt back to Eldrin. In any case, Her un-voidable vantage lay in that Caliban was remotely operated and required no need for herself to step in harm's way… _Yes..._ Gwen persuaded herself and then the others as the Moss Shambler fed. _The plan should work._ Visually, the slow corrosion of the Undead army was going slowly but swimmingly. Nonetheless, she could see that the Necromancers had drawn more energy into their pits to counter the effect with varying degrees of success. With or without her aid, Tryfan will eventually breach the equilibrium, and Illhîweth shall free itself from the Undead mire—only as Eldrin had said, Solana had gifted her an opportunity for profit—and it was up to her to make good of it. And so, Gwen readied herself and her peers. With the Necromancers lacking in flying forces, her Flight had complete initiative—a testament to the importance of aerial superiority. "Shaa—Shaa—" Caliban informed her that it was close. In addition to the hardness of the ice and mud, the coldness would have also killed any mortal tunneler—though that was no problem for Caliban. Gwen filled her lungs with frigid air—whispered a prayer to St Evee—then began her one-sided ploy. "MAELSTROM!" Her opening volley was an enormous whirlpool, unfurling as an indifferent lightning vortex, sucking from the ground any Undead not anchored enough to the soot and slush. From Ariel's position above the Maelstrom, bolts of unending electricity randomly rained down upon the Corpse Pit and its defences, causing its semi-dome of dark matter to glow white and emerald. Together with Lulan's bombardments, Gwen channelled elemental destruction onto the pit—appearing to give their all even as the umbral powers of the pit's shielding took their assault in stride. As her mana slowly drained, Gwen sought hypothetical empathy with her trapped victims. Would the acolytes now be begrudging their Masters? Would there be a possibility of surrender? Or were they already abandoned by the command of a higher being? Of that, she was certain. Eventually, ageless Illaelitharian would recover, after which its foes would eat their words. Or was _extinction_ something the adherents of _Juche_ had already made peace with? Were there, perhaps, an agent of Spectre watching over the pawns? Someone like Ravenport's youngest roped or fooled into a thankless task? And if there indeed was a Lich, would it perish here, only to be reborn near its phylactery? Whatever the case, the bombardment she affected was drawing Undead by the tens of thousands toward the pit, shambling and rolling their fishy forms to supplement the depleting energy. While she worked her magic, Richard remained on high alert, having created dozens of layers of protection in every direction so that the slightest disturbance would trigger Lea's Watery Tombs—which was expected to achieve only the half-seconds necessary for Eldrin to answer. "Get ready..." Gwen redoubled her focus. A moment of weakness would soon come upon them when Caliban displaced the ice and stones, taking its pound of flesh from her. She would recover, but there would be no more Void sorcery until Almudj's Blessing restored itself. Thankfully, even as the group counted down Caliban's arrival, no retaliation came. When a battle force had remained bogged down for months, a _change_ of strategy was an intellectual impossibility. At the two-minute mark, Caliban's Life Sense ascertained that the space below the pit was a target-rich environment that showed faint signs of life some twenty-odd meters deep. Eldrin had not lied—or Solana had divined their foes with sorcery beyond mortal ken, and now her fiend was ready. "BARBANGINY!" Gwen released her final spell, a Thundering Shatter worthy of the wrath of Almudj's disdain for strangers. Like the supersonic _CRACK_ of a stockman's bullwhip, her spell struck. The Corpse Pit, its swollen dome of miasma shuddering and shaking, shook on its foundations, its magic circles cracking the ground as the Undead perished by the droves, first glowing white-hot, then disappearing with the flashing lightning as though snowmelt meeting the new dawn. Then, amid the cacophonic din, Caliban surged upward, and Gwen's senses grew deathly numb. "SHAAAAAAAA—" A grotesque maw, lined from edge to interior with a hundred thousand upon a thousand tiny teeth made for rapid excavation, opened below the Corpse Pit, stretching until it appeared like an inverted, circular swimming pool swallowing the land. The air momentarily filled with the distinct drone of a Sand Wyrm's whale breach over the sands of the Fire Sea, and then the entirety of the pit suddenly buckled as the ground underneath gave way, falling rapidly into the indistinct space of Caliban's gullet. With a shivering, shaking grunt of effort, Gwen closed her fists. Below, the circular lamprey mouth of Caliban shifted to a close, forming its featherless face like the closing aperture of a camera lens. "CALI!" the shrill voice of the triumphant girl-Magister pierced the air like a clarion. "RETURN TO THE VOID—NOW!" A second of uncertainty passed—one in which Gwen anticipated a dozen angry Necromancers to displace from Caliban's gullet to pepper her with Bone Spears—then Caliban winked out of existence—shunted by her will into the hungering Void. For several more seconds, Gwen doubted they had achieved anything, even knowing she had commanded Caliban to digest its spoils and not "share". Then—the Undead horde began to meander—not in the orderly, purposeful fashion they had demonstrated only seconds ago—but moving as demented geriatrics, no longer possessing purpose or intent. From her lofty height, Gwen stumbled, only to be caught by her cousin and Lulan, who held her arms to keep her afloat. Despite her best efforts, her indigestion would keep her occupied for some time. "Ryxi's beard… you did it!" Lulan was in a state of shock. "The Necromancers, where did they go?" Richard rudely rubbed Gwen's taut tummy by hovering a hand above her stomach, winking at a blushing Lulan. Lulan's eyes flittered between the giant hole bored into the space where the Corpse Pit used to be and the hyperbolic eight-pack some Dwarf had engraved onto the feathered carapace framing Gwen's abdomen. "So… Do we keep fighting?" Gwen shook her head, still too winded to speak. She wasn't sure exactly what would happen when she once more conjured Caliban back into the Prime Material—only that she should wait to be in good company, preferably Elvia and Sen-sen, and Inquisitors, in case something angry survived. "Naw, now we wait, Lulu." Richard thankfully read her mind. "And after Gwen can stand... I guess we have a meeting with the Frost Flower of Illhîweth."

Without permission from the Arch-Warden of Tryfan, the Cambridge-trained Magister Song instructed her lieutenant-Magus Huang to take sneaky crystal-core lumen recordings of the biohazard below. Curiously, though the fungi conversion had come on like a tidal swell, it was nonetheless subject to the ebb and flow of life, constrained by a natural rhythm that starkly juxtaposed the mechanical motions of Human Spellcraft. After the bloom of colours turned the pitiable, white-eyed fish and crustaceans into blocks of sod, the pods erupted. These spores then begin new reactions, finding new hosts—until the lingering miasma of death lost its dominance, leaving only the shambling mounds of un-living hosts. The process took hours—perhaps longer, as there were no daylight shifts in the Pocket Plane of Illhîweth to tell the time reliably. Just as well, Gwen did not trust the clock on her Communication device, lest time flowed differently, as it did in Sufina's Grot. But time did pass, and sometime after the Necromancers' eviction into the Void, there was no sound but the swirling wind. Visibly, coalescing in cotton candy strands of rime, the air grew cold. The swirling, spontaneous aurora offered a strange, synergetic phenomenon, informing Gwen that, without doubt, the Elemental Ice was returning rapidly to the region and that whatever clime that had once inundated the Grove of Illhîweth was being restored to the status quo. Flanked by her cousin and Lulan, guarded by Golos and Ariel overhead, Gwen descended from the air to a space made for her by the gathering Rime Wardens, forming a semi-circle of glittering ice with their scything bow-glaives and long, elongated limbs. The time it took for the fungi to do its work had given her time to pant, though she was in no condition to conjure Caliban. Below, the Frost Wardens formed a semi-circle barrier, creating a ring of bodies a hundred deep from lip to wall. Behind the blade barrier, the giant tree-root body of Illaelitharian rose like a living Great Wall of China, towering above its guardians. And sheltered within the coiled frame of the Frost Wyrm, the Pillar of Frost, that metaphysical node anchoring the elemental Planes of the South Pole, rose into the vague dimensions of the World Tree's Pocket Plane. Though Lulan's palm on the small of her back was firm and Richard's presence was assuring, even with her creatures watching above, she felt incredibly minuscule and vulnerable, like that first night she had stepped into the Blackheath. The trio landed, followed by Ariel, whom she kissed and un-conjured, and Golos, who took on his humanoid form. The warrior Wardens and the Rime Witches remained stoic as sentinels while Gwen bowed, rose, and then unveiled her face by unlatching her beak-like mask. She studied the Elves in turn, noting that the Frost Elves possessed brilliant blue irises of metallic cobalt and that these crystalline chambers reflected no more emotion than Eldrin's golden orbs. "Hail," Gwen spoke in High Elven, or at least, her Master's Ioun Stone did. "I am Magister Gwen Song of London Tower. I speak for my employer, the Commonwealth of the Britannic Mageocracy. May I speak with your leader?" The warrior Wardens' forest of sword limbs parted, followed by the Rime Witches with their glacial skin and pale-blue lips, soundlessly drifting apart, forming an archway framed by weaponry and sorcery. The leader, a silver-maned female taller than the rest and possessing a marginally more human bearing, coaxed Gwen forward with slender fingers tipped by what Gwen hoped were an armoured gauntlet and not natural, insectile digits. "Do not fear, Child," the Rime Witch spoke in a way that even her Translation Stone struggled to transmute, a fact exasperated by what looked like mandibles curled up within the recess of the Witch's petite mouth. "Release the tongue of Tryfan so that the Frost Maiden may commune with our lost brethren." After a moment's pause over the wording of "tongue", Gwen retrieved the Ilias Leaf that had previously returned to her breast pocket. The leaf shimmered as it caught the frigid light of the Pocket Plane, then began to pulse. At the same time, Gwen felt a presence coalesce, or _descend_ , as it were, travelling through the nodes and veins represented by the warrior Wardens and Witches until the vague silhouette of something akin to an ice sculpture began to materialise in the space cleared by the Elves. A dozen breaths later, a super-dense cluster of Elemental Ice materialised, striding into the world from the aether with a regal bearing greater than any being she had yet beheld, more than even The Bloom in White, who felt to Gwen to be a homebody. Gwen bowed, as did her companions, the Wyvern included. "Thou may address this one as Illhîwenthiel," the _being_ spoke with a tone tinged with just enough humanity to convey a smidgen of acknowledgement. "We know of thee. Thou art the present Vessel of the Rainbow who sleeps in the Well of the World. _And_ thou art Kilroy's vessel of hope. Well met, child. Thy Master's extinction was a rare shock, even for one such as _we_ , for whom cessation has lost all meaning." "Well met." Gwen wasn't sure how to continue, as her mind was torn between the loaded adjective of _present_ and the implication that her Master was someone who had trafficked with Erebus' Elves. "I come to represent the interests of the Mageocracy—which is the restoration of the natural balance here—and the erasure of foreign agents from Spectre." "Lift thine face, child," the voice said. "I wish to see thine eyes." Lifting her chin confidently, Gwen met the Frost Flower's all-seeing, cobalt pupils, trying her best not to shudder. The inhumanity of the immortal Demi-Goddess was self-evident. Gwen wondered if it was possible for a "being" like Illhîwenthiel to find empathy for mortals with temporal existences no more permanent than a season of snow. "Thou has performed thy duties to satisfaction." The Frost Flower nodded mechanically, almost akin to a pilot testing the unfamiliar limits of a Golem chassis. "And rewards are a given, though I shall not be the one to dispense it—Now, allow me to commune with the heretic." "The…" Gwen paused at the word, wondering if her Translation Stone had been working correctly. "Your Grace, do you mean this Leaf?" The Frost Flower nodded. Two Rime Witches approached and dropped to their knees, supplicating not to Gwen but to the glowing leaf. Gingerly, Gwen allowed their talon-like fingers to pick Tryfan's gift from her hands with an Elven Mage Hand spell, moving the Ilias Leaf until it hovered in front of Illhîwenthiel. "Sister…" The _High Elven_ from Illhîwenthiel made her Translation Stone grow hot as it unravelled the unfamiliar codex, warming the base of Gwen's neck with the excessive mana it now drew from her body. "Sister…" came an audible response, the voice of Tryfan's Bloom in White. "As forewarned, even if the Groves of Illhîweth and Lhîweth seek no interest in the Prime Material's conflict—conflict has a way of becoming interested in thee." "And how would these mortal blasphemers know of our seasons? Of when Illaelitharian slumber and wakes?" The Frost Elf's tone radiated so much chill that Gwen had to circulate mana to prevent her extremities from growing numb. "Is it not thine scion, the wayward Warden, who gave hope to these blasphemers of the Great Tree?" Gwen's ears perked up. Unfortunately, the retort emitted from the lips of The Bloom in White could no longer be deciphered by her stone. Instead, they sounded like insectile clicks and snips, with lisps and swirls that were primordial and alien. "No. Nothing is proven, _Sister, not even if we were to fall."_ Illhîwenthiel's side of the conversation, for some reason, remained comprehensible. "As always, neither the Frost Tree of Lhîweth nor Illhîweth shall join thine futile mutiny." With a tone of The Bloom's characteristic imposition, more protest blasted back at the Frost Flower. Gwen listened, standing a dozen meters away with utmost concentration, soaking up every clue and inference like a sponge. After a few minutes, the Frost Flower's eyes moved from the leaf toward Gwen. Gwen looked away, finding a sudden interest in the snow underfoot. "Child." The vocal cords of Illhîwenthiel were a rare melody, even if Gwen could not ascertain if the Elf possessed such an organ as the larynx. "Yes?" Gwen faced the Frost Flower. "Our and our Sister's bickerings art not for thee." Gwen could swear she saw a smirk on the Frost Elf's marble-statue face. "But fret not—we shall now deliver thee to Ancient Illaelitharian. Come past us, child. Move to Illaelitharian's side, where he shall invite thee into his abode." Gwen swallowed her nerves, walked a half-meter ahead of Richard, the stone-faced Lulu and Golos with his flaring nostrils, then approached as was told. Past the quarrelling "Blooms" once more conversing in machine gun Italian, she faced the wall, which was the torso of Illaelitharian, the great Frost Wyrm guardian of the Grove. "There's no... door here," Gwen said to her companions. "Your advice?" "Touch the Great Wyrm's scales." The Thunder Wyvern was in awe. "In this Pocket Space, we are already within his domain, but by his invitation, we may speak to Lord Illaelitharian directly." "Within his belly?" Gwen said seriously. The Wyvern returned her scepticism with a judgemental stare. Gwen touched a palm to the wall of overlapping scales, noting that each head-sized block was worth a thousand times its weight in HDMs. She fell inward. Or perhaps it was outwards. Her internal compass informed her that she had fallen. However, her vertigo possessed no momentum, transforming her from standing to free fall in a split-second. And then she was not falling, but standing in the middle of a grove of evergreens, only the needle leaves were not waxy green spines, but needles of crystalline ice. Underfoot, the ground was blanked in the same ice needles so fine that the furry carpet felt springy and strange. In the middle of the enormous grot-arch, a male silhouette stood with his back to them. Gwen, who had long seen the humanoid guise of Golos, Ruxin and Ayxin, instantly recognised the aura and the unnaturally Polymorphed form. This being— this _Illaelitharian—_ was the Great Frost Wyrm of the South Seat of Frost, and not only that, one of the oldest Dragons she had witnessed to date. Though she had no way of knowing if the Wyrm she now faced had any relations to the Yinglong, she innately understood from the trembling of her Essence that it was the Master of Huangshan's elder by a significant margin. At first, she thought she was alone, for such was the overwhelming presence of the Frost Wyrm. A moment later, when placidity returned to her mind, she smelled the hulking odour of Golos, now in his human form, standing behind her. It would seem that only "Dragons" had invitations. Thankfully, her armour was untouched, even the parts stained or damaged, informing her that their present space was at least metaphysical. Reflexively, Gwen straightened her body, putting her best face forward. She had no idea if aesthetics mattered to a lizard that might have eaten dinosaurs in the past, but the show of deference, she imagined, was what mattered. With no less melodrama than Morpheus' slow reveal to Neo, Illaelitharian turned to face the pair. "I do apologise," the Frost Drake spoke from a face that did not move a muscle, with its Draconic thoughts seemingly injecting themselves into their brains. "Do humanoids still make use of implements such as these?" At the Wyrm's behest, an enormous oval table of ice materialised, crafted with a design which Gwen assumed to predate the Greeks. A second later, chairs unfolded from the air, forming stone lawn ornaments more suitable for museum displays. This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. "Thank you, Great Illaelitharian," Gwen answered with reverence. "We still use chairs and tables, yes." The chairs slid from the table. "Sit," the Frost Wyrm commanded. Gwen sat like an obedient cat. The chair-stool-throne, if it could be called such a thing, was bone-chillingly cold, penetrating her armour so completely that she remained smiling only on account of her Draconic Essence. Golos followed suit, perfectly unaffected by the cold. Illaelitharian regarded the chair he made with suspicion, then also sat. While the polite silence endured, Gwen studied the Ancient Frost Wyrm, likely Almudj's cousin, removed only by a few aeons. Like Golos, Illaelitharian did not care for perfection, crafting a handsome guise that remained reptilian in its impassivity. In a mildly comical sense, the Dragon's mane began too close to his brows so that its full head of flowing, silvery hair framed the top half of his face in the likeness of a Wookie. The lower half was overtly virile, with a powerful, jutting jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a broad chin, all wrapped up in an unkept lumberjack beard. For clothes, the Ancient Drake wore the largest pelt of Polar Bear fur she had ever seen, wrapped around his shoulder and waist and covering his lower body like a kilt. The more she thought about it, the more Gwen felt that Illaelitharian had a Hanmoul-likeness to him, incongruent with the pointy ears protruding through the nimbus of his metallic-silver fur. "Lord Illaelitharian," Gwen made to speak after the silence wore on too long for politeness. "How is it that we may serve you in this trying time?" The Frost Wyrm's eyes were two motes of glowing coal burning blue with frost-fire. "A trying time? What aid from your ilk might you infer?" Gwen felt her chest clench. "Pardon my youthful bluntness," she spoke up when Golos did not. Dragons, by nature, are assertive, and too much deference would only lower her worth in the eyes of the ancient Wyrm. "I know not how else I may infer our timely arrival with reinforcements from Tryfan." "Tryfan…" Illaelitharian's gaze swept over her like an icy tide. "Is the concern of Elves. Between thyself and I, tis the business of kin." "I see the distinction. Please enlighten Sir Golos and me." Gwen's tone masked her ambivalence. She had been wondering why the Frost Elves had been so frosty in their reception, and now she confirmed that her reward—if there ever was one, sat with Illaelitharian and not the Lady of the Grove. "We young drakes are inexperienced in the matter… of Planar Politics." Illaelitharian gave her a curt nod, which she took to mean approval. "Your aid," the Dragon said slowly and meticulously as if assembling the words from a scrabble pile. "Is _welcome_ , though not required. You have not saved Illhîweth, as Illhîweth requires no salvation to return to its former glory. What you have done is spared me grief and time, worthless as the latter might be, and relieved the World Tree of a disease." Golos made a low, demure rumble to express his dissatisfied agreement. Gwen, conversely, could sense the pride tickling away at Illaelitharian's tonsils, like an itch the Dragon could not scratch. As the sponsored representative of Almudj and the deliverer of its emerald lightning, she understood the Wyrm's point. After all, even if Almudj were to burn down its World Tree over a thousand years and turn the centre of Terra Australis into a Black Zone, it persisted, and there was no "cost" to itself. If someone had intervened, did they then "save" the Serpent? The "Tree" might be saved—but its guardian's gratitude was far more uncertain. Weighing her chips, she gave Illaelitharian a brilliant smile of supreme confidence. "That goes without saying, Lord Illaelitharian. We are merely the incessant motes of destiny sent adrift into the great Planar aether. It just so happens that Illhîweth is where our spores landed. I would not take credit for fortune, O Ancient One, nor for the aid given to our long-eared brethren." "You are a wily Coatl." Illaelitharian's voice seemed to relax now that its debt was no longer in danger of being used as a bargaining chip. "However, credit or otherwise, let it not be said that Illaelitharian is a miser among our noble assembly..." The face of Illaelitharian appeared to ponder its next thoughts. "You," Illaelitharian spoke past Gwen to the nervous Drake sweating beside her. "Child of the Tempest." "Lord?" Golos stood. Then sat. Then made a move to stand again before Gwen settled her Wyvern with a pat on the shoulder. "What do you wish as a reward?" Gwen secretly punched the air at the confirmation of a "Quest Reward" but otherwise held her reins on Golos' Astral Soul in case the Wyvern said something outrageous. Feeling the tugging from their entwined souls, the adolescent Dragon-kin looked to her for assurance. For all of Golos' ruthless absurdities, Gwen had to admit that she had grown soft for the Wyvern that once attempted to murder her and do unspeakable things should she have survived. Since Huangshan, the two of them had gone through more "Calamities" than she could count, licking each other's wounds hundreds of times in the aftermath of embroiling battles. The Wyvern's eyes, inhuman as they were, were now as alive as any of her other companions, rich with emotion, desire, and well-rooted companionship. And somewhere within that entwined ball of loyalty and rebellion was her Planar Ally contract, compelling Golos' obedience—but the number of times she had to invoke its ball and chain were few and far. _Do not ask for food_. Gwen jolted her Empathic Link. _AND DO NOT ASK FOR SEX._ She had to save Golos from himself if nothing else. "I wish to be closer in kind—" Golos said firmly, modulating the yearning in his voice with her mental support. "—to my brother, Ruxin." The Ancient Wyrm appeared pleased by her Thunder Wyvern's response. "An admirable ambition, young Drake." Illaelitharian's hands disappeared inside its enormous robe of polar fur. When it emerged, he materialised on the table a Creature Core about the size of Gwen's torso resembling a massive shard of citrine. As the surface of the Core kissed the air, it suddenly came alive with sparking electricity, frazzling Gwen's hair and making her skin numb. Somewhere within her Astral Soul, Ariel drooled and whined at the Thunder Wyvern's good fortune, imploring its Master to snatch the treasure before the stupid Wyvern could take its prize. "From an old friend and an ancestor of yours." the Frost Wyrm allowed the Core to drift across the table, past Gwen's eyes, illuminated by the golden electricity into the colour of money. "Her name has not been spoken for aeons, and her Spirit has long since melded with the Unformed Land. What remains of her, I gift to you whose Essence Pool has grown impressive for one so young—" To Gwen's shock, Golos left his seat, dropped to his knees, then made a gesture of supplication, first to the Creature Core, then to Illaelitharian. Then, with undisguised greediness, the Wyvern cradled the Core to his chest, meeting her eyes with a clear demand that he alone take full advantage of his prize. _It's yours._ Gwen assured the childish Thunder Wyvern even as she calmed her Kirin, promising she would find something just as delicious in time for her Familiar. After all, once embroiled in this matter of Trees and Maidens and Snakes, there would be no return to the ignorant status quo of happy Purges and profits. Upon her return to the Mageocracy, a great upheaval would be afoot, and she, Charlene, the Mageocracy, and the Trees and Drakes that tent-poled the Prime Material would all be seeing a Brave New World. Once Golos managed to hide the Core in what Gwen hoped was his Ayxin-enhanced Storage Ring, the weight of the conversation shifted to herself and the Frost Wyrm. "And now for our _Vessel._ " Illaelitharian's voice was deep and resonant. "Your part is greater, and therefore, your reward as well. However, allow this Old One to ramble before you make your choice." "Please." Gwen hoped the Frost Wyrm wasn't fishing for a discount on its debt. "You are here to withhold a _Calamity_ from your world." Illaelitharian's emphasis on the C-word was particularly grating, for it felt like the Wyrm was reading her mind. "And for that, your triumph here is debatable. Through the ravages of these Elemental defilers and their allies, that rogue of Tryfan and his minions, I can perceive their designs and what this assault upon Lhîweth and Illhîweth aims to achieve. Yet, such an assault is nothing to us who dream only of the Unformed Land, and our Tree and its Guardians will recover over time—a resource immaterial to our concern. But for _your_ ilk, O'Apostle of the Rainbow, there shall be many _Calamities_ that plague the Prime Material." "Right," Gwen concurred. It was good to receive assurance that an anthropomorphic climate could confirm the impacts of Climate Change. "As an existential matter of principle and being," Illaelitharian continued. "We do not meddle in the matters of the Prime Material. We are its guardians, and so long as it stands, what races occupy its sacred spaces is of no value to us. Through the aeons, be it the Green-skinned hosts of the plains, the Horse-Lords of the desert, or your amphibious selves or the Sea-folk, each would have their time—just as the tide ebbs and flows, and the seasons change." The Frost Wyrm's tone then grew suddenly cold. "But—for _kin_ of the Wardens to draw themselves into the cyclic conflicts of the mortal races by assailing a Tree itself, much less our Seats of Frost, is a _Calamity_ too far for our patience. Thereby, I shall offer you the gift of _intervention_..." Gwen swallowed as Illaelitharian produced what looked like a pair of bulbous seeds. Ones she was very much familiar with, thanks to Tryfan's ploys. "In a dire time. I shall allow the Frost Wardens of Illhîweth to visit the Prime Material. What they may achieve, or how they may serve your cause, I cannot control nor say—but they will defend you—or they will perish, after which your aid in our unpleasant hour is repaid." Gwen waited on Frost Wyrm's unfinished words. "Conversely, you may ask me for other forms of intervention. Perhaps, you would like to know about your allies in Tryfan or your patron who slumbers in the Well of the World, or perhaps, you would like to elevate that mewling creature within your Astral Soul. Beyond that, my trove isn't the largest of our kind, but it is _old_. I am willing to part with a portion, should you wish that instead. And should that dissatisfy, ask what else you will." Upon Frost Wyrm's awaiting words, Gwen noted that here was the most difficult decision she had ever made as a sorceress. First—to have someone like Eldrin showing up through a Trellis Portal and wreck havoc on one's foes in a time of need was amazing as a bargaining chip, one that needed not to be truly actualised because she could always pop out the seedlings and inform her opponents of her intentions. For this reason, the mere "favour" was worth far more than the actuality of what she might be able to conjure. Then, there was the option of insight. To understand the _Accord_ of the Elves and the goals of Tryfan, to know their motives and desires, was a priceless boon. Alternatively, the actual means to understand Almudj, to beg Illaelitharian for a way to communicate with Mythic beings, was itself amazingly priceless. Likewise, the gift of wealth might seem a poor choice to many—but who was she? Give her an LDM, and she'll show them an HDM! If the Dragon could give her ten million or more in materials and Cores, she may be able to produce a billion's worth of effects and outcomes in her new Tower. And there were MORE options? What if she asked Illaelitharian to _hook the Dwarves back up with their Dyar Morkk?_ _Christ!_ Give it a decade, and Dwarves and Humans would have an infrastructure network more useful and total than oceanic shipping! Just the tariffs alone… were worth the Ancient Wyrm's horde. Compared to that, adding Dragon-parts to Ariel could wait. _And yet_ —Gwen gulped greedily—she had greater ambitions than that. "I have… a question." Gwen calmed herself before she could blurt forth her direst, most profitable desires. "Regarding the nature of Guardians and Trees, if that's alright. If the answer is not free, please give me a moment to ponder my reward." "Ask." Illaelitharian inclined his chin with interest. "Let's say I wanted to _plant a World Tree_ ," Gwen asked as she suppressed her internal trembling. "With Al— with the _Slumberer in the Well of the World_. Would the other Guardians of the existing World Trees oppose such an act?" The air grew frigid. For the first time since their conversation, Illaelitharian's facial expressions moved, transforming from passivity to incredulity. "Not to _fell_ a Grove—" Illaelitharian's voice sounded different as well. "—But to grow one? A new Grove? Not follow the cycle of decay and regrowth, entropy and life, but the creation of that which is wholly new?" "Well, I don't know if it's NEW," Gwen said carefully. "As I said, we'll be taking aid from my patron, the Rainbow Serpent. The Tree is new, but it isn't... _new_." "A tree, from a source as ancient as the Well of the World..." Illaelitharian grew contemplative. When the Dragon looked up, it somehow appeared guilty. "I… do not have an answer." "You don't?" Gwen was taken aback by the Frost Wyrm's sudden bashfulness. "Is growing a tree taboo?" "No." The Wyrm shook his great head. "It hasn't happened in recent memory, and we have long memories." "So I can do it?" Gwen felt her optimism blossom. "Only time may answer that question," Illaelitharian answered with ambivalence. "With absolute certainty, some will be opposed, just as some may support you, while many will remain indifferent. However, if you wish it, I will advocate on your behalf when your hour arrives." "And that would be repaying my favour?" Gwen had to make sure she and Illaelitharian were on the same page. After witnessing Erebus, the Undead, and seeing the vandalism done to a primordial World Tree, she was very much for the idea that her Tower and Sufina's World Tree should be close neighbours, if not a singular structure—especially in the tumultuous future that would soon come upon them. Perhaps, she imagined, this was the only chance she had to restore a few motes of sanity to a global stage on the verge of mass hysteria. It was a nebulous wish, one full of risk and uncertainties. But it could also be an unexpectedly vital investment. "To grow a tree is no simple wish..." the Ancient Wyrm reminded her. "Even one as old as the Rainbow is not without... opposition." Unhurriedly, Gwen took her time to ponder the immediacy of present gifts and militant guarantees against future promises. There were many temptations, but she could not shake the thought of Erebus on fire, the Undead tide sweeping across the Grove, and that this should happen to _her_ domain, _her_ Tower, _her_ people. There was also the stark reminder that her expedition to Erebus was, after all, her final Magisterial trial. When she returned with Charlene with the worst news possible for Humanity, the Mageocracy would carve out a little plot for her to govern. After which, the next chapter of her life will begin. "I wish it," Gwen said, feeling the weight of the dilemma slide from her shoulders like a glacier as she clarified her intentions. Today, she would gain the support of Illaelitharian, and later, there would be another, and hopefully another and another. "This is my choice, Great Illaelitharian. I wish for your advocacy." The Ancient Wyrm gave her a final look that seemed full of strange sympathy, then sealed the deal with a nod. But Gwen was now beyond doubt. TO have a host of Ancient Wyrms golf clap as she snipped the ribbon to her golden city was an effective signal to geopolitical powers with designs on her future Tower and a call for unbridled investment unequalled by any other. And in time, Sufina's limbs would stretch and yawn until she kissed the firmament, while around her roots, a living rainbow would lie, repelling all that dared to disrupt the peace of Tower Master Song's demesne. If Force Ghosts should exist in this world—she comforted herself with a Gwenism—then surely, Henry must be smiling and nodding, with a twinkling tear of joy clouding his eyes.

"Magister! You're back!" Lulan's tone was one of palpable relief when Gwen re-materialised outside Laelitharian's lair. Though her guard and cousin were safe, they had been left out in the cold while the Elven Blooms aired their secret grievances. And since neither Richard nor Lulan could understand the "High Gothic" Elven, they had no choice but to play the part of ice statues while discussions that would shake the Prime Material took place. "Thank God for that." Richard's relief was equally genuine. "So, did you get your loot?" "I bartered for a promise," Gwen confirmed with a thumbs up. "Compared to me, Gogo got amazing loot. We'll be expecting great things from him in the future." Their eyes turned to Golos, who managed to look abashed. After a moment more to document that everyone had their bits and wits in the right place, the group awaited their turn to be addressed by the Llias Leaf holding Illhîwenthiel. "Child of Kilroy." The Elf appeared done with her communication device. Gingerly, the Maiden of Frost placed the precious specimen in the palm of a Frost Witch's hand, who then hand-delivered it to Gwen. "Great Lady, it has been my pleasure." Gwen bowed her head before returning the leaf to her breast pocket. "Is our business here concluded?" As one, the Frost Elves turned their cobalt orbs toward her, turning two hundred and more craning heads to converge their gaze upon her impertinent lips. "How else may we be of service?" Gwen quickly changed her tune. Bloody Dragon... Gwen swore internally as her back grew damp with cold sweat. The business of the Elves is that of Elves, my ass. "Child." Thankfully, the Bloom of Frost did not appear upset, not that Gwen could read her expression. "Your duty is not yet concluded. Our Grove will regenerate, but our reach does not extend beyond the Great Tree's roots. To restore the depression in the Prime Material, you have yet more labour outside the Grove." Starkly, Gwen's mind meandered toward that dark, dense sea of offal and fish oil outside. She doubted that Eldrin would be willing to channel the power of Tryfan and lend her a solution that was equal parts frugal and "fungal". Illhîweth and Tryfan's limited mobility implied long labours for her Mages, Charlene's ship, and Hanmoul's men. The Undead, though mindless and confused, still possessed enough hostility that they had to be carefully pruned. Their only advantage was that, unlike Amazonia, the tundra and the snow drifts contained Elementals with scant biomass and could not contribute to the perpetuation of Undead. Of course, the Fire Elementals were still spewing from Erebus. These eruptions would eventually return to their unusual incidence, though she deeply suspected the creatures of flame would be a continuous disruption during the Royal Raven's clean-up operations. In the worst scenario… A Shoggoth might be necessary. "I acknowledge our duty, Lady of Frost." Gwen bowed from the waist. "We will restore the exterior of the Grove to its original condition to the best of our abilities." Without sentiment, Illhîwenthiel retreated with a curt nod, immediately after which her Frost Witches closed ranks, indicating that their conversation was at an end. Though the Lady had been cordial, Gwen suspected their interaction was closer to a tired mother coaxing a greedy toddler into cleaning her room. "Gwen, shall we?" Richard pointed to the rising landscape that housed the Elves of Tryfan. "Calamity, I want to return to the ship," Golos announced rudely. "I need to… absorb my gift." "Right." Gwen toned down the protest from Ariel, who continued to blast her with resounding calls of "EE-EE!" Gimme-Gimee. With no one else to fare her well, Gwen and her group picked themselves from the floor and flew back toward the rent from which they had entered the Grove of Illhîweth. Awaiting for them were the rows of Tryfanian Elves, headed by a beetle-black Arch Warden. "Lord Eldrin," Gwen greeted the phalanx of Magister-tier Elementalists standing like shiny statues in the newly fallen snow. "Is there any other way Tryfan may require our aid?" Eldrin's impassive gaze remained as stoic as it was critical. After a too-long pause, the Arch Warden appeared to force his mouth to move. "Do you wish to return with us?" Gwen raised both brows. "Return?" "To Tryfan." The Elf indicated to the Trellis Portal. "Then… to your home, I would presume. The Bloom has offered you a kindness rarely afforded by any other, as… interest… in the befouling tongue of your mortal greed." At the Warden's words, Gwen felt the sharp temptation of running home to Evee tugging on her heart like a pair of kittens pulling a yarn string. However, she knew very well that there was no abandoning the men and women she had brought to Erebus. "I will remain here," addressed Eldrin by turning to Lulan and Richard. Her companions returned her assurance by squaring their confident shoulders. "However, may I trouble the Bloom to deliver a report to Cambridge? I shall seal it in a storage ring—" Gwen raised her gauntlet. "Please gift it to Magister Brown of the Advanced Arcane Studies Faculty." The Warden did not immediately respond, although Eldrin's jaws moved a little as he listened to what Gwen assumed was the disembodied voice of his queen bee. "You… may." The Warden extended a hand. "In that case, I'll need… three hours." Gwen smiled sweetly with a wicked, confident air. "After all, I hadn't planned for this. We need to sort out data and crystals, and I need to compile a preliminary report of our findings here. Would that be alright?" If Eldrin's golden orbs were capable of shedding Radiance, she would have cooked in her crow skin like a Thanks Giving turkey. With no protest from the Arch Warden, Gwen moved her crew a safe distance away, then produced from her rings a coffee table, several lawn chairs for her team, and implements for inscribing her report on the data slate. Richard hastily prepared the recordings crystals so that Cambridge received the original while she held the spares. The Storage Ring she would use to transport the goods was of Dwarven make. Though Gwen doubted the robust design could withstand Elven prying, her confidence lay in that the Bloom would not care or resort to such underhanded methods at gaining information. For the same reason, she had full confidence there was nothing to be achieved by altering the news she would submit to Cambridge, who would then present the findings to the Shard and the Mageocracy's stakeholders. Thanks to Richard's expert aid, the report took only two hours. Her Storage Ring was unlocked, packed with goods and information, and then sealed again with a cypher only her Magister would know. The Elves stood as still as plants the whole time, seemingly soaking up the mana as though they were armoured asparagus. Some appeared to be meditating, while others merely stared ahead, demonstrating an inhuman discipline. "There we are, Milord." Gwen allowed the ring to fall from her palm into Eldrin's gauntlet. "Please thank your Bloom for all she has done for Tryfan's interests. May the Bloom's bloom, bloom Eternal." The Warden's fingers coiled upon his courier package. "Perform your labour well, Child of Kilroy. There will not be another opportunity to gain the favour of the Frost Flower of Illhîweth. If you wish to harness the power of the Serpent who dwells in the Well of the World, you shall need many favours like it." Gwen sighed in defeat. "Those long ears aren't just for show, eh? Fare thee well, Arch-Warden Eldrin. I have an inkling we'll be partnering lots in the future." The exposed pointy bit of Eldrin's ears, protruding through his beetle helm like a pair of fleshy antennae, twitched a little. "Farewell." The Arch Warden turned on his heels. At once, Tryfan's Wardens followed suit, coalescing until they formed a rank four abreast to enter the wormhole created by the Trellis Gate. A few minutes later, Gwen and her crew were left to watch the withering form of the Trellis Gate rapidly turn yellow, then frost over from the impending cold. "Calamity..." Golos' patience was wearing thin. "Alright, alright. Come on, Gogo." Gwen's mind was already consumed by the logistical planning of the Herculean labour outside. "What's the rush, Drake? We're going to be here for a long-long while..." According to Charlene, Gwen and her party were gone for a week. That time dilated within the Pocket Plane was a known phenomenon. As such, the Royal Raven had patiently bided by its time, with the Dwarves digging into Erebus' foundations to draw upon the magma below. Within days, a glimmering multi-layered barrier was erected, sheltering the ley-tapping Fabricator Engine at the ship's centre. Outside its walls, patrols of Golems, aided by the recognisance-in-force of Cambridge Maguses and Gwen's Shadow Mages, had cleared a perimeter of about twenty kilometres in readiness for an extended stay. On the sixth day, the ship's Diviners had recorded a great disturbance in the formation of necrotic energy inundating the polar region, which Charlene took to mean that Gwen and her company had succeeded in their negotiations with the Frost Elves. When Gwen finally returned, her crew appeared confident and eager to take on the next stage of their assignment. "This means we'll be here for… six months." Charlene's brows knitted at first but then quickly accepted the role they would play on the chessboard of Planar politics. "Three months in the frost, then three months in the thaw." "And many clashes against the Undead and the Fire Elementals, assuming they're just as stranded as us." Now comfortably dressed in the ship's official casual clothing, Gwen followed their navigator's fingers as she updated the landmarks. "And Erebus?" Charlene's fingers paced back and forth as the numbers fell into place. "I don't think we can push them back, even with Lord Hanmoul's barrage. What do you think, Petra?" "A continuous expedition to clear out the Undead will have taxed our crystal fabrication." The Enchanter threw up a few graphs from Gwen's PowerPoint School of Illusion. "We won't be able to engage on both fronts, even if we have the manpower." "True. Me lads are keen," Hanmoul grunted. "But aye, the Golems are a thirsty lot if yer needs to keep the Spellswords HOT fer aeons." "Worry not; the Elemental Fire will ebb rapidly," Gwen promised. "And if it doesn't, we can always unleash a Shoggy. There's nothing here other than us… it can be happy and free and run rampant—as long as we keep it away from the Elven Grove." Charlene pondered the matter with a pinch of her knitted brows, massaging her worries until her forehead was once more smooth and unblemished. "Alright," their Expedition leader said after a moment more to review the space between a rock and a hard place. "Ladies and Lords, take your places… here is our home for the foreseeable months ahead. Assuming everything works out, we'll be back before—" "Don't say Christmas," Gwen butted in with a Gwenism. "—Why?" Charlene bit back her next words. "Bad juju…" Gwen said ominously. "Fine… we'll be leaving around the Summer Bank Holiday. After that, it'll be three weeks of full steam to return to London." Gwen relaxed after turning Charlene away from a premonition of destruction. For her Christmas, her thoughts were of Elvia's choir, which she would have to organise for Evee's charity. This year, they should put on a big show to harness influence for the future troubles of the Mageocracy. She could hire some popular Illusionists and celebrities. Maybe call it "Live-Aid" to harness Faith and donations for uplifting those impacted by the change in the climate. Hopefully, they would arrive in time for the holiday snow. Kalimantan. Samarinda. Bambang, minted in recent months as "Father Bambang" watched the "Exodus" of his kin-folk from the only home they had ever known. The distance from the mountain villages to the port was only a short jaunt—but the trouble of moving some fifty thousand faithful followers was no simple feat. Around his neck hung the wooden idol likeness of his Goddess—together with a sanctified cross. Compared to before, Father Bambang was now illuminated, at least enough to know that Knight Companion Elvia Lindholm was a member of the Order of the Poor Soldiers of Christ, an instrument of intervention rather than the all-watching benevolence itself. In the distance, where the men from the land of light had originally cleared a space for the new port—the newly developed lower city had undergone yet another metamorphosis. From ruins, it had been rebuilt. Now, it was once more ruins. Though their Goddess could do many things: heal the sick, mend broken limbs, and breathe life into those half-ravaged by the Rakshasa, she could not predict the future. Therefore, no member of her Ordo had prepared the village for the torrential rain and its accompaniment of flattening hail. A month ago, Father Bambang was sure that the whole of Samarinda would perish, for palm trees taller than the tallest building on the island were sailing through the air like ensorceled spears, toppling houses and punching holes in the side of the metal ships used by the clergymen. Even with the Goddess' powers, there was little she could do other than cover the prayer hall, where thousands of the faithful had gathered, in thick vine-netting conjured by her Ginseng. Against the brutal battery of the wet season's unexpected arrival, even the Knights had to find shelter or rely on their golden barriers to remain standing. In the aftermath, almost twenty thousand of Father Bambang's island flock perished. Most were the ones without faith who had wanted to retain the old ways, hoping that another Dewa Cawu would bring salvation. Even for these heretics, their golden Priestess had toiled with tears in her eyes, excavating collapsed buildings and uprooting entire trees so that they might reveal the buried below, praying with all her might for their recovery. Father Bambang had announced that these, who had been given months to covert, did not wish to be saved—but the Knight Companion instead urged him to have compassion, saying that God loved all equally, regardless of their faith. Father Bambang could not understand her kindness, at least not before a week of tuition from Knight Chaplain Adam, but he nodded and smiled and told the Goddess that he would do his best. And he did. And now, the village would be no more. Samarinda, home to Bambang and his father's father, would lie buried. Like the Rakshasa Bedawangiwiwi, their village and its lore would be consigned to the landscape. According to the Goddess' teacher, the always wise Lord Ashburn, there would be another hurricane—and then another—and another until the island's vegetation was stripped to a fleshless carcass, and new Rakshasas acclimatised to the wind and water would take soon take over. When publically, the news was broken by a tearful Knight Companion Lindholm, all had been stunned. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Once their wits recovered, some began to cry, and others stood up in rage. Comparatively, the faithful found reason in that their Exodus was a trial. They calmed the others, and implored silence, first with words, then with stronger words. In the end, most agreed to the relocation. Seneschal Ashburn had then informed them that many of the islands in their archipelago were similarly on the move, with the local region fast becoming inhospitable to man. Only under the sheltering shields of Singapore's inner islands would his people be safe—for in the wisdom of the Seneschal, a fate of flying from the frying pan into the fire was still better than becoming fodder. Mayhap this way—one day, the sons and daughters of Samarinda will return to reclaim the island, as their Knights had done for their cities three decades ago. The alternative… would be extinction. Northern China. The Yantai coast. Mei felt her heart flutter as Provisional Magus Percy Song, his lapel bright with the gold stripes of a Second Lieutenant, ran a salt-encrusted hand through his dark, voluminous hair. Her fiancé and his Mage Flight were currently above the eastern rim of Taozi Harbour. Here, the latest incursion from the newly appeared Undead Mermen had taken its toll on the harbour city responsible for the Dalian supply line. "Is that the last of them?" Officer Cadet Mei observed the smoking vista below her fiancé's combat boots. She and Percy's team had been assigned to Yantai since January, and the task had been gruelling and thankless. Which was fine, for that was the general purpose of their exile from the Green Zones. The "Long March" was a test of leadership and skill, one which the high command of the CCP expected its young talents to pass without complaint. By design, in the Orange Zone facing the North Korean peninsula, there would be no comfort nor rest for the progenies of power. Here was where the CCP's future blades were whetted, and should they grow dull or break, they would be discarded. The latter was a worry that did not apply to the genius Percy Song. Even though Mei's Yang family was well-provisioned in the "Guan-xi" central to promotion within the People's Liberation Army, Percy's talent and connections were on a different scale entirely. In only a few years, her senior school sweetheart had mastered Conjuration, Evocation and Abjuration, becoming an unmatched existence within his generation. Many in the PLA were already labelling him the next Jun Song, though Percy's powers were less destructive and, by that same measure, less self-destructive. Her fiancé's fame and accolades also meant that Percy gained innumerable enemies throughout his rise. Within the PLA's power progenies, egos ran high, and the notion of household honour inferred death was preferable to disgrace. And then there was the stereotype that defeating a young master almost always summoned cousins, siblings, and sometimes fathers and uncles like woodlice from a rotten beam. What surprised Mei was how happily Percy accepted such hostilities, especially considering the myriad ways he would be accosted mid-mission. Most of these encounters, at least the ones that Mei knew of, became "food" for her fiancé. It was a very peculiar expression that Mei took to mean that Percy grew through gambits of life-or-death combat. When Percy seriously maimed his opponents a few times, his Grandfather or Uncle Jun had to step in—though neither appeared opposed to his prideful upholding of House Song's growing reputation. The ordeals had earned him the moniker of a battle maniac who grew more famous with every duel. "Yes, we're done here." Percy's face, more handsome than when he was in his adolescence, now resembled his square-jawed uncle, an existence Mei admired with all her heart. "Let's move to our next location, Cadet Yang?" "Yessir!" Mei saluted before turning to the tired faces of the young men and women behind them, making up the other two Mage Flights. "Five minutes for potions and restoration! Bandage if you need to. Meditate and recover your mana else we will leave you behind. We move to the next node at 1300!" Without overt complaints, the rest of the young elites fell into place. Percy's ruthless invitations for combat, paired with Jun's role as the unassailable "consort" of Ayxin, scion to the Yinglong, had created an insurmountable barrier for any who wished to challenge her fiancé through overt means. With a grandfather who kept a watchful eye over the PLA's secretive communications and an Uncle who even the Secretariat fawned over, Percy's career had been nothing but cloudy steps of jadeite leading to the high heavens. But of course, the higher the privilege, the greater the expectations. In every engagement, the nephew of the Ashbringer was the spear tip, crashing into walls of Undead with cleansing wedges of sanctified powder, spreading purification through the Elemental synergy of Salt. Following in the footsteps of his Uncle, Percy likewise seemed impervious to the Negative Energy emanated by the Undead Casters' curses and debuffs. It was a part of her fiancé's mystique, one neither the PLA nor their teammates dared to pry—though Percy had confided in Mei, revealing that his gift was a part of the Song's heirloom. When they were on R&R, she had laid on Percy's chest after a long night of passion and sensed the pulsing vitality from the mutton-jade necklace. In a moment of tenderness, her fiancé had told Mei that this was his greatest secret and treasure—a birthright initially falsely given to his sister until she generously bestowed it back upon himself. When Mei pried further, allowing the Kirin Amulet to rest against the palm of her hand, Percy's skin had grown suddenly clammy, startling Mei so profoundly that she immediately allowed the pendent to relax against his chest. When she looked up to see why Percy had gone cold, the boy's face was such a mask of repressed rage and internal agony that every mote of passion drained from Mei as though she had been dumped unclothed into the northern snow. "Don't tug." Percy's voice trembled. "And don't… don't tell anyone about my pendant." There was no mistaking Percy's tone, and Mei knew enough of the older families to understand that Percy had broken a taboo of sorts. "I promise on my life…" she had sworn on the honour of her ancestors and the existence of her Astral Soul. She had felt frightened by the unexpected threat, but a part of Mei grew warm and liquid at the thought of Percy sharing with her his greatest treasure—one that may have mortal consequences should it escape either of their mouths. In this way, they were one, more so than in body, for an heirloom secret bound two families far closer than the mere intimacy of flesh… "Mei!" Percy's voice pieced through the gloom. "Where's our next target?" Mei returned her consciousness to the smoky battlefield below, quickly triangulating their whereabouts. Like her favourite sister, Percy had a difficult time with directions… another secret only she and her fiancé shared. Another chain in the link that wound around their souls, binding them for life. Old Tjupurrula, standing on one withered leg, raised a hand to the sky to taste the unexpected moisture. He did not have to wait long, for what answered him was a cacophonic rumble of thunder so loud that the earth shook, and red dust cascaded from the crags and nooks scarring the sacred rise of Uluru. In the far distance, a thousand flocks from the sand-coloured zebra finch to the red-plumed kingfisher, accompanied by cabals of iron-feather buzzards and the shrill opera of Emu-Wrens, fled from the incoming change in pressure. The red earth, usually so dry that the slightest breeze might whip the particles into a dust devil, now lay dormant, shivering at the sight of the incoming storm. CRACK! The sky split asunder. Where the tender fabric of the Prime Material had long been weakened by Almudj's rage, it now opened into the space between Planes, unleashing gales the likes of which the land had not seen for centuries. Old Tjupurrula inhaled the ozone-heavy air, enjoying every sensation of new vigour, breathing into the husk of life resting at the centre of the ancient continent. His skin, long since petrified by slow time, cracked and bled as his limbs moved for the first time in centuries. From beyond the highest firmament, it began to pour. Uluru, awash with rain and rumbling under the perpetual thunder, took on the colour of blood. A hundred white serpents, spontaneously bursting from the Well of the World, gushed forth with the force of tsunamis, turning the ochre surface of the World Tree's stump from oxide red into fertile loam in the span of a dozen breaths. Droplets as large as a Mage's Water Missiles hammered the suddenly-forming inland sea, stirring up such a frenzy that its turbulence resembled tomato soup returned to an indignant deli chef. Above the once-sacred stump, frothing water bucketed outwards, crashing against Old Tjupurrula's feet, ankles, knees, then waist. For a being less attuned than Old Tjupurrula, the force would have torn them limb from limb, but for an old Spirit Walker, it was a much-desired shower, a rare sensation of the Elemental Planes in flux. Hours passed, and the rain continued, quenching the thirst of a land without water since time immemorial. Already, Old Tjupurrula could feel the ancient seeds, some from species unseen since the chaotic reign of Dragons, absorb the unexpected fecundity. Beyond the horizon, a chain of lakes large and small, long dead and turned into dust bowls, likewise heard the clarion call of life, for underneath their caked soil slept the dormant eggs of ancient Mer older than the Mageocracy's first cities. Old Tjupurrula pulled one foot from the soggy mud, now sucking him downwards as the water nourished the cracked earth, filling its ancient aquifers for the next century. "No Tree, No Snake…" The ancient Spirit Walker looked to the unrelenting skies. "And no Kalinda. What is an old ghost to make of this cheekiness?" He scratched his head. Then, the torrent swallowed him wholesale, leaving no trace but a pair of prints, fast disappearing under the suck of the inland sea. Shalkar. The Fire Sea. New Shalkar, now officially mapped by the cartographers as Shalkaryah since the Priestess' departure, was a paradise for pups and fawns of all breeds and species. To the south, the Brass Legion had all but retreated deep into the portal boiling the southern coast of the Caspian. Their missing presence, punctuated by the absence of Zordiam, the Efreeti Prince of Fire, had resulted in the gradual shrinkage of the gash itself, which, according to the Magisters who remained behind to shepherd the Khanate, saw a reduction for the first time in three decades. Additionally, sudden influxes of torrential downpours made the desert plains from Ashgabat to Bukhara awash with little streams, bringing forth long dormant growths of wildflowers fields that once made the region famous for its fertility. The River Darya, together with the dozens of lakes it fed, grew rich with loam and life, with fish stocks almost appearing overnight as the eternal drought ended. Borders between Demi-human Clans, shaped by access to the oasis and estuaries, vanished. The raging fires of resource wars, fought so bloodily by the Khanate, were extinguished by unprecedented fecundity. The Sand Worms, long since a decor of the upper desert, drank long and deep—then retreated into the Murk where they would moult and slumber, awaiting a more hospitable climate to return. For ones too young to slink back to their Demi-Planes, their mildew-drenched bodies grew sluggish, becoming easy prey for the resurgent Tasmüyiz tribes, particularly the Rat-kin under Strun Jıldam of Shalkaryah. It had not even been a year—but the swelling growth of Clan Jıldam made up for a decade or more by absorbing any who would convert to the faith of the Priestess into its namesake, branding them with the unquestionable belief that here was the promised land, the final bastion of the long-suffering, and that there would be no second chance for the Rat-folk beyond this fragile gift from the heavens. When furthermore the Prophet Strun had returned from the Human cities with tales of gleaming spires and friendly scholars, the Clans of the Tasmüyiz who gathered—The Rat-kin, the Kobold, the Goat-kin and even scattered tribes of lizard men, came together at Shalkar to marvel at its sky-grasping baobab pillars, said to be created by Demi-gods of the Prime Material to aid Clan Jıldam. Then there were the trade routes. With the Darya once more filled to the banks, the fabled barges of the old Silk Road once more appeared, now transporting the foodstuffs of Shalkar southward and northward to be traded at way stations established by the Priestess' kin-folk. The immense thirst for labour and the abundance of bartered goods, together with the security established by the Horse Lords in this time of plenty, created such a wonder the desert had not seen since the century before the Great War. Between land and water, there was no rest for the Centaur folk who had grown numb from the sudden abundance and whose new duties as guards, transporters, traders and enforcers had stretched the Khan's yurts to their limits. Even as the Tasmüyiz broke off into their little regions, the Horse-Lords paid them no mind—for they could always reap the wheat after the fertile autumn, as they had always done since the Golden reign of the first Khanate. For both the Horse Lords and their no longer starving slaves, now was an unexpected respite. And all of this, proclaimed Regional Executor Strun, was the gift of their Pale Priestess, Her Officership of the Shalkaryah Trading Corporation, a subsidiary of the Isle of Dog-Norfolk Conglomerate, the one and only Magister Gwen Song, CEO. Cuzco. The Temple of Inti. In Sacsahuamán, the navel of the world, the nation's Living Sun, the undisputed Master of the four Suyus, held court with his Chiefs. As a part of his growing pains, Inti would take over state affairs while his father toured the Suyus to hear the people's grievances, dispensing justice as he saw fit. And in recent months, there have been many instances of unhappiness indeed. The Sun God had been moody. Inexplicably, the summer rains did not fall into the sky-lakes, preventing the refilling of lagoons and, therefore, the harvest in fall. And then there were floods where the clouds were so low that they banked as thick as molasses against the cliffs of La Rinconada, drowning the Mana mines there and paralysing the entire region's economy. And there were other flash-fires of trouble as well, sprouting like seedings after a great tree falls in Amazonia, exposing the rich undersoil to the exploitation of its neighbours. "Tika," the gold-slathered Inti, his bronze skin radiating the vitality of his nation's faith, implored his wife to continue her report from the Temple of Mama Cuna. "How fares our letter runners from the south lands?" "There is stirring chaos in lower Amazonia," his young bride reported. The Temple has received many messenger birds of late, all speaking of roaming monstrosities in the forest. The lack of rain there has continued into September, meaning the forest's inhabitants are now in a state of all-out territorial conflict over the estuaries of the undergrowth." Inti sighed. Tika agreed. A stirring Amazonia meant dire trouble for the nation's borders. For his Kingdom of the Sun, their side of the Andes rose above the emergent layer of Amazonia, meaning what happened within the forest stopped beyond the canopy. However, if a section were to collapse, it would instantly disrupt the balance of predator and prey that held the forest's dangers in check. At worst, a tide of "refugee" Greenskin Demi-humans would emerge, hungry and desperate, to wreak havoc upon the agricultural regions of Sapa Inti's empire. "The Temple has also received requests for aid." Tica rose from her kneeling position, making the sign of the sun as her spritely figure stretched out like a youthful sapling. On her shoulder, her Sundew Familiar cooed, relaying the minutes of the report to its mistress in the secretive tongue of plants. "From our cousins to the north, whose holy war is yet unended." "Our kin of the Feathered Serpent requires OUR aid?" Inti appeared genuinely surprised. "With what?" "Sir Tupac will explain." Tika stepped aside to reveal the kneeling form of Inti's friend, the Shifter-warrior Tupac. The gentle giant stood, making the sign of the risen sun. "Their runners have arrived with Creature Cores, trading for skins, grains for sowing, metal and magical materials," Tupac read off the report in his hand. "The reaping winds of Quetzalcoatl have not been kind of late. Since the middle of the imperial calendar, their trading cities in the lowlands have all suffered the displeasure of the Winged God. From what we've gathered from our traders, sacrifices have been offered by the tens of thousands. The Puma Warriors are even capturing the fair-skinned folk from the New World, hoping that their aberrant hearts would allow Quetzalcoatl to feel appeased." Knowing full well the zealousness of their theocratic and thankfully distant cousins, the court permitted several moments of silence. Tika made a gentle cough. "It is not our cousins who are upsetting Lord Quetzalcoatl. Something is making the Winged Serpent very unhappy." Inti read his wife's intentions at once. "I think we shouldn't get involved, lest it turns its all-seeing eye upon our Kingdom." "How shall we deal with the traders?" Tika poised the question the four rulers of the Suyus were keen to answer. Inti turned his head toward his uncle, Amaru, Administrator of Cuzco and Inti's tutor in governance matters. The old snake smiled and said nothing. "Release a sizeable stock of maise and corn," Inti gave the best command he could. "Suspend any shipments of magical metal and HDMs beyond our original agreements. However, allow up to fifty per cent more medicinal purchases." "Sapa Inti is wise," Tupac replied with a bow. Tika arrived by her husband's side. "My Inti… as our friends from the Mageocracy like to say. I fear that the Four Suyu shall soon live in interesting times." Beside her, the Living Sun frowned, contorting the flawless visage of his peerless face, said to be identical to the nation's first God-King, the great Manco Cápac. Touching her collarbone with a tender finger, Inti slouched ever-so-slightly on his throne, immediately attracting a nasty nip from the cane of Amaru, his uncle-advisor. Tika suppressed a hiss. Inti rubbed his shoulder without regarding his uncle. "Yes…" the young man appeared tired despite the Faith of his people permeating his body. "Interesting times indeed..." Northern Ireland. Carrauntoohil. High above the foggy shrouds of Corrán Tuathail, the Ancient Red Dragon Sythinthimryr allowed her colossal body to stretch over the scree of Fire-aligned Mana Crystals, bathing her blood-red scales in mana so thick as to resemble wine. Slowly, with the meticulousness of a chef savouring the aroma of a rare dish, her nostrils drew in the mist, sending the entirety of the cloudscape into a swirling, tectonic metamorphosis. "Dask…" the face of a Drake, just old enough to resemble a Dragon but lacking the dignity of its mother-sire, emerged from the depthless blanket of red steam. "The Kin of Danu have come to deliver a warning. The one-eyed King stirs before his time." "They… dare?" Sythinthimryr's nostrils flared as blue as her displeasure. "Mere manifests of the Elemental Planes, believing that they can pierce the veil between places outside the Accord?" "Yes, Mother, the fabric of spaces grows threadbare. Great changes are happening everywhere." The wyrmling's voice was sharp and eager. "Nonsense, child." Sythinthimryr's tone was enough to send her son's frills flattening against his skull. "Change is change—what you observe now is merely a disturbance." "But the Human empire to the south—" her pup sulked. "Will titter, child…" Sythinthimryr's voice once more grew serene. "Will it fall?" Her boy asked in a sulky voice. Her child's curiosity, the Ancient Red sighed, had always been acute. Was it because he had once been abducted and placed in the heart of the Human city? Was that why he would abscond every other season to play "Mages" with the unsuspecting humans fighting the Fomori? "The humans have a saying." The Ancient Red swirled her thoughts through her vast memory. "The dead Oliphant is still taller than a horse." "I don't think they say that, Dask…" her boy appeared unconvinced. "… but it will still bring the Scythian Vultures." The young Drake grew silent. "That's… that's not a saying…" the boy was adamant. "Unless they said that in the time before their cities..." Sythinthimryr eyed the heavens. "I want to meet the Vessel..." her boy mumbled. "The one who has the favour of Lord Illaelitharian, who ignored me." "Go back to sleep, Slylth." the Red Queen nuzzled her child until the boy was smothered back into the enormous bed of Fire-tinged crystals. "You've much growing yet… before you dream of meddling in the planar politics of the Accord. At least earn your true form..."

October. The Royal Docklands. Mycroft Ravenport, Lord Marshall of her Majesty's men at arms, stood stoic as a Gargoyle sentinel on the battlements of the Royal Docks as blanketing mist drifted over the placid steel waters. He was a picture of fatigue, and though the Good Lord had himself rested on the Day of Sabbath, there was no such solace for a father who had dearly missed his youngest child. Therefore, Mycroft Ravenport, Patriarch of the Ducal House, stood in the rain, sorting data in his weary mind as the tugboats took their time to coast the Royal Raven into its assigned dockyard. The past half a year had taken a toll on himself and the Office of the Lord Marshall. In the manner the girl had prescribed, inexplicable planar disasters were unfolding all over the Mageocracy's domains, stretching their resources as fine as gold beaten to airy thinness, so much that certain sectors had to be foregone entirely. For example, the Militants' ambitions in the Nigerian Delta were now entirely abandoned to disorderly climate change, with all reserves rerouted instead to shore up essential infrastructure in Port Saīd, the Suez Canal, and most importantly, Gibraltar. The loss of new Frontiers was difficult but inevitable, and without the Mageocracy's tacit support, allies who wished to remain could only fend for themselves—arguably an impossible endeavour. Many gentries had to sell property—and in direr instances, auction daughters to industrialists to repay their debts. Comparatively, the softening of the Greys' attitudes toward House Holland meant that their particular branch of the Militant families had returned to respectable profitability, especially with the Isle of Dogs Norfolk Conglomerate transporting the Houses' goods. More recently, the Mageocracy's official stance had been to condense its armed forces from the Horn of Africa to the Coral Sea east of Australia, buying itself time to adjust to what the girl had foretold to be a decade of uncertainty—assuming optimal management of the Elemental incursions throughout the Prime Material. With the data from both Polar nodes now officialised by the Shard, little doubt remained as to what Humanity faced, even if they knew not what awaited them. Still, their allied nations took to the revelation with the typical Human impassivity of denial, opportunism and learned apathy. Thankfully, the rulers of Albion knew not to take the matter lightly… and that inaction would invite calamity on a scale the naysayers could scarcely begin to imagine. They were lucky, for dissonance to the other Empires of the Prime Material, a rare nod and a word from House Winsor was all it took for Westminster to make plans and pass budgets. From the mist, with ponderous slowness, the thrum of the tug boats bringing home the Royal Raven emerged, bringing with it the enormous silhouette of the battle barge. "Miles," the Duke of Norfolk addressed an aide as the swirling mist meandered. "Does our ship look haggard to you? Moreso than anticipated?" "If you would recall, milord." The aide with a name leaned in closer. "Milady had reported from Singapore that they've been rescuing distressed ships from Mermen Tides. The Dwarves have been cannibalising the ship's materials to mobilise their impromptu flotilla. There had been four fleets since Antarctica, first from the Coral Sea, then the Bay of Bengal, and finally through the Red Sea. In Eritrea, the Royal Raven was delayed by the September insurgency in Asmara and had to defend the Shielding Station on the coast." "The lycanthropic rebels have spread to the cotton coast?" Ravenport recollected the foreshadowing reports. "Hmm... yes, I do recall. Charlene did say they were investigating a gate into the Dyar Morkk there on behalf of Lord Hanmoul's crew. The results were…?" "Sound. The Dwarven Transit node has been recovered, milord. Likewise, Cotton exports have been partially restored thanks to the young Miss' intervention. Though for how long, we're unable to estimate. Last week, our Diviners documented that the Demi-human tribes are currently in a continent-wide mass migration, following the shifting wet band in central Africa." Mycroft considered his aide's studied information. The Royal Raven's state of disrepair was one of necessity and choice, having spared much of its materials for the rehabilitation and construction of sites and ships during its long journey from the Antarctic to the East Coast of Australia, then threading through the Bay of Bengal until finally, it squeezed through the Suez Canal to sail past the Tyrrhenian Sea. At the Rock of Gibraltar, the Royal Raven had restocked and resupplied just enough for the final leg of the arch through the North Atlantic. "I see. I'll take it from here, Miles." "Yes, milord." His team of crow-black suited aides retreated far enough to remain un-intrusive. Though Ravenport had told Charlene that he would _personally_ receive her, the arrival of a Carrier Class Cruiser was nonetheless attended by thousand-odd workers, dozens of Golem units, various military officers of the Royal Navy, and reporters from the city's major papers. Behind the official thong were the crew members' family and companions, including the impatient faces from the girl's Isle of Dogs. The foremost of the news rags was the METRO, owned by the ship's infamous War Mage, now triumphantly returned from her trial, leaving no doubt about her credentials. By now, the METRO's circulation, though not its profitability, has far exceeded the Sun and the Telegraph, making many in the House of Lords nervous about its influence among the unlearned masses. Almost a year ago, Shalkar had been a test, and the girl had proven resourceful beyond doubt. The Southern Expedition had been a different test: one that stressed the girl's resources to their utmost limits. From the report released by the Oxbridge Magisterial Committee to the Shard, the girl's _connexions_ had been revealed as both transcontinental and trans-Planar, far beyond the means of even London's most well-connected Magisters. Her's were different to the Shard's most senior Magisters, whose ties were tethered to Humanity and its cities. _How did the girl reach this point?_ The Duke knew, of course, but the results remained astounding. The girl had trafficked with not one but TWO of the Blooms who governed the Axis Mundi and was on speaking terms with at least THREE Mythics, two of whom predated the civilisation of Humanity. Even on paper, the print stretched the imaginations of the common Tower Mage. And, according to Charlene's transmissions, the Scion of the Yinglong who "hung out" with the girl as her Planar Ally had now taken on the form of a true-blooded, four-legged Draconid. In the Bay of Bengal, when the girl had sent her Shadow Mages home to Myăma, the newly minted Thunder Dragon had decimated a Shoal of Mermen before the Royal Raven could bring its Dwarven artillery to bear. By his daughter's accounts, the Wyvern-turned-Dragon would now be in "Isolation Training" with its elder brother, the Thunder Dragon Ruxin, ruler and partner to the Mageocracy's efforts in Nagaland. What the girl's newly revealed circumstance entailed, therefore, was the acknowledgement that mere favours and promises of influence and wealth were no longer enough to keep her lashed to the Shard. Like the Tower's Meisters and its rare Magi, the leash that held the reigns of men and women like Gwen must be woven with Mithril and Orichalcum, then custom-fitted to be comfortably flexible. Which meant the Mageocracy would soon need an escalation. For any other, a tried tactic would involve the uncomplicated application of matrimony. To be wedded to the family of an influential Duke or Marquess, or in the most ardent of circumstances, an off-shoot of the royal House itself, was the norm. However, for a child of Kilroy, and considering the girl's ties to the Lindholm lass, that option was so far into the aether as to never return. Coercing the girl was also not an option, considering her connections to Gunther Shultz, now Master of the Mageocracy's most resource-rich and stable Frontier. And in thinking of Shultz, Mycroft was forced to remind himself that the girl had claimed responsibility for the erasure of a Cabal of Necromancers that may or may not have had a Lich among them. Sydney Tower's Morning Star had verified the bounty. According to Gunther, there _was_ a Lich—though its phylactery was not recovered. However, as none thought it wise to question the Lord Master of Sydney, they agreed to his terms. The reward was almost a quarter of a million HDMs. But the money was no object. What worried Mycroft was the girl's ability to subsume her victim's innate "Affinity" for certain genres of arcanistry. Sooner than anticipated, he feared, the Towers may very well be welcoming its next Master, a sorceress capable of wielding Omni-Magic, furthermore complicated by her "unnatural" Affinity for Humanity's oldest original Spellcraft— _Necromancy_. Even with certain details omitted, the report had shaken the upper echelons of the Shard. To address their concerns, Mycroft Ravenport had informed them that any hope of stifling the girl's growth was a ship that had set sail with the Royal Raven. Now, like the matter of the changing climate itself, they were in a position to steer the gunport away and toward their foes. Should they truly feel threatened, scuttling the ship would first involve the Hollands, who now stood firmly in her court—with success meaning, at _best_ , the offender would face the Morning Star; at _worst_ , the ire of Tryfan and thereby, infringe upon _The Accord_. When questioned, Mycroft's advice for settling the girl had been to offer a term similar to that of her erstwhile Master; the same Gunther Shultz had been provided. While retaining her services, she must be given a land to rule—an ideal Frontier that was both pivotal and far away enough from the centre of power to keep her fruitfully employed. A place that was both out of reach of the conspiring power brokers of the Mageocracy and yet close enough to obliterate should the necessity arise. A place like the newly established Orange Zone of Shalkar al-Jadeedah, a Frontier burgeoning with potential, bordering no significant bases of power, with no Human cities, with Black Zones to the south, Orange Zones to the north, and Purple Zones to the West, was perfect. As a location forged from elemental instability, does it not make the ideal home for one whose professed ambition was to establish a Tower and whose work would invariably be tied to the Accord? Morrigan had reported that most of the Lords were in favour, while a minority ardently opposed the rise of a second Henry Kilroy. The Duke of Norfolk would have liked more time to mull over the situation, though the ship's noisy docking procedures now took precedence over the recollection. As the transforming hulls slid apart, then unpacked themselves like intricate origami into loading bays, a miasma of smells flooded the shipyard. Old oils, alcohol, engine grease, the outpouring of excess mana from HDMs slabs, spirits, unwashed Dwarves, thrumming Golems, liquor, and what could only be evaporating firewater poured over the Royal Docklands, making the shore crew recoil. "Father!" the nightingale voice from the gangway was enough to dispel Mycroft's desire to vacate the dockland for the odour-controlled air of Westminster. Charlene Ravenport, looking like a half-wilted flower, her once luminous hair matted and dull, drifted ashore, striding through the air to land in his open arms. She had not used her Dust sorcery much, though their family's Spellcraft _had_ been used, meaning months of rehabilitation would be required to restore her health. Behind his daughter, he could see the rest of her crew, including the girl in question, her cousins, the Chinese Daoshi, and the various children of his contemporaries who had chosen to follow Charlene on what had initially seemed tomfoolery. According to Charlene's reports, seventeen of those children would not return—though that number was more optimistic than Mycroft could have hoped. After allowing his daughter to soil his heirloom Draconic-cashmere coat with the unmistakable stench of Dwarven quaffing, he kissed her oily cheeks. A moment later, he allowed her to slide from his embrace before facing their pet War Mage. "Magister Song." Ravenport extended a hand. "You are truly worthy of that title now, Magister. Cambridge has informed me that your official inauguration will be in a few days." The girl shook his hand with a firm grasp. How strange it was, Ravenport pondered, that only a few years ago, when the girl first arrived, he had taken her into his car to speak to her. She had seemed so frightened then, like a lamb staring in horror at an abattoir. Now, the young woman not only shook his hand but appeared no more impressed by the gesture than if she had purchased a club sandwich. Others would deem the inoffensive nonchalance offensive in itself—though Ravenport understood all too well. When one has met Dragons and Blooms aplenty, mortal relations and titles just felt so… temporal. When one's mind dwelled upon the fabric of the Prime Material itself, competition among the Peerage felt as bland as a cup of poorly brewed English Breakfast. Still, it was good to remain grounded. The Axis Mundi was a big-big thing. To move it alone was futility, be it Gwen Song, Spectre, the Elemental Princes or even the Blooms and their Dragons. Around them, the lumen bulbs of the recorders flashed and flashed again, taking stock of the moment in which the Duke of Norfolk personally received the Royal Raven's crew. As a result of the image, Mycroft was sure: stock prices would rise, others would fall, and backroom deals would bisect like criss-crossing fungi. Mycroft exchanged cursory words with the girl, and the two parted for their businesses. He would return with Charlene to the manor, where his child could clean up, dine, and then relate the tale of their return from the Antarctic. As for the girl, Mycroft imagined that she would be burdened by her bid to return the Dwarves to their homes, simultaneously transporting the Golems and the Fabricator Engine back to the Isle of Dogs. Also, the Royal Raven had to be unloaded of its loot of the world, though that would be the duty of lesser men and women in service to either Charlene or the girl. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. With a casual wave of his hand, Mycroft dismissed the reporters. Those who disobeyed were sternly reminded by his aides that _the Duke of Norfolk did not ask twice_. With another gesture from a signet ring, he opened a portal—one that directly led to the Teleportation Circle under Westminster, from where he would immediately access home. It was a privilege few could afford and rarely exercised, though this much was the least he could do for Charlene. Later, in the wake of her triumphant return, her career as a Ravenport would begin in earnest. Before he stepped through, with one foot in the aether, he watched the girl command her men, at which point his thoughts inadvertently strayed a little to his youngest. The fatherly part of Mycroft swallowed the hollow void in his heart. As for the Duke, the Lord Marshall was already kilometres away, thinking of how he might broach to the Shard the subject of the girl's next assignment. Unlike the privileged daughter of the Duke of Norfolk, the orphaned War Mage Gwen Song had only herself to work to an early death upon her return to Albion's shores. First and foremost, naval transportation of the Golem units she had loaned with Hanmoul's Iron Guards had to be safely extracted and delivered to the Isle of Dogs. Her rationale dwelled on the newly built Dyar Morkk Node Station the Dwarves had established for the Isle, a part of the evolving negotiations The Shard and Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth had hammered out as a result of the increased dangers in sea-ferrying goods. As for her nest egg, the Isle's development had reached the fourth phase, with new skyscrapers and shopping complexes rising all over the old docklands. Eric Walken, who was himself worked to the bone, had a small mountain of papers for her to review and stamp. His core grievance was from developers jealous of Elvia's soup kitchen and orphanage, which remained a part of the Isle's core complexes sectioned out for charitable works, now bisected by an enormous riverside park Gwen jokingly labelled "Mansfield", charitably free for all to visit. However, even with Walken's memo minutes droning on like a hive of angry bees, Gwen understood her priorities. As soon as the Dwarves were on their merry way and Lorenzo's folk had taken over, she lifted into the air with her Omni-orb aloft, willing it to guide her to her heart's desire. Against a dreary, windy sky, her crow skin flapped, slicing through the air with effortless grace. " _Young WOMAN!_ " Eric Walken's voice howled from below. "Return at once! The Marquess of Ely is waiting for you to attend her welcome-back party tonight! The Shard has requested your presence to verify your reports! I need you to sign off on the audit forms!" "I'll be back!" Gwen called to the milling forms of the folks below, some still taking pictures, others waving to catch her attention. "You're expected at Cambridge!" Walken's hollering continued. "Seven PM at the latest! The whole faculty is expecting you! Including Gracie and Brown!" "I'll do my best," Gwen promised through her Message device. "But I make no promises." "Where the hell is she going?" Walken's open Message growled, barely controlling himself from setting the documents in his hands to ride the wind. Gwen felt sorry for her old foe and instructor, for the bloke looked like he wanted to fly up and drag her back to the Bunker. Before her ground crew drifted out of view, she saw Petra give the old Magister a pat on the shoulder to calm his farm and explain why their boss was in such a hurry. As to where Gwen was going—that was for her to know alone, for she had sent off a Message the moment they came within Divination Tower range, and only an hour ago had the response returned. To those who were not family, she felt no need to disclose her heartfelt desire. After so long in the Antarctic and a month and more at sea murdering seafood, she was sick to the core of the life she had inadvertently chosen. To keep herself sane, she needed solace, and only one place could provide the serenity she sought to feel less like a mirrored Sobel. Battle. East Sussex. Though the world was in flux, the millennia-old Monastery Fortress of the Order of the Bath remained untouched by change. Belying the world's chaos, its Knights and Companions walked through green lawns carpeted by scarlet leaves, with windows swathed by flaming foliage, turning the cloisters a rich amber. East of Sussex, Battle was a world away from the world itself, sheltered by Faith thanks to the Ordo's most precious relics, maintaining a serenity that had remained uncontested since the victory of William the Conqueror in the eleventh century. This year, like every other year in which their lauded Knight Companion had called the Abbey home, Battle's avenues were punctuated by endless floral blooms, some cultivated, others wild, which dressed the orderly rows of gardens in flamboyance. Additional flowers lined the stone pavements, usually bone-white and ivory, meandering through the grounds like rainbow serpents, adding colour to the otherwise sombre setting. For those who were here to convalesce and study, the season of autumn was a rare joy before the onset of desolate winter, where snow would smother every living thing, and the trees would wear gothic. And it was here that Magister Gwen Song, a recent returnee from the Southern Expedition, landed in her crow skins, turning eyes and raising brows from every avenue, window and battlement. "We've been expecting you, Magister Song," the meek voice from an acolyte soon greeted her, emerging with a strained huff from tall corridors. "Our Abbotess has gifted you and Companion Lindholm privacy in the East Garden." "Thank you." Gwen retrieved her Omni-orb, which even now was roving eastward. "I know the way." Her guide said nothing, happy to follow the orders she'd been given regardless of Gwen's willingness to obey. Out of deference, Gwen chose patience, allowing herself to be led by the demure nun until she arrived at an entrance east of the Edenic central courtyard. Though not a Pocket Plane, she nonetheless pierced a veil of magic before arriving at the garden's enormous interior. Past the threshold of a pair of trellis gates, Gwen immediately caught the drifting notes of an aria, its lifting notes hanging long and lovingly through the air. Piercing the garden's row of eye-level hedges, she found her Evee in the middle of a song, addressing her Familiars in a Disney-patented manner. Resisting the little worms bloody masticating her heart, Gwen took a deep breath and counted to ten. On her second repetition, the object of her dearest desire noted her arrival. Evee. Evee. _Evee—_ Golden and glorious, kind and wonderful, walked from the wooded shelter of the gazebo with a smile that could melt all the frost that had invaded Gwen's body from her six-month stint in the Antarctic. Having been apart for so long, Elvia appeared more mature than she recalled, for her face had lost some of that puppy-dog cuteness. Gwen, herself provisioned by the Essence of an immortal being, knew that Elvia's maturity was not due to the tyranny of a clock hand's leaden circles. Rather, it was the stress, the woe, and the worries of the world that had taxed her dearest friend. On route past Singapore, Gwen had visited the refugee camps in Pulau Ubin, where the islander asylum seekers had been dispossessed. From the caretaker, she had learned of Elvia's failed mission and walked among the folk her dearest Elvia had sought to save. Within weeks, the talented few among the refugees had been plucked by Singapore's industrious Tower from the shelters, leaving only the mediocre and the NoMs to fend for themselves in a camp that made Shanghai's Districts look like five-star hotels. When the refugees had left their homes, the promise had been that they would find shelter and security from monsters—and this the city had delivered—only now, the men and women there were at the mercy of monsters wearing human skin. Some of the camps had taken on work from the city and had established a semi-autonomous council of foremen and peacekeepers. The majority, however, had descended into a crucible of vice, becoming the playthings of gangs and strongmen or officials who saw their bitter labour as tedium and insult. For the "Faithful" who had followed Elvia, Gwen had made arrangements with the local government to ease their eventual passage into the city's economy. As for the rest—her time and charity were bankrupt—for she owed them nothing. Her only motivation was that, should Elvia return someday to witness the end of her Ordo's goodwill, she would be less sad knowing that most had lived hard, if fruitful, lives. "Gwennie…" The instant their gazes crossed, her Knight Companion blossomed like an unfurling rose, her cheeks growing as pink as pippins and just as adorable. From behind her dearest _friend_ , Kiki and Sen-sen's inhuman faces peek out from the underbrush, still too wary of Caliban's scent to approach too close. Gwen responded kindly, sending Ariel forth to frolic so Elvia's Familiar and Spirit could be at ease. As for Caliban—her Void fiend had grown lethargic of late, meaning more precise instruments were needed to exactly ascertain the effects of consuming a very confused and unsuspecting Lich. One that, according to Gunther, did indeed escape Caliban's Pocket Plane gullet, only to find itself in a Quasi-Elemental Plane of all-consuming life, one that was equally partial to the digestion of Un-life. Consequently, her command over the Sanctioned Magic left by her Master had grown… an alarming prospect, but one she welcomed, especially considering what was to come. Thankfully, it took less than a split-second for her mind to return to the sublime vision of Evee striding through the unnatural floral garden as though Alphonse Mucha had brought a secret epic to life. "Practicing for Christmas already?" Gwen couldn't stop grinning, for her mouth had acquired a separate, happy sentience. "Evee, I've missed you so…" "I heard…" Elvia shimmied close, then closer, until her forehead was almost at Gwen's chin. Gwen inhaled. The scent of jasmines from Elvia's hair, likely a product of Kiki's making, made her want to confess her greatest sins. "… that you helped Father Bambang and the others at Singapore… thank you, Gwen, truly." "It was nothing," Gwen replied without hesitation, for the effort was truly nothing. For she who had returned successfully from the Antarctic Black Zone, uplifting NoMs was barely considered a favour by Singapore Tower. "There's going to be far more chaos to come. More refugees will soon flood into the Frontiers… I can't even begin to imagine." "They'll need a lot of help and aid." Evee took her hand and began to guide her deeper into the garden until they were inside the dainty gazebo, within which was a nice little picnic basket, as well as plates and glasses. "So that's why you weren't out there to greet me." Gwen felt her chest flutter. "What's the occasion?" "To thank you." Elvia's hand squeeze her fingers. "You've done so much for us… for me, the Ordo, and the people— _everywhere_." "I am doing this out of necessity." Gwen still wasn't sure whether her venture was going to be a profitable one or if she was going to be out of pocket. The Bloom in White's reward had yet to materialise. And even if it did, she wasn't sure if an Elven Monarch's payment could be meaningfully liquidated into currency. "It's just as much for myself as it is for anyone. After all, don't I live in the Prime Material? Doesn't Gunther and Alesia? You and Yue?" "You're too modest." Elvia invited her to sit. Together, the two made themselves comfortable. Elvia filled their glasses with wine from the abbey's private collection, and they sipped on fermented grape juice while Gwen regaled her tale of Antarctica, the Blooms, the Elementals and the Undead. Her story drew laughter, tears, and awe and fear from her listener, who seemed very much invested in Gwen's hypothesis regarding the nature of _The Accord_ and the role played by the Blooms and their lizards in sustaining the Great Trees of the Axis Mundi. By the time Gwen's tale had returned to Sydney's shores with Yue's promotion, the sun was sinking into the English horizon, staining Albion's firmament a darkly brewed Earl Grey. The sweetmeats, cheeses and biscuits Elvia had brought were also depleted, signalling that they were near the end of their _recess_. "I wish I could be as strong as you, Gwennie.." her soulmate stared into the depth of her oversized wine glass, her cheeks now the colour of ripe peaches. "I try, and I try… and still couldn't do it. I couldn't save them, Gwen. I took them away from the Elementals feeding on their children, only to have them abandon their homes, then leave them in Singapore." Before Gwen could move to soothe her companion's trauma, Elvia suddenly looked up. "I wrote a song in our time apart," her soulmate said suddenly. "It's meant to be for the Carols by Candlelight, but I want you to hear it first. Will you hear it, Gwennie?" "Is there any doubt I would kill for the privilege?" Gwen raised both brows in defiance of Elvia's accusation that she might not be fully attentive to a song written by an angel. "Let's hear it!" A little embarrassed, Elvia started to hum, then corrected herself a few times before finally launching into song. A few bars in, Gwen recognised it as the one the girl was practising earlier. Calming herself, she allowed the lyrics to flow through her mind. _May I wake you before morning?_ _When the trees are painted amber_ _To a breakfast of our making_ _Of forgotten feelings, few remember—_ _Outside, the mayflies are many_ _Outside, the brightest blossoms unfold_ _Swayed by the bell beat of companionable swans_ _Whose hearts will never grow old_ _Then a cold wind blows_ _Winter strips the yews_ _A cold wind blows_ _Though I am warm by you_ _Why frets if the day was lost or won?_ _Or if our hours grow lean and few?_ _The sea may rise, and the whole world drown_ _Care not— for my world is here with you—_ As Elvia sang, Kiki and Sen-sen came to sit beside them, as did Ariel. Like a child wondering at her finest picture book, Gwen sat entranced, enjoying the private, impromptu concert. The chorus repeated itself twice, stumbling here and there. When finally, Evee's humming drew to an end, her lips moved as though she wanted to say something truly profound. After a few false starts, the girl shook her flaxen head. "I…I can't… It's too hard." Evee's head hung low, moving to avert Gwen's gaze. "I can't do it. Gwennie." "Don't be sad, Evee." Gwen replaced her wine glass. "Don't be like that. You did what you could. The Ordo did as much as it was willing. That's the fact of life. That's all we can do and all we need to do." "You don't know, Gwennie. There's _so much more_ I need to do." Elvia appeared to be talking to herself, or at least, to the wine. "Sometimes, I wish I hadn't chosen this path—but then I remind myself, this is what I wanted. _All_ of this is what I had chosen for myself. Here is my sovereignty; I must lie in it." Gwen brought the girl's head closer to her own, then kissed the soft hair, feeling the warmth transmute through her lips like a spark to tingle her insides. "Don't overthink it, Evee. Whatever it is that you need, I'll help you. As your God is my witness, I can be very helpful." For a moment, she daringly wondered if Elvia would tilt her head back, their eyes would meet like in those old Hollywood classics, and then… everything would be alright. But Elvia instead leaned forward, slipping from her grasp. Elvia wiped away the excess moisture from her eyes. Her face again restored to its adorable self. "Let's finished up. Didn't you say that you had a dinner party to attend? It's almost dark. All those important people want to see you, speak to you, and seek your guidance and blessing. Wouldn't they be upset? It's an important party, _right_? You need to save the world." Gwen felt the beckoning call of the Message Device on her wrist. Had she not disabled it before coming to see her Evee, the "Dings" would resemble a street percussion performance. "O Evee…" She wanted more time with Elvia before returning to her unhappy reality. And if she was as influential as Elvia said, then she had time. "As long as you're here, the party… _doesn't matter._ "

October was heating up for the folk of Oxbridge's Academic Board, whose august members possessed three opinions on the matter of "Magister Gwen Song" and her rise to prominence. The first was the working crew of academics responsible for the university's certification examination, honest in their opinion that Provisional Magister Song had demonstrated ample ability to bring prosperity to a small dominion. The second faction had ties to the IoDNC's balance sheets and demanded to know if any other Magisterial candidate had accrued as much _credit_ as Magister Gwen Song. Their argument held that Gwen was the one who motivated the report, " _A Hypothesis on Elemental Flux on regional Climates, Change and its Consequences_ ," an achievement enough to elevate her title to that of _provisional_ Meisterhood. They likewise pointed out that Magister Song was already the author of no less than twenty-seven papers on Void Magic, co-authored by Magister Maxwell Brown of Emmanuel's College and others in Peterhouse. Her Author Citation Index: cited the pro-Gwen faction, matched scholars like Meister Petrie Higgs, responsible for the Conjuration formulae employed in the spatial magic that enabled Humanity's partnership with Dwarven low-ways. For that reason, there was no sense that Oxbridge should gift Gwen a mere Black Gown and not the Scarlet Sash, signalling one whose contributions outstripped her contemporaries. The final faction opposed awarding _provisional_ Magister Song anything other than the non-hooded Magus Gown for basic graduation. In their eyes, the young War Mage was just that—a loose canon. She was not an academic. She did not contribute personally to the human body knowledge of Spellcraft, and her recent achievements were more suited to civil service than academia. Even if the girl was capable of a plethora of sorcery, her craft was taught or inherited rather than discovered. Ergo, a Meisterhood was absurd, and a Magisterhood was already the limit of the committee's greatest allowances. Additionally, the conservatives complained loudly—the girl had missed her welcoming party and its impromptu viva voce. The entire panel had awaited her arrival, hoping to hear from the horses' mouth its defence of the events presented by Maxwell Brown on her behalf, only to be left out in the cold. Worse still, a rumour even had it that she had spent the night at an abbey in Battle with the Ordo Bath! Such zealot-like behaviour was the antithesis of Oxbridge's academic and pragmatic-minded modernity. If the girl wanted to dabble in Faith Magic, let her join an Ordo. Then, the academic circles could wash their hands clean of her corruptive, money-grubbing influence and return to business as usual. The debate was well-argued until the point of Gwen's economic clout, framed as the "stink of HDMs that wreath her like a crown..." was brought up for the third time. At this point, a member of the audience, Lady Grey, the Marchioness of Ely, reminded the genteel committee that she remained Cambridge's largest landlord and was also a major shareholder of Magister Song's IoDNC. She informed them that the forgiving rent on Cambridge's enormous grounds was a rude subject for a refined audience. That and she was not pleased by the politics involved in confirming her protègè. With the voice of a stern nanny, she informed the grumpy men that no Magisterial confirmation may be impromptu and that all merit, in the eyes of the university, is apolitical. She did not wish to impact their decision, though the county's outgoings had been increasing of late. After that, even without a body being present, _Magister_ Gwen Song's provisional confirmation concluded with a supermajority. What was left to confirm was the official confirmation itself and the candidate's final biometrics, for her Mastery of the different schools of magic would determine the number of silks she wore over her all-blacks, such as azure for Conjuration, crimson for Evocation, Tyrian for Transmutation, and so on. At any rate, what had been a stunt remained just that—for the girl had already missed the June graduation ceremony, and her moment of publicity would have to wait until the middle of '07, even if Gwen were to assume official duties on the morrow. Indifferent to the board's turmoil, the soon-to-be officialised Magister Song was far too busy to worry about the misguided politics of a college. Once Gwen had recharged her sanity, she returned to the Isle of Dogs to oversee the paperwork taxing Eric Walken's sanity. Thankfully, the lion's share of her catch-up labour required her signature rather than judgement, a formality Walken had left for her to shoulder, possibly out of spite. Concurrently, she concluded an interview with the METRO, giving Lorenzo the rest of her lumen captures Richard and Petra had taken of the refugees around the various places she had visited, delivering stern remarks for the troubles to come. After that, she checked in on her Dwarven allies, most of whom had now returned home via the fully functional Dyar Morkk transit station below the Isle of Dogs, now overseen by "Station Master" Hanmoul. As far as Gwen could discern, the station was the sort of Brutalist engineering marvel seen only in old-world fantasy epics. Separated into three sectors and almost twenty levels, the ant city "node" connected London's ley-lines with that of re-activated Dwarven Low-ways throughout Wales and Scotland, creating a series of Pocket Planes that compressed space. To travel from London to Merthyr Tydfil in Wales was four hours by crow-flight and almost seven hours by land transit. Now, twenty minutes was all it took for a "Low-way Tram" to navigate the same distance. While the process remained incomparable to Teleportation, the core premise of the Dyar Morkk was the ease of transporting heavy materials without additional cost in mana—an arcane secret Humanity had yet to unlock. For this reason, the "Dwarven Subway Station" conjoining Canary Wharf and the London Underground was undoubtedly the most important infrastructural addition to London since its original transit routes were constructed. As a result, employment at all levels on the Isle of Dogs had grown almost ten-fold, as had the land price of the surrounding suburbs, as well as the interest expressed by the Mageocracy and its allies' corporations in establishing a base of operations on the Isle. Quite literally, what had begun as a farm and a slag swamp only years ago, was now the most sort-after commercial real estate in recent years. All who had initially invested in the Isle of Dog, or were given principle shares during its inception, were now speechless. Some, such as the Marchioness of Ely and the American Lady Astor, cooly accepted that their wealth had increased by degrees and margins that were _generational_ in scale. Early investors like Richard Huang, who had been paid in shares and salary, now looked into purchasing manors in Knightsbridge or Mayfair—areas with unexpected vacancies thanks to the troubles of the Militant nobilities' finances. Others, such as the Isle's initial Mage employees, could repay their tuition ten times over. Even the humble NoM folk who had opted for limited shares from the Isle's first phase offering were now poised to hold enough capital to make a Senior Magus weep—a dangerous circumstance for those untethered to power. Conversely, three days after her arrival, the architect of London's wealth left the city to finally grace herself in front of Oxbridge's Magisterial panel, who had burning questions on their plate to serve her. Like a choir, her proctors' inquiries boomed across the vaulted ceilings in the great hall of Peterhouse. "Do you mean that… it is by your connection to… the Elder One… that you hypothesised the climate changes brought about by the Elementals?" Their questions were ones which Maxwell Brown, her lecturer, co-author and ally, had already answered over and over without satisfaction—the question of _why a Frontier sorceress knew of Climate Change when all the Queen's Mages and Magisters_ could not construct a whole picture. After all, all of Gwen's predictions came true. The Fire Sea _was_ an experiment of sorts in changing the climate of the Caspian. The assault on the poles _was_ an extension of the same principle—now ratified by Zordiam's Legions. The Elves _had_ been blindsided by the prospect of what Spectre was willing to sacrifice to accomplish—and in their limited success, the world was now thrown into an inexplicable, unpredictable chaos, making it ripe for subversive anarchy. Again, all of this was predicted by a Frontier sorceress with only a few years of university education. Even if Meister Engela Bekker had proposed the outcome, the pioneering Eugenicist would have still been scrutinised by her peers. Yet, an un-titled Gwen Song had delivered a ludicrous warning— Then, a bank-breaking military Expedition had set sail for the North Pole. Then somehow, House Ravenport funded yet another Expedition for the South Pole. AND THEN—both had returned with the news that INDEED, there _was_ Elemental interference in the Axis Mundi and that what could be fixed had been repaired. But still, the lax security would precipitate a tough decade of global chaos. If one could trace Gwen's involvement throughout the events, they would have thought that perhaps, Magister Gwen Song was a member of Delphi's Oracles. Even the Oracle herself, a known prophetess, had not come to nearly foresee as much detail as a twenty-something Void Mage from Sydney. Hence, many were curious to know even the vaguest answers from their soon-to-be-minted Magister. To her credit, Gwen had already prepared several misdirections to rationalise her otherworldly insight: from the works of old Magisters and Meister who had studied the Axis Mundi to citing the unconfirmed labours of her Master, Henry Kilroy, to finally heaping credit on Almudj the Rainbow Mythic. Though stern, the session was not intended to pry—nor coerce. In all likelihood, the sitting Magisters knew her form-fitting ankle-length jeggings were on fire—not that it mattered. According to Brown, her confirmation was all but concluded, and the process was merely a formality. As pragmatic men, the panel accepted the casualty of truth for the gift of her service. Thereby, she and the committee danced the quadrille until the questions were exhausted, and the final lines of her service to the _Greater Good_ of Humanity were customarily asked. "Do you, candidate Gwen Song, concur that your advancement of Spellcraft shall benefit Humanity in the years of your service as a Sanctioned Magister of the Commonwealth Mageocracy?" As a tradition, the basic expectation was that a candidate would uphold Humanity's interests in a just and moral manner. The open nature of the question was deliberate, as both qualities were malleable and highly contextual. "I shall," the soon-to-be ratified Magister Gwen Song verified her best intentions. "I shall always endeavour to achieve the greater good, that all parties may profit from cooperation." The committee murmured their agreement. "There is one more addition. What shall be your coda to your juniors, Magister Song?" The final formality was for the books. Over the centuries, many Magisters have left timeless mottos recited by subsequent generations. Brown had forewarned Gwen that such a flair would be added to her records at Cambridge and that though inconsequential, it should be done with _style._ Considering that her Magisterhood was based upon the proof of the necessity of intervention in matters of the Axis Mundi, Gwen had only one particular phrase in mind—one as arrogant as it was truthful. __ “ _Quod Erat Demonstrandum._ ” Her reply must have raised every brow in the theatre. Her Magisters in question nodded their agreement. QED, the conclusion of the Polar incident was as she had predicted, and so was the rapidly evolving matter of the refugees and the disruption of the Mageocracy's economic framework of colonial Frontiers and first-tier cities. After her hour-long viva, Gwen was escorted by Magister Brown back to Peterhouse's working section, where her spectrometric reading was to take place. For the common Magus or Magister in a lesser institution, the readings would have been presented to the committee as a measure of their worthiness. For a Magister graduate from Oxbridge, achievements were deemed worthier than mere prowess in magic, as candidates with meaningful research were rarer than Battle Mages. Conversely, Gwen was an odd egg within Cambridge's walls. She was an import and a Combat Mage more fitting for the alumni of London Imperial, whose graduates were well noted for possessing some of the highest combat prowess in the Mageocracy. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. Thereby, as the scion of Kilroy and a War Mage of the Shard, her true biometrics was a subject of classification, known only to the highest members of the military order and the Tower. When the door to the familiar lab slid open soundlessly, she was greeted by the pleasant face of Gracie Hillbrook. "QUACK!" Before Gwen could react, a massive yellow-billed face instantly snuggled up to her and wrapped its enormous neck around her waist, transforming her into a Carnival float-girl. "Dede!" Gwen kissed the duck on the bill. "My, you've grown smaller! Did you learn a new trick?" "Quack!" The duck made its intentions known. "Alright—alright!" Gwen slathered a palmful of Essence down the duck's reciprocating bill, then conjured forth a happy Ariel, who began running circles around the colourful drake. After several bouts of "Quack!" and "EE—EE!" The Familiar and duck were ushered from the laboratory into Peterhouse's gardens. Finally, Gwen was able to address her friend of two years. "Magister Song!" Gracie clutched her data pad while wearing an expression of a star-struck rock fan. "Y-you're finally back!" "Gracie! My goodness… you look…" Gwen could not help but feel a warm gush of gladness infuse her mana conduits, for it had taken her several seconds to ascertain that, indeed, this was the same Void Mage. "Amazing! And don't you start! It's _Gwen_ to you, Magus Hillbrook!" When Gwen had left, Gracie was nearing the breaking point of her Affinity for Conjuration to use the Conjure Familiar spell to find herself something akin to Caliban or Jean-Paul's Umzokwe. She had left the girl plenty of Essence-infused Maotai as backup, and Brown was acting as the overseer of his and Gwen's great experiment to "stabilise" the health of a growing Void Mage. Still, Gracie had appeared like a lost cousin to The Addams Family, both ghastly in her complexion and dour in her introverted fatalism. Now, the girl was the most hale she had ever seen, with rosy cheeks adorning a woman the bloom of her college days. "It's all thanks to you." Gracie curtsied at first, then stopped and bowed. "We found a suitable Familiar for me! I can source my vitality now, Gwen. _Thank you so much._ " " _Quod Erat Demonstrandum."_ Brown chuckled. "I did promise that _reconstitution_ was possible with your Master's Method, the very same he did for Sobel and yourself. So, what do you think, Magister Song? Pleased with your research? I did submit the papers with you and me as principal authors." Gwen couldn't help but walk a circle around the white-robed Gracie. After her depression at sea, Gracie's happiness was amazing news that delivered a jolt of Radiance to dispel her lightless months in the Antarctic. "There's no biting fish yet—" Her former tutor spoke again after she and Gracie burned a few minutes to catch up. "But we are expecting others like Gracie shortly. Once we stabilise Gracie's condition in a longitudinal sense, I suspect the universities of the central continent will grow desperate, that and I wouldn't put it past Meister Bekker to possess another stock of students like Jean-Paul, only without JP's luck." What Brown meant, Gwen knew well, was something she had entirely overlooked for Gracie's sake, the use of Soul Tap on her peers to _save_ them from themselves, enslaving their Astral Souls to gift them a portion of vitality via Sympathetic Soul-Link. In Brown's research, the breaking point of Void-vitality equilibrium could not be reached without explicit design. All naturally occurring Void Mages would invariably perish unless they possess a high Affinity for Conjuration from birth. Even so, they must achieve a sufficient tier to use the Conjure Familiar spell. Then, they must cycle through Familiars until a suitable creature could be farmed or found, with the caveat that each instance a new Familiar was conjured or abandoned, the caster suffered enough feedback to self-destruct. Gracie's new best friend, the girl had summoned, was a Void-subtype Gastropoda dubbed the "Abyssal Conch", something between a land snail and a carrion crawler. The Familiar was purchased at the Grey Faction's Auction thanks to Lady Astor's many-talented tentacles. And Gracie was lucky enough to find compatibility with the creature, who felt enough Affinity to fall into her service. Thus far, the Void-slime-secreting snail was the size of a house cat. It fed ravenously on high-vitality ingredients and was principally a nocturnal hunter that silently "grazed" on prey by oozing paralysing digestive juices over its sleeping victims. As per her usual greeting, Gwen gave the creature a helping boost by sharing some of her Essence, making its owner shudder and flush a healthy scarlet. Gwen wanted Caliban to meet its cousin and see if the two might build a friendship, but her Familiar remained unattentive. Even conjured, Cali presented itself as an inert black mass. A few minutes later, with Gracie's aide, Gwen stood dutifully in her gown and channelled her various Schools of Magic into the sterile instruments. At the same time, Brown made his recordings known, reading them out once for himself and again for Gracie to punch into the records. "Evocation… 6.99." "Conjuration… 6.99." “Transmutation…5.99.” The already silent room grew quieter somehow. "Your Affinity is better than mine by a tier," Brown read the scripts, looked up at Gwen with an awkward grimace, and then read the white slips again. "Just how much did you fight over the six months?" "There was a small continent of Undead Mermen." Gwen did not wish to recollect her six months too vividly. Less pleasant memories were best kept buried if she cared about her mental health. "Did you read the report?" "Three Month inland, two months breaking through the blockade?" Brown nodded. "Daily fighting?" "We fought like Dwarves. Sometimes up to sixty or more hours." Gwen felt her chest grow cold as muscle memories reflexively re-lived those moments. "The Undead Kraken took us a month, one tentacle at a time. Luring it out, fighting its Shoal, thinning its vanguards, flank guards, royal guards, _strewth,_ give me a live Kraken any day. Thank God it couldn't regenerate well enough to keep fighting or was intelligent enough to abandon its post." "And that it had no Lich to support or command it," Brown reminded Gwen of her world-famous achievement. "What a stroke of genius it was to use Caliban on the Ziggurat." "It was. As for the aftermath..." Gwen made a genuine gagging motion. "You cannot believe the smell. It seeps into everything. Even now, I am sure there are residue strands of Necrotic mana in my Astral Soul. You know, I burned everything replaceable that I took with me on the expedition." "Of course," Brown continued. "Abjuration… 5.22." "Wow." Gracie's fingers were white with tension. "Gwen, you're amazing." "Divination… 2.50." "Illusion… 4.01." "Enchantment… 4.45." "Gwen.. you're a _bonafide_ Omni-Mage!" If Gracie's pupils could glow, they would have lit up like Faith relics. "I am relieved your other magics remain within the realm of mortals," Magister Brown joked. "In that combination, however, I am not sure if you're still Human, Gwen." "I feel… _Human_ ," Gwen assured them. "Well, we'll know if your ears start to elongate." Brown made sure to glance at her ears, making Gwen conscious enough to touch them. "And your… other Affinity, the one gifted by your unusual diet—" Gwen's ears perked up. "Do you wish to know?" "What's not to like?" Gwen shrugged. "At this point, I am invested." "6.99." Brown read out the number. "I shall refrain from commenting on your private relationship with your Master's designs, so let's move on. Now… your Affinity for the Elements. Let's see—" The machine quickly spat out a new script as if equally eager to move on. "Lightning is at 7.99… inclusive of Ariel's current supplementation, its reading… is 8.54. A bit on the low side." "Yes. That's less than I imagined." To the horror of the examiners, Gwen had the gall to complain. "You need to advance your Kirin's purity," Brown noted her dissatisfaction. "Higher order Cores, perhaps import a few from your Draconic connections?" Gwen quickly thought of Golos' gift from the Frost Wyrm, then dismissed it promptly lest she grew tempted to take a friend's existential prospect to evolve her pet. "How about Caliban?" "Assuming its dormancy does not impact its Affinity boost…" Brown pulled the script through his fingers. "Ah, there it is—6.33 for your base Affinity, and Caliban is adding… my God… a whopping 1.3—for a total of 7.63. That's an ENORMOUS growth, Gwen. Since your Lightning is already there, you should know that the difference between tier 6 and 7 are magnitudes apart." Gwen exhaled. With Caliban in its current state, she had suspected that there would be significant growth on the part of her partner. After all, the Necromancy Cabal was the single largest "feast" Caliban had the pleasure of imbibing. "We'll have to run tests… a lot of tests…" Brown appeared like a giddy child on Boxing Day. "And finally… yes, I did suspect this. Your VMI, young Magister, is now registering over 500. Five hundred and _three_ , to be precise. Congratulations, Gwen. At the ripe old age of twenty-one, you are now counted within the top ten percentile of all Magisters in the Mageocracy. How does that make you feel?" "Good?" Gwen answered from the changing room, switching back to her jean-blouse combo. Her clothes, one of her remaining innocent passions, were now a year out of date and potentially polluted. When she had the opportunity again, she would have to take Petra, Lulan and Gracie to raid Harrods for the latest and the greatest. Arguably, a woman of largesse like herself could take the ISTC down to Le Bon Marché Rive Gauche in Paris, though having Military Police escort her shopping spree was excessive even for Magister Song. "Would you wish to know why your readings are ending with .99?" Brown asked when she emerged, one hand dexterously tying her voluminous hair and the other browsing through a spare data slate held with a Mage Hand. "I do." She had wondered about that. "You lack the Spellcraft to push past the meniscus of Affinity growth." Brown tapped the top of the data slate. "Are we on the same page?" "My spells are too simple to facilitate a breakthrough?" Brown raised his hands to make the sign for _six_. "At its most complex, you've got Maelstrom and Blade Barrier for Evocation. You have no spells at the sixth tier for Conjuration beyond Planar Ally. What of Transmutation? The highest order of spells you've mastered is Sympathetic Life-Link at the fourth tier. Your... Necromancy is ironically doing better than five other Schools of Magic thanks to Soul Fire..." "I see…" "It's a little incredible and also insulting to know that you're knocking on the door of the Seventh-Tier, and you don't have a single Seventh-tier spell." Brown pinched the bridge of his nose, then extended a hand to count by the fingers as if labelling fruits for a toddler. "Elemental Eruption, Dimensional Jaunt, Force Cage, Prismatic Spray, Elemental Avatar, Adaptation, the options are almost limitless. Between your three principal Schools of Magic, I can scarcely imagine what the future holds." "I see…" Gwen gulped. "Keep in mind my Affinity is a condition, not a natural talent. Let's take it slow. I don't envy a misfire or mana feedback from the seventh tier." "Fine. Even so, new spells like Elemental Examiner and Hellfire Scorcher at the upper sixth tier would augment your current firepower against the type of foes you regularly challenge." Brown shook his head. "Yes, I know, the spells beyond the sixth tier are rare, of course, and expensive, but so are you." "Yes," Gwen conceded that her tutor was right. "I need new spells. And more lessons." "That you do." Brown sighed. "This brings up our next problem. The world is burning as we speak—according to you. Do you have time for more lessons? " Gwen sighed as well. "No." Brown looked her up and down, then cocked his head. "Then we must maximise your time before you're sent off on another assignment. Evocation, Transmutation and Conjuration, hmm—say, have you ever heard of Morden's Blade?" Gwen nodded. She had not only heard of the spell but had seen it employed first-hand by none other than her Master's wife. "Considering your lack of specialised giant slaying spells, I would look toward Scotland and see if you can solicit the spell from the Greyhawk Citadels of Suilven. For the foes you had faced—Dragon Turtles and whatnot, there's nothing more efficient than a non-strategic Tier 7 slaying spell. Unfortunately, those Fomorian-slaying Scotsmen are not very friendly toward us, considering their stance on independence—" _Morden…_ It was still a moment of wonder to Gwen that The Bloom herself had confided in her of her Master's true origin as the direct descendent of Archmage Morden. According to the ageless Hvítálfar, the current IMS, or _Imperial Magic System_ , was born from Henry forcibly donating his grandfather's legacy to the Mageocracy, erecting its Towers and instructing its future generations. If a scion of Kilroy was to approach the scions of Morden to ask for Signature magic… Gwen drew a deep, uncertain breath. She wanted the spell that Sobel used and had lamented its absence in her Master's treasure trove of Necromancy notes. To swing the same blade to cut down Elizabeth's Spectre allies and gut her plans from chest to groin...would be _sublime_. Nothing short o that could absolve the limitless misery she had been forced to witness—forced to _triage_. In that case, what was the harm if she wished to purchase a copy of a spell her Master would have one day taught? At best… she deeply suspected there wouldn't be a discount. At worst... what could Henry's family do other than deny her?

Scotland. Suilven. The Greyhawk Citadels. Within the grand hall of the Tower of Elements hung the world's first and largest man-made orrery. It was here, in the heart of Spellcraft, that Arch-Mage Morden pierced the Astral Planes' veils to fathom the Prime Material's stratum. For the citadel's students, the orrery has always been the centre of its quasi-magical decor, a wonder that, through overexposure, had grown mundane. It was also a wholly accurate depiction of the present state of Astrophysical cartography, a fact of pride for the Greyhawkian students, who would regale every visitor with the fact that their orrery was handcrafted by Morden centuries ago. Arch-Mage Morden! A being of legend whose achievements brought about modern Spellcraft. Yet, if one questioned the college's custodians on Morden's contemporary relevance, the speakers' tones would grow reticent. Situated atop the heart of Assynt's cnoc-and-loch landscape, the citadel's history was as complicated as its encircling cliffs, bluffs and lakes. The first was the press-printed truth, in which Morden's descendants opened Morden's theorems to the rest of the western world, ushering in the age of the Imperial Spellcraft System. Thanks to it, the _Magic of Industries_ came to be, first revitalising the wayward empires of Humanity, then leading them into the pitfall of Necromancy. Yet, despite setbacks, the net gain of the IMS was self-evident, as Humanity had clawed its way to the top of the food chain and established the most widespread race of terrestrial _beings_ to inhabit terra's continents. The second was a tale known only to its direct inheritors—that Morden did produce an heir with his aptitude—only to have the heir sell out the Tower's secrets for some fantastical dream of utopia. From this _heretic_ —this traitor of blood—came the Towers, each an inexact copy of Morden's peerless citadel, tethered together by terra's ley lines like ramshackle ships huddling in the face of an eternal storm. Within these rare halls of the Greyhawk Tower, its Magisters, the custodians of Morden's knowledge, now debated. The matter was regarding the heretic's Apprentice, a young woman named Magister Gwen Song of Sydney, whose home Tower was The Shard. Her origins made her British in their eyes, and no true Scotsmen would allow a British Magister the easy luxury of plucking an upper-tier sorcery of Morden's make like cabbage from a market. Dean Ross McKay, Master of the Tower of Elements, believed that the girl was an investment which could mend the unhappy politics between the the "Free City" of Suilven and The Shard. Magister Sebastian Moore, of the Morden purists, led the coalition which opposed having any association with the Scion of the Heretic, lest more of the Tower's hearth treasures be embezzled from its vaults. Magister Cora Hogg, responsible for modernising the Tower's interests in the epoch of the Mageocracy, argued that the spells requested by the heretic's Apprentice should be delivered—but the costs should be paid both by its user and in concessions from The Shard. After all, they were sharpening a sword that would never directly benefit Suilven, while their spells could only be given away once. The recently appointed Student Council President—Slylth McAllister Morden, was the final member of note who observed the paralysed debate. With great deliberation, the young man slowly leaned toward the Dean's ear and whispered his wishes. Visibly, the dispassionate Dean, who had grown tired of the ceaseless dissension, straightened his ancient spine. The others ceased their minutes and waited for the Dean to speak. Their gaze also fell upon the youthful Slylth, a boy of sixteen summers. That the Dean would give weight to a child's words was a bit ridiculous for an institution as steeped in tradition as Suilven, but the boy was a Morden. A _Morden_ who appeared as if from thin air, but one verified by the surviving members of the bloodline and given ethos by the word of a Demi-God. The "Demi-God" in question was Alexander Morden, the sixth generation of his line, the last Magi of the Citadel. Since the Pan-European War, the century-old Magi had slumbered in his domain deep within the Dungeon-Citadel of Greyhawk, seldom sensible to the mortal matters of the real world. Four years ago, with the boy's arrival, the citadel's administrative staff had received a rare edict from the citadel's Dungeon depth. _"This is my Scion. Pay heed to him as you would a fruit of mine loins."_ There was no doubt where the proposal came from, though the message was both cryptic and nonsensical. However, none in the citadel questioned it, for the Divination had come straight from the horse's mouth. Thankfully, the boy was as advertised. As would be expected of one from Morden's line, Slylth was a natural Mage, talented beyond comprehension, possessing no barriers to any particular Schools of Magic except for a genuine dislike for Illusion and Divination. A Fire Mage, the boy also possessed Affinity for Elemental Magma and Radiance. Without a doubt, this particular "Morden" was a triple-talented genius of the century that any institution would jealously guard with militant zealousness. Additionally, while one would expect the young man to be aloof and uninterested in the college's business like many of Morden's research-obsessed scions, the lad proved charismatic and ambitious. Within months, he had won the support of the student body. His studies had grown just as quickly. Having begun elementary magic in the first year, the boy mastered multiple tiers of sorcery in Evocation, Transmutation and Abjuration within the first two trimesters, allowing him to graduate from the role of an Acolyte within six-month of his admission. By his second year, Slylth was ready to quest with his seniors, providing his party with greater firepower than a military Mage Flight. Now in his fourth year, there was little doubt the college was grooming Slylth for leadership, envisioning a future where, once more, a "Morden" shall lead the Greyhawk Citadel's attempts at finding independence from the Commonwealth. The Dean spoke once more. "The _heretic_ has been judged by his sins—and so ends our grievance with him. Be it weal or woe, we cannot alienate his young Apprentice as we did the heretic' first. That was a regret we never rectified. Magister Song has done great things and brought fortuitous warnings for future tidings. Though we cannot accept her as our own, her service should be rewarded." Magister Sebastian Moore, his white beard bristling with unhappiness, appeared unmoved. "She is a _Void Mage_. We've seen how the heretic's pet has impacted the world. Who can say it was for the better? Humanity may appear powerful, but this _front_ of power is a Japanese screen—as thin as the Mageocracy's overstretched resources, which shrink as we speak. Now, we no longer share the land with the other races—the Mageocracy, be it here or in the New World, are festering sores on a weak, dying king." "Again, Sebastian, you speak as if our home is afloat on the aether streams of the Ethereal Plane, untethered to the Prime Material. Whatever feelings our people possess for the theft of our craft and knowledge, we are loci to the Axis Mundi. The growth of the outside world has benefited us well. When was the last time we suffered a great defeat against The Wild Hunt? How many students of yours have perished against the Fomori in the last decade? A dozen? No more than you can count on both hands. How many of our generation are left, in comparison? Do you realise we can count that number with both hands as well? _Why is that,_ I wonder?" The retort from Magister Cora Hogg was enough to keep the conservative Magister's bile contained. "Well said." The Dean motioned for the speakers to rest. "On another note. I think this is a matter best dealt with by the next generation. Slylth suggests we meet the girl to gauge her mind and mettle. Our Slylth is a prodigy, and by all accounts, so is their young War Mage. Perhaps they will have a more meaningful conversation than we old men and women, hmm?" The two Magisters regarded the smiling young man with the ruffled, rusted hair. There was very little likeness to Morden there. For one, the man wasn't losing a single strand of his hair, while the Arch-Mage was as powerful as he was bald. The young man gave them a pleasant smile. Having seen the boy grow into a young man over the last half-decade, his lecturers found themselves unable to disappoint the sunny fellow, feeling like a refusal was akin to kicking a grinning wolfhound. "That's settled, then." The Dean clapped, signalling the end of their emergency meeting. "I leave the matter of Magister Song in the capable hands of our young Magus." London. The Isle of Dogs. In an epoch few still recall, the Isle of Dogs docklands once played home to a great influx, and then exodus, of refugees. When the Kingdom's domains in the west fell to the Wild Hunt in the Beast Tide brought on by Vynssarion Coal Eyes, a quarter of Dublin had to be evacuated lest the city fell in its entirety. The operation, dubbed the Dublin Exodus, took the effort of every merchant, naval and private vessel the nation could muster. For Magister Gwen Song, now hovering mid-air, she was reminded of another time, another world, of Syrian refugees traversing the Mediterranean in the hundreds of thousands, of the lone boy whose body washed up in the surf. But the city was no longer willing to cut these ships the necessary slack. In July, the nation's attitude toward these Frontiersmen and women had been sympathy and sorrow. These were, at their core, citizens of the Mageocracy. They had worked their meagre lives in their mundane ways to provide the resources necessary to keep the Mageocracy's great gears oiled and turning, and now it was time for the citizens to open their hearts and wallets. Gwen understood very well that the attitude was buoyed in part by a misunderstanding caused by Gunther. When Sydney fell, many refugees came to London and other European cities willing to take their quota. When Gunther reclaimed Sydney, eradicated the Mermen, made peace of a kind and began to transform Sydney into a tier 1 capital, the displaced Australians returned to their homeland and brought relatives and friends. Ergo, when the climate-related catastrophe began, even the conservative papers fielded the narrative that these refugees would be settled somewhere in the Kingdom and then happily return to their homelands once the fires died down. Come October, when the promise of the un-intrusive de-materialising refugees failed to occur and, in fact, resulted in MORE ships than formerly predicted, the Sun Herald and the Telegraph found their audience. _Refugees and soaring crime!_ _Rogue Mages assault the NoMs locals!_ _Low-skilled Sorcerers from the Frontier are taking the honest jobs of our home-grown lads!_ Perhaps it was because she had experienced it all before. Perhaps it was the power, wealth and influence she now wielded as a sanctioned Magister. She was supposed to be an objective observer, but Gwen felt mired by the scene below. In her old world, the same sights had seemed so removed. She was in Sydney, the beach was hot, and the azure ocean was cool. The "boat people" of the world were far away, existing as phantasms on the daytime telly. Now, they were underfoot, the marching, milling thongs of miserable faces from the Mageocracy's everywhere, each worse worn than the next. The splendour of London was blinding to most of them; this idea that a utopia existed so close when their whole lives had been toil and survival. "Richard," Gwen asked the stoic figure beside her, equally drinking the sight below in silence. "How many more placements do we have left?" "The IoDNC prepared Fifteen thousand spaces, mostly for women and children, on the Isle of Sheppey. Beyond that, I do believe the Marchioness' generosity will reach its end. Currently, there are _twenty thousand plus_ refugees taking shelter." It took Gwen several seconds to realise she'd been gritting her teeth. "How's Elvia's sanctuary?" Her poor Evee had thrown herself into the crisis like a martyr to a pyre. They were not a kilometre separated, yet she hadn't seen Elvia other than in mass-blessing ceremonies. "Overcapacity by half." Richard's tone remained unaffected. "We can manage with our resources, but it isn't a long-term solution. The Ordo's additional manpower won't last past the next shipment." Her cousin's words were a harsh reality and a new experience for Gwen. In business, in a successful acquisition, she rarely worried about the dispossessed workers. Those with marketable skills would take their severance and find better work within weeks. Those with outdated abilities would take a pay cut. As for those without the means, they were never meant to be a part of a lean, operational corporation with thirsty shareholders. Unfortunately for all, these sad boatloads were not companies, stocks, or parcels of profitability. They were losses in the most drastic and obscene manner imaginable. Having studied her share of NGO documentaries, Gwen knew her "dock" side of the catastrophe was already a model effort in sifting the refugees from London's shores. Taking her experience from Shalkar, she immediately summoned the Mage-power necessary to process the merchant vessels whose protocol had been to save all stricken ships at sea. At the docks, a small platoon of Ordo Clerics had energised the tired mobs with "Bless" and "Mass Healing Word", affording them the health and morale to line up and be registered by the government clerks sent to record the influx. Elvia's soup kitchen had tripled its temporary hires, paying premium wages to local bodies to mass-produce soup, rice and bread batches, further fortifying the survivors' patience. After the new arrivals were sorted into NoMs and Mages, each group went their separate ways. The Shard had a special holding area where the Mages would be given further testing, questions, and jobs and placements. The remaining NoMs were given to fate—meaning understaffed government agencies—or were abandoned to the designs of privateer charities like Elvia's religious entity or Gwen's pragmatic camps. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Somewhere within the city's myriad power brokers, she was certain that Humanity's more destructive instincts, like in Blackheath, were on full display—though that was not her duty or jurisdiction, at least for now. "Should we land among the new arrivals?" Richard asked. Gwen shook her head. Even if she did land for a photo-op, what would that prove? The METRO was already doing its utmost to garner charity and support, fighting the Telegraph tooth-and-nail to paint a brighter picture than the Sun Herald could conceive. But she could not promise these folk a brighter future. Here in this dark valley, there is only loss. The loss of social and economic capital. The loss of political capital. And the loss of human dignity. These folk, who had homes and futures months ago, now crowded upon the merchant ships like humanoid snails, carrying their life's proceeds in a new place that imagined them akin to a temporary rash that would go away with a soothing balm. A day earlier, when desperation had overthrown hope and unrest was at hand, she had sent Lulan with her leftover contingent of Shadow Mages to keep the peace. The idea of a private militia did not sit well with her, but nothing quite inspired discipline like Lulan standing on the upper dock, shading the agitators with floating slabs of humming iron. For now, the new refugees obeyed the curfews put in place. But like their predecessors from July, boredom will take root. Then desperation. Followed by anger. In economics, the situation was a death spiral. Jobs required industry. Work required homes. Homes require space. Spaces had to be secure. Security required costs. Costs required jobs. And every process must generate profit to create a cycle of sustainability. _And_ an uncertain volume of refugees _must_ be abandoned out of the unempathetic, statistical logos of resource limitations. And despite all of this, she had other interests that must be pursued, lovely distractions that would take her away from the headache below as easily as her Flight. Food, opportunity, home, none are luxuries, not even for the NoMs of London. With time, the meagre kindness of the nation would appear as cruelty, ignorance, and neglect. _DING!_ Her rumination was disrupted by the timely arrival of a golden Message chime, implying that a reply had come from an application submitted to The Shard. _"Magister Song. My name is Magus Slylth Morden of Suilven Tower. We have received your application for the instruction of our signature magic, Morden's Blade, and the elemental-shifted variation of Force Cage. Your application is a welcome sight. However, due to the sensitive nature of the spells requested, we would require you to attend in person at the college so that we may assess the eligibility of our gift to its new wielder. Additionally—"_ Gwen stopped the message right there. "Fuck that noise," Gwen said to Richard with a sigh. "The damned application already wasted three hours of my time, and they're charging almost four hundred Contribution Credits for the baseline variation, a thousand for the real deal. That's a decade's worth of CCs for the average Magus. Now they want to waste more of my time." Her time, considering the physical manifestation of human misery below was at an absolute premium. Her CCs were plentiful after Shalkar—and there remained a great deal to do. "Perhaps your reputation precedes you," Richard smirked. "After all, you told me there's beef between Morden's folk and your Master." "The price was _clearly_ marked. This reeks of politics." Gwen growled. She performed mental math and concluded that her next few weeks would be hellish enough without tomfoolery from her Master's long-lost _relos_ in Scotland. "Well, if they're not keen to receive CCs to keep their Tower afloat, _screw 'em_. Give Magister Brown a buzz. I'll prepare for Mass Flight." The _Mass Flight_ she desired wasn't the variety used to buff a Mage's party with the ability to ride Elemental air. Her application, processed by Maxwell, was for the genuine article, a mass-expenditure Transmutation that drained an upper-tier caster's mana pool to bring _Lesser Flight_ to as many users as possible for up to twenty-four hours. Whatever her future might hold—Gwen deeply suspected that London's immediate concerns would be stabilising the anarchy in its far Frontiers, which meant the mass mobilisation of men and women, both magical and mundane. As a War Mage more than likely leading the charge, she had a very important takeaway from her six months fighting the Undead: _aerial mobility_. So long as air superiority could be maintained—it was the singularly most useful effect any campaign commander could muster. Be it attack, defence, or retreat, nothing else trumped the means to engage or disengage at will. Most Mages distrusted the viability of air transport due to Magical Creatures interfering, but who was she? Magister Song was a privileged arcanist waiting on her new mini Yinglong! And her Ariel could equally dominate the skies! From experience, she was confident very few magical creatures would dare challenge her Draconic posse if they asked _nicely_. And on that front, she had placed an open order for a Draconic Core for Ariel, making a wink and a nudge at Ruxin through Mayuree's House of M. There was no small volume of guilt involved there as well, for the price which a nine to tenth level Core from a pure-blooded Lightning Elemental of the Draconic persuasion could field enough HDMS to keep ten thousand refugees fed for three months. She was rich—but her means were a late-stage capitalist's, not the self-sacrificing poor soldier ethos of Elvia's brethren. Her hypocrisy was self-evidently Beckettian, but luckily, Gwen possessed enough awareness to choose the modern man's method of boxing the absurdity and throwing away the box. "I think we've spent enough time here. Eric has the overflow under control, and there's enough in the coffers for contingencies." Gwen felt tired despite her wealth of Essence. "What's next?" "You have a meeting with Magus Williams of Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy. His appointments have been pushed back, though you said you wanted to visit the matter vis-a-vis. It's regarding the Ilias Leaf?" "Ah." Gwen recalled that she had left a sizeable volume of HDMs with the young man at the beginning of the year. Banking on his expertise in interfacing with Dwarven magi-tech, the research fellow from the US had promised a report on the viability of interfacing with the leaf. "I almost forgot he existed." "It isn't urgent, I hope." Richard looked for a place to land. Gwen followed. She could fly as she pleased, but that was paid for with CCs and prestige. "Magus Williams is often absent. I hear he has thrown himself body and soul to the Dyar Morkk project." "Maybe Gracie can pick up the report. We're keeping the research confined to Cambridge for now..." Gwen mulled the matter. As much as she wanted Project Legion off the ground, she doubted a wealth of investors would exist when the market remained so volatile. The two had not touched the week-old asphalt for more than two seconds when another Message, this time in the form of a familiar face, made a low dive over the crowd, carried by Aria Ravenport. In her gunmetal House uniform, the Mage reminded Gwen of a woman wearing a movie prop used for a Bond villain's lair. "Magister Song—!" the woman cried out before she was even close, perhaps fearing that Gwen would teleport away. "I bring a Summons from the Office of the Lord Marshall. Milord has consulted with The Shard, and your official posting has been organised!" "Hi, Aria." Gwen waited until the woman was close enough for them to shake hands. They had been co-workers, Aria had been her secretary in Auckland, and the two shared enough history to use their first names. "You've come straight from Westminster, then? No crow-mail? That would have sufficed." "It's a formality to hand-deliver important requests." Aria's intelligent eyes hesitated. "Gwen. The House Master wishes to speak to you regarding your placement personally." "I hope it's a good one." Gwen had a good feeling that any politeness from Ravenport meant a worse outcome. "Sorry, Gwen. I am not privy to that information." The young woman barely stopped herself from habitually bowing her head. "Are you able to attend to the Master now?" _Could she?_ Gwen wanted to say no. She had a scientist to see. Duties at Cambridge. A charity to facilitate. Spells to route learn. And her own NGO to mould into shape before it collapsed under its weight. _Should she?_ Gwen considered the cost of leaving the Lord Marshall of The Britannic Mageocracy waiting. She and this Mycroft were on _curious_ terms, one neither of them had expected. She was good mates with the daughter—but there was no denying she compelled the son's technical suicide. _Life..._ Gwen determined...could be very strange. Westminister. The Office of the Lord Marshall. In perhaps, the most unusual greeting Mycroft had ever seen, his guest entered with a prim bow and a loud "Milord Mycroft", then instantly turned to feed his bird something deeply suspicious. "Caw-caw!" Morrigan's avatar performed what could only be described as a jig and a dance before settling down on the backrest of the guest chair, perched over the girl as though _they_ were partners, not he and his blood-bound Celtic Mythic. "Aria, you may leave now." The Lord Marshall willed away his aide before allowing himself several seconds to recompose a professional demeanour. The informality of their meetings was fine in private but not something he wanted others to witness. As an afterthought, he sent his aide another Message. "Aria, do tell Millie to prepare a _generous_ tea. Our Void Sorceress does not take well to meetings without refreshments." Across the table, his guest smiled at his hospitality, masking her acute mind behind a facade of guileless youth. Looking at the vibrancy dripping from the girl's carefully crafted mien, he wasn't surprised that Holland's heir was now under her thumb. "Magister. Thank you for coming on such short notice," Mycroft began. "Though the notice was short, the decision had been deliberated since before your present stay in London. We have designated a post that we believe is as beneficial to you as it is to the Mageocracy, meaning you have our full support in logistics and resources." "Thank you." The girl placed her hands on her thighs. Unlike the first few times they had met, her attire was finally prim and professional, though it still bothered Mycroft's fatherly endorsement for subfusc. Comparatively, in vid-casts of her operation, he had thoroughly applauded her choice of the crow-skin battle amour. "So, where would the Mageocracy want me?" "Before we delve too deeply." Mycroft placed both hands on the table. "Allow me to thank you on behalf of the City of London. Taking the overflow of refugees from our hands has given the Royal Navy significant breathing room to reorganise. As you know, the Northern Expedition is ongoing, as are our Frontier efforts to withdraw our battle lines." "Think nothing of it." The girl waved a hand, then tickled his crow. "From your hesitance, shall I conceive that I am receiving a Tower in the next few weeks? Something stout and small for beginners, perhaps?" Ravenport could not help but raise both eyebrows. "Magister. Do you possess yet another Core the likes of which your Brother-in-craft harvested?" "Did the Tower manage to do anything with the Kraken Core we recovered?" the girl retorted. "That could work, for a regional Tower, surely. It was the size of a Dwarven Dust MK II unit." "The Core was polluted beyond recovery," Ravenport replied without batting an eye. "We purchased it out of academic interest, and the barter price has been paid. If you wish it back, will you return the HDMs and other rare materials the Tower has provided?" "Ha." The girl shrugged. "I am using those HDMs to blunt the attack on your coffers. If anything, I should apply for a tax rebate." The two sat smiling at one another for a bit more, then the tea arrived, and both took on more serious manners. After the secretary retreated, Mycroft felt the moment was ripe. "We're sending you back to Shalkar." He cut straight to the chase. The girl grew incredibly silent. For Mycroft, this was not a good sign, for he associated the girl Mage with pretentious verbosity and nonsensical sayings. The Foreign Affairs Ministry and the Internal Affairs bureau had both signed off on the girl's appointment—and for a graduate Magister, there was no refusing their placement, especially their first. However, few Magisters began their careers as a War Mage returning from the South Pole, bearing a badge of approval from an ancient Mythic and receiving an acknowledgement of praise from the _tree-side_ of The Accord. The girl was also rich beyond compare, which naturally attracted political clout from the hungry nobility who wanted a piece of her pecan pie. She had also circumvented the impassable barriers between the Factions so that certain members of the Militants, Greys and Middle Factions saw her as one of their own. If a Magister like that decided she didn't want to be away from the centre of power, who could teleport them against their will? The Shard would not renounce her credentials, nor would it simply leave her to rot—in a time of chaos and need, politics was an expensive and foolish waste of resources. Shamefully, Mycroft felt his palms sweat a little. "You have an established base in the region," Mycroft continued as if unaffected by her silence. "Magister Oliver Edwards has been struggling with the political situation there. However, the Shard could not fathom a better Regional Administrator than yourself, as you command the respect of the Khanate and have significant control over the Rat-men tribes. Now that the region is experiencing a genesis, we require a capable hand with logistical and commercial acumen to extract as many resources as possible before the seasonal boon is concluded." The girl's eyes remained fixed on the floor. Mycroft quickly shot his raven a telepathic request for clarification. _"Don't look to me,"_ came Morrigan's reply. _"Her actions are as comprehensible as those Necromantic Glyphs from Egypt._ " "There is also the matter of the Dyar Morkk you discovered near Shalkar," Mycroft continued, keeping his momentum. "The Dwarves hope to connect to that particular network section within the next two months. The Dwarven city there—hollowed and burnt as it is—needs to be recovered, its dead consigned to the Hall of the Ancestors, and its vaults reopened. The ones responsible will be the Germanic tribes from the Central Continent, though I am confident your alcohol-based virtues should readily tame any confrontations. As a down payment, Berlin has contributed significantly to the endeavour despite the region being a Mageocracy Protectorate. If and when the Dyar Morkk beside Shalkar is connected to central Europe, the trade and development possibilities are endless." Mycroft concluded by leaning back in his chair. He had said enough. Anymore, and he would begin to feel like a used Wand salesman. Finally, the girl spoke. "… Ollie is in Shalkar?" "Magister Edwards never left." "Wasn't he a provisional one?" "We authorised his Magistership and gave him an assignment." The girl winced sympathetically. "How's his hairline?" Bewildered, Mycroft looked to his raven. "Caw?" The raven shrugged. " _Why would I know?_ " The room fell silent. Mycroft hoped Magus Edwards' hair wouldn't be a point of contention. The girl sighed. Mycroft sighed. He had hoped to avoid their next step, which was the slow coercion of the girl through her relations, applying gradual pressure until she bent enough to touch base with The Shard's demands. In his opinion, such a waste of goodwill and capital was a loss for both parties. He studied the girl, searching her body language for a point of hesitation or weakness. Suddenly, the girl looked up. Strikingly, her eyes were twin jewels that sparkled with what Mycroft swore were glittering HDMs. "I want…" the girl spoke with certainty, making his arm hairs bristle. "I want the Dyar Morkk operational in under two months. After that… I want you to send me the overflow of refugees from London, with transit and provisions and a promise to return home if their homeland can be recovered. The first allotment must be skilled labourers and Mages. After that, the others. I also need a continuation on loaning the Fabricator Engine. The city will pay." "What…" Mycroft instinctively sensed an enormous pitfall in the girl's suggestions. Refugees? What was the girl hoping to do? What could a multitude of vagrants, all displaced from the Frontiers, hope to accomplish in an Orange Zone? "What are you proposing?" "A _city_ …" the girl's grin was Draconic. "A city?" Mycroft's mind sowed only doubt—but he was then reminded of Shalkar, the Isle of Dogs, and the Antarctic. "Yes, a new city!" The girl's confidence was infectious. "We'll build it! A _Shinning City in the Sand_ , a new Silk Road's trade hub, where Demi-humans and Humans all work together for the golden pursuit of prosperity and profit!"

Gwen left the meeting with the Lord Marshall of England with a spring in her step. Her good mood was well-deserved, for the solution to the refugee problem had presented itself on a silver platter, with partial funding and additional concessions to be plated on a later date. She also counted herself as incredibly lucky—for she had not expected that The Shard would be so generous as to regift the juicy jujube that was _Shalkar al-Jadeedah_ to herself. In her books, the region was at least within the top thirty of the Mageocracy's better-known Frontiers for exporting exotic produce and one of the five regions to produce Elf-blessed Wildland fruits. The pessimistic Gwen wanted to know why no one else wanted a slice of the recovering region's sweet meat. The optimistic Gwen chose to be more logical. The region's "Speciality" was established by her efforts—especially through the bond she had established with the indigenous Demi-humans in the Horse Lords and the Rat-kin. Furthermore, the lynchpin holding the flywheel together was the Hvítálfar, and she had also been responsible for that. To govern, one must hold the reigns. While the Horse Lords could be coerced and the Rat-kin intimidated, the Hvítálfar made plans and moved events at their leisure. What would happen to Shalkar if the Elves suddenly withdrew their support? What if someone angered the Elves? Profits were profits, but who would want to test the mettle of the mysterious agreement known as _The Accord_? Ruling the region would be akin to dancing on Warding Glyphs. But she was different. Tryfan shared history with her Master, Henry Kilroy. She was also _known_ , for lack of a better term, to the ancient beings whose bodies weighted down the World Trees. If the _Saviour of Shalkar_ stepped on the Hvítálfar's toes—she could receive a stern admonition. But if a Faction-aligned Magister misstepped, the fallout could obliterate the very existence of their careers. She knew what she had to do to kickstart the region. Unfortunately, the manpower she had on hand was now at a steep premium. Walken's Bunker crew, including the Chinese administrators gifted by Ruxin, were inhumanely overworked. Elvia's Ordo members were also swamped to their necks by the influx of refugees needing aid and support. The IoDNC's staff also had both hands, and Mage Hands full of work generating profit to keep her operations lubricated. The METRO was short-staffed from the beginning and remains as such even now. Usually, she could borrow men from her mentor, the Lady of Ely, but the Marchioness had also rolled up her sleeves to help with efforts on the Isle of Sheppey. Lady Astor, likewise, had taken off her expensive slippers to venture knee-deep in Humanitarian efforts, offering up the lower estate of Cliveden to families with only women and children. The Dwarves had been far less impacted by the changes in climate on the surface—but their utility was elsewhere. The loan of the Fabricator Engine alone would require three dozen of their number, including the guards. As such, until the repopulation of the Dwarven Citadel swelled that number to the tens of thousands, she would have no spare hands. Her thoughts had weighed in so heavily that she had completely missed the polite presence of a young man with his signature Roman nose who had split from his party to accost her at the Old Palace Yard. "Magister Song!" her fellow Magister finally gave up on polite patience when she was almost close enough to touch. Gwen looked up, meeting the smiling face of Thomas Holland. " _Oh… Oh my God._ Sir Thomas! I didn't see you there." "Yes, I am not usually very noticeable." The orange-haired, lanky heir to the Golden Blood gave her an awkward laugh. "Do you have a moment?" Gwen's immediate reaction was to decline, but she had enjoyed her stint with Thomas Benedict Holland and felt safe speaking to a nobleman who was indebted to her. Besides, she wasn't much looking forward to informing Walken that Christmas was cancelled. Hopefully, the Magister's stiff upper lip would remain firm, and he wouldn't return home to bawl out his eyes to his wife and child regarding his bosses' ruthless abuse. Before she could answer, their encounter was interrupted by the navy-haired mirror image of Thomas, led by a sour-faced Poins. "Tom." The lesser brother did not feel the need to address Gwen, which was just as well. "We're on our way to a meeting. What is this?" "It's my business. You go ahead." Thomas gave his brother a smirk that made Gwen suppress her smile. When Poins did not go away, Thomas tiled his head disapprovingly. "Why the gloom, Poins? Think of it as a rare opportunity. Take care of matters without me looking over your shoulder for once." The twin appeared lost for words. From Thomas' tone, which left no quarter, Gwen took it to mean things had not gone down so well since the pair returned from the Northern Expedition. After all, one now possessed a Draconic Steam Spirit, and the other still had his ice Sprite. Their performance metrics would have been incomparable. The ire on Poin's face immediately transferred from his brother to herself. The predictability was like the London weather. If Poins had been a young lady, Gwen felt "she" would have slapped her for seducing her brother in public. Alas, a brotherly love built on the inheritance of generational wealth was both more intimate and far more complicated. "I know a place nearby." Thomas guided her past his indignant brother. "Shall we?" "Let's." Gwen allowed herself to be led a safe distance, then gifted Poin's party with a quasi-curtsy more flippant than courteous. She could imagine the upset even as she left, though Poin's opinion mattered so little that as soon as they exited the Old Courtyard, she forgave his offensive existence. Outside, dull clouds and condensation made the Thames as depressing as the crisis faced by the Mageocracy's administrators. Thomas remained true to his promise, leading her with small talk until they arrived at the embankment, where he commanded a private corner of an open-air cafe through a sizeable HDM crystalline chip. For the first time in a long while, a man pulled out her chair and bid her to sit. Gwen sat. Thomas ordered for the both of them, then sat opposite, enjoying the view. "Something on my face?" Gwen didn't feel her tartan skirt and cream blouse was anything the Sun Herald might position for publication on the third page. "Your face is indeed in my thoughts, for I am considering how thankful I feel," Thomas spoke through his pearly whites. "For the Dragon Turtle. As you might have heard, our Expedition breached the World Tree's Pocket Plane in the north, where we had the unthankful task of dislodging Zodiam's Brass Legion shock troops." "I know _of_ it." Gwen grimaced with sympathy. "I am sorry, Tom. That couldn't have been easy." The man nodded. "We lost good men and women there, fighting on behalf of Tryfan. Friends I've known since my university days. One of them, Lord Everton, attended the IIUC with me. Lord Mycroft tells me _they_ came to your aid?" "They did." Gwen sensed Thomas' unease. "Our knife-eared friends did not come to yours?" Thomas shook his head. Gwen had no comfort to give. From her conversation with The Bloom in White, she had gathered that this Accord was an agreement in which Humanity committed its resources—including Humanity itself—to perform mutually beneficial biddings. From the viewpoint of a hegemonic power broker, having the Humans expend lives and resources in servicing the Axis Mundi was itself a process as important as the maintenance itself. That Thomas' Northern Expedition succeeded at a _cost_ was the intended outcome. Thankfully, the tea and coffee arrived with a two-tier selection of shortcakes. "Again. I am sorry," Gwen said, the only thing that was thoughtfully appropriate. "We did our duties." Thomas helped her with the dessert. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting to ask you about that. I just wanted to thank you for the timely gift of the Dragon Turtle. Thanks to Zippy, we managed to break through the Fire Elemental's blockade without catastrophic losses. With my original Spirit, I could not begin to imagine whose faces I wouldn't see again." Sensing the strands of Draconic Essence encircling the Steam Mage's aura, Gwen reached over and gave the man a pat on the back of his hand. "Don't be. We're comrades in a war zone. I did what I imagined was best. I should be glad it turned out so well. Imagine if Zippy had been a dud. Where would we be now?" Thomas returned her modesty with a wry spot of laughter. "A weight has lifted from my shoulder now that we've spoken." There was a pause. The Steam Mage met her eyes with a familiar intensity. "Magister Song. Would you mind if we met some other time? For leisure, if you will." Gwen had gone on enough dates in her past life to know what was coming. Still, the confession from Thomas elevated her heart rate. The last time someone had been so bold and brazen had been the unfortunate Jackaroo Tako back in Sydney. And though she had a rather unhappy feeling Saint Evee might egg her onward, Gwen felt nary a ripple in her heart of hearts. "I'd love to." She prepared her poker face to deliver the gentlest of letdowns. "Ever since Auckland, I've known we'll be good friends, so there's no need to be so formal." Thomas' uptake was instant. With natural nonchalance, the young man withdrew his presence back into his chair. "That warms my heart, Gwen. In all honesty, I merely wished to make a case. Given it a year, we shall _forever_ be politely acquainted, and whatever distance that might grow intimate would forever remain remote." "Oh? And why is that?" Gwen asked out of curiosity. Thomas Benedict Holland appealed to her. He was, thus far, a solid choice—even if he wasn't hers. Nobility was nice, but she hated its restrictions. For some of Tom's stature, a spouse as capable and well-provisioned in politics as himself wasn't a wife, but a business partner, with a marriage akin to a _merger_. "I've several partners prepared for me by the House." The young man hid nothing. "I could find a spouse—or one will be provided. An heir must be produced, as—" "—The Golden Blood of Henry must flow," Gwen finished for the young man. "I genuinely appreciate the sentiment, Thomas. Sorry I had to disappoint you. Besides, would your father accept a wildcat if it came to it? You're not Poins the spare, you know. Charlene is far more suitable for you." "A part of the appeal is to see the old man squirm." Thomas laughed. "The Expedition has opened my eyes somewhat to the _you-know-what_ with Tryfan. The world no longer seemed as bright and promising as it did in my youth." "Your youth?" Gwen burst into laughter. "You're twenty—?" "—four," Thomas replied. "A bit young for the future to be dull, don't you think?" "Duller, now." Gwen felt a blush coming on. "Now you're teasing me." “I am.” Thomas’ eyes lingered. Gwen sipped her tea. The two made some other inconsequential small talk to dispel the unexpectedly cosy atmosphere. "I should attend to business." Thomas politely drained his cup, then returned his fine china to its matching plate. "Poins might be signing the House way, for all I know. If father complains, you're to blame." "I take full responsibility," Gwen stood as the Steam Mage rose. The two shook hands. "Good luck in Shalkar," Thomas said. "When I am able, I'll visit. Give our Faction a good deal on the food stock." "You're welcome." Gwen allowed their handshake to linger. "But do wait a few months while I set things up." Watching the young noblemen go, Gwen steeled her heart. Then, her hardened heart abruptly reminded her befuddled brain that she did have another enquiry. A part of her wanted to give the man his peace, but a woman's needs had to be met. "Thomas—!" She called out, cringing that she had not remembered her need earlier. With a face full of hope, the young lord abruptly turned, twisting his body so that he faced her with all the dramatic poise of an Austenian climax. "Milady?" Thomas came striding back. There was a bit of steam that leaked through the aether. Gwen felt terrible, but she had to ask. The Militants were the only Faction with decades of experience colonising new Frontiers. That meant they had access to some of the most experienced administrators for regions having undergone pacification. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. "I need men," she began. Thomas froze in his tracks with an expression of horror. ...and women…" Gwen pushed through, not allowing her Freudian slip to lubricate further misunderstandings. "Thomas, I am in dire need of administrative staff with experience in building Forward Operating bases, as well as managing logistics of Frontier construction. I'll be starting up a new settlement near Shalkar, either on top or close to the Dwarven Citadel there… and for that, _I need men and women._ " Thomas appeared… to deflate. There was a moment where the man stared into the middle distance as if seeing through her into the aether. And then he snorted, and his angular features softened. "Will they be fighting?" he asked. "Not to my knowledge," Gwen said. "And not if I can help it." "Then I will ask our Veteran's Unions if any are willing to work as expatriates," the Steam Mage promised with a nod. "Will that satisfy?" "There's a signing bonus of one-tenth of their negotiable wage, paid once they arrive," Gwen immediately followed up. "The new entity, once set up, will also offer stock and land options to any employees who remain after three months. Healthcare will cover all on-site injuries, with additional care packages for long-term employees. Assuming a large number of the Veteran's Union joins the new city's construction and management, I'll allocate a portion of profits to the Veteran's Fund, the same which the Barlow Group depleted. Prospective members can apply at the Bunker. I'll have the staff set up a registry." The sudden switch to business Gwen must have given Thomas whiplash, for the Steam Mage merely nodded like a shellshocked soldier emerging from an Undead trench. "I'll be… going, now?" the man muttered. "May I?" "See you around, Thomas." Gwen could only repay the chap by giving him her best smile. Something more tactile, like a kiss on the cheeks, would only further a futile hope. From the heart of the Bunker, Eric Walken, Central Operating Officer of the IoDNC, threatened to quit, muttered, mumbled, then called for a dozen impromptu meetings to meet their CEO's demands. Gwen quietly closed the door to her COO's spacious office, originally a multi-storey work and rest space for herself, now gifted to her chief wage slave. As she proceeded down the long corridor with its abstract art pieces, she wondered how her Master might measure the state of Eric Walken today. Would Henry laugh and be amused? Or would the old dreamer berate her for trapping his old rival in a salt mine? Secretly, Gwen suspected Walken loved the work. The man had dreamed of a position such as this all his life, with various Factions begging for funds or investments, where his pen stroke brought smiles or tears. Within the IoDNC, Walken enjoyed far more freedom than Factioneers. Whenever a conglomerate's interests were offended, he pointed the finger at herself, then announced that he was merely a paper pusher, _pushing_ the will of the Devourer of corporations. From an isle with a few pups, the Norfolk-Dog conglomerate was now a snarling Dire Wolf, eyeing the wild dogs ranging its docklands for its next meal. Of course, that was merely the facade Gwen had wanted to establish. In truth, she saw little merit in subsuming the locals. The real money, as it had always been in this world, was buried in the Frontiers. Primary agriculture. HDM mining. Rare materials. And the value of the people themselves. Across the Atlantic, the New World proved that old empires were either paralysed or in decline. In its place, a pragmatic, more ruthless breed of Humanity grew fat on the narrative of _destiny manifest_. Comparatively, her city in the sand would be a grand experiment—one with a simmering pot lid of tensions kept in place by the threat of the Shoggoth. Would the newly arrived refugees labour with the Rat-kin? Would the Horse Lords, who saw anything with two legs as food or spoils, acclimatise to a decade without rampant war and destruction? More importantly, how long would the boon of life in the region last? When she thought about it, Gwen suspected not even the Elves fully understood the dynamic of the Axis Mundi, much less their foes. Did the hands of Spectre even understand the consequences of their prodding? Could they conceive that the chaos they sowed in the regions of interest would counteractively create hospitality and wealth for areas previously barren? She had no answers, though the long corridors of the Bunker offered an excellent ambience for self-reflection. When she finally breached the lobby's upper deck, her Essence-infused mind had already constructed a general framework for the many labours in the coming months. "Magister Song." "Ma'am." "Good afternoon, boss." Greetings arrived as she passed her employees, dressed in formal work attire as Walken had demanded. They did not find offence in their CEO's fashion, for such was the culture of the Bunker subscribed at orientation. Below the encircling cubic balcony, the multi-storey, Brutalist lobby split into the Bunker's various sections, with the central structural pillar acting as the arrival place of a dozen levitation platforms, besides which the Teleportation Circles flared and crackled. The Bunker was her building—all of it, from the lobby to the depth that connected the Dyar Morkk, was an extension of the efforts she had heaped upon the Isle of Dogs. If a house by the bay was the Australian Dream, then what was this? It was a dizzying realisation, one the Gwen of the past would have struggled to conceive. Thankfully, she was a busy woman. With style, Gwen willed her Message device into being. "Richard," she spoke into the Glyph. "Ask if Magus Williams is willing to spend some time in Shalkar al-Jadeedah. A Dwarven Citadel needs restoring, meaning unlimited access to the Fabricator, assuming he can snuggle up to Petra and the Dwarven posse. If he can rope more alumni into aiding our city-building from the States, I'll work on placing him in the same team as _our_ Fabricator Engine." "No worries. I guess you're done with the meeting? And the date?" "What _date_?" “A hidden garden rendezvous vis-a-vis, involving a steamy noblemen” "Very funny, Dick," Gwen berated her cousin, smiling at passersby even as her cousin stoked her paranoia. "Do restrain yourself, especially around Elvia. When Caliban wakes up, you'll be my first sparring partner." "I _quake_ ," the teasing voice returned with a laugh. "But of course. Our CEO's indiscretions are safe with me." "One of these days—" She waved at another batch of workers as she made for the exit. "What did Magister Brown say about those spells I requested?" "Good tidings," Richard replied. "Mass Flight has been booked at The Shard for tomorrow. He's also found an Oxbridge instructor willing to part with a unique variant of Force Cage capable of cladding its surface with attuned elements. Both will be undertaken in Greater Cognisance Chambers for convenience and cost. The Magisters will attend your tuition thrice a week for two weeks." "That's fine," Gwen found the outcome agreeable to her timetable. Having her teachers come to her was an additional cost, but she had the CCs to spare, especially if Morden's crew wasn't keen on making her life easy. "I am going to see Lady Maxwell and Lady Astor about our new project. I'll elaborate later, but I've been assigned to Shalkar, and we'll be building a new city with the Dwarves returning there. Our logistical preparations have between two to three months to mature." Richard whistled, then took a deep breath. "Whoa—You're thinking of housing the refugees there?" "Hypothetically," Gwen affirmed. "Can you arrange a work dinner with the others? Once I gauge the investors and stakeholders better, we'll start on the preliminary reports." "Of course," her cousin's voice reverberated through the glowing Glyph. "Milord _Governor_ —your wish is my command." Scotland. Suilven. Slylth Alexander Morden sat brooding in his Dragon-wood study chair, scanning the letter from The Shard like a lizard obsessed. He had sliced the Mithril-laced letter open with a transmogrified claw, expecting a simpering response as to why their applicant deserved to study for several weeks in the Tower of Elements. When he had opened the letter and read the first line, however, Slylth felt a strange emptiness, like the void had invaded the interior of his Astral Body. " _Application Withdrawn"_ was the immediate phrase he noted in the paragraph of pasted niceties. The text wasn't even addressed to him. The designation had been a cursory "To whom it may concern," and the signature wasn't even from the girl, but some random Magister from her office. Confused, Slylth had turned the letter upside down, then back to front, wondering if something else might fall out. When it became clear that his Draconic ability to comprehend all languages did not fail him, Slylth grew silent. Only two beings have criticised, ignored, and instructed Slylth in all his centuries as an egg-consciousness and his years in the Prime Material. One was his mother, Sythinthimryr, the greatest of the Ancient Reds, the Flame of Life that burns eternal in the heart of Carrauntoohil. The other was the Magi Morden, who rolled his eyes, humoured him, or put an end to his tantrums in the early years of his adventure with a stern Power Word. A part of him wanted to know who this damned Gwen Song was to deny him—but Slylth was too wise a wyrm to throw a tantrum. After all, he had seen the lumen casts of the female's Shoggoth, and he did not wish to invoke his mother's aid nor her annoyance. A fight with a Shoggoth was likely to bring both. Another part of him grew more intrigued than ever, forming within his Draconic soul a deep-seated desire congealed from curiosity, impulse and jealousy. Why had Ancient Illaelitharian praised this female? What was her true connection to the Old One? The more his mother cautioned Slylth, the more he wanted to raid the Death Hornest's nest for their sweet honey. With a glare, the letter from the Shard turned to cinders. Perhaps, it was time for Slylth Alexander Morden to venture out into the world and make himself known. His only hope was that his mother had better things to do than to keep tabs on a wayward boy. London. The Isle of Dogs. Elvia Lindholm, Knight Companion of the Order of the Bath, was taking a bath. The bath house was a communal one, and though she had access to a private Pocket Dimension similar to Gwen's pocket house, the Ordo taught its members to exercise humility whenever possible and to set an example for their juniors. The weather was beyond humid, and the communal hall set up for the members of the Ordo to cleanse their bodies and souls of impurities was sanctified only by the generous incense from the blessed sandalwood. Through this act of communion, the sisters of the Ordo mime the humility of the Nazarene, who had bathed the feet of his apostles to foster brotherhood. The act of absolution served another purpose—for it was the condition through which a believer may fully immerse themselves into the canonical prayers, a necessary ritual that unlocked a Faith-Caster's access to the collated mythical energies of their order. "Kiki—" Elvia's floral Sprite did the work of her Master's hands, ensuring that every evidence of sin was erased. Within the same chamber, Elvia's Ordo companions, both the lesser acolytes and the Senior sisters, observed one of their youngest with an awe that bordered on reverence. A part of their admiration was spiritual, for Companion Lindholm was a perfect Poor Soldier of Christ, an exemplar of their Ordo. The other was a sense of pity, for their sister was _painfully_ captivating. Hers was not a fairness that spurred men into launch ships; rather, Elvia had come to possess a heart-breaking demureness, a constant sorrow that, paired with her seemingly infinite charity, made their chests sore with unbidden longing to see her smile a little more. Not that they hadn't seen Companion Lindholm smile. When Elvia's secular friend-for-life would come to visit, the girl would bloom like a vivified Kiki, her face suddenly coming alive. That was the Elvia they had all hoped to see, though perhaps, the rareness of her happiness made those moments all the more precious. "Mother Superior, please excuse me." Elvia bowed her head toward a silver-haired healer meticulously working the grime from her nails. Rationally, the bathing was meant to be purposeful, meticulous, and not aided by floral Sprites. "My absolution is complete. I shall now seek the lord's guidance." Mother Superior Francis Fitzroy was the leader of the men and women the Ordo had leased to Gwen as a part of her charitable works on the Isle. As the chief acolyte under Rectress St Claire, the senior Cleric had been sent as a sign of goodwill. As a sister on the cusp of Sainthood, the Mother Superior's presence alone was enough to quell all dissent from the local parish's ranks, thereby gifting the Isle of Dogs unfettered access to a large body of volunteers hoping to bath in her good graces. "Go." The senior Cleric did not comment on Elvia's hasty ritual. Instead, she delivered a soothing benediction in Latin, praying that Elvia would find peace. Alone, Elvia dressed, choosing her surgeon's garb in case an emergency interrupted her meeting. Once her hair had been netted and bundled, she exited the prayer baths built into their dockland Chapter House, now sitting among pre-fabricated houses and camps, and made for the chapel. When the Ordo had sent its men and women, her Gwen had been very accommodating in asking her Dwarven allies to construct a modest chapel out of sandstone in the gothic style of the Ordo. When the Ordo's Master had arrived to inspect the progress of their work on the Isle, he had been both dismayed and delighted by the unexpected sight of a three-storey, permanent Chapter House with his Ordo's emblem beside the ubiquitous logo of the IoDNC with its hound and raven heraldry. Elvia shuffled past the prayer hall, now almost always full of believers displaced from the Frontiers. Her goal was not the hall, though she was scheduled to lead the choir in the evening. Outside, Mathias would follow on her heels like a shadow. Within the Chapter House, the Knight chose the gift of privacy, instead retreating to the barracks to wait on her call. Her object was the confessional, a claustrophobic chamber ensorceled with Faith Magic and contained within a Seal of the Confessional. There would be no Divination here, not without shattering the Seal and toppling the chapel. As a result of the Chapter House's limited space, the confessional was a modest specimen, one frequented by the Ordo's many Clerics to vent their frustrations and indiscretions after their administration of the refugee tide. Tucking her locks behind her ears, Elvia ducked inside, pulling the heavy drapes around them so that only light from the stained glass above made their faces visible. The presence awaiting her gave off a fatherly and sympathetic aura. "Knight Companion Elvia Lindholm greets the Seneschal." "In this sanctified place, I am a mere priest," her Seneschal sounded serious as always. "And you may unburden yourself onto me. How fares the visions, child?" "They are frequent, Father." "Are they troubling the sweet balm of sleep?" "Somewhat," Elvia replied. "But it is not the visions that disturb me." "I see... so the moment of reckoning draws nigh?" "The Lord of the Mount is stirring from his slumber," Elvia's voice quaked even as she suppressed the near-religious recollection of awe she had felt for her Patron's true form. "His youngest now bears his mark as well as the others. Lord Ayxin will soon be blessed with fruit. What has been foretold has come to pass." "The ancient one has expressed his readiness?" "For the Unformed Land, yes..." "And are you, our dear daughter… _ready?_ " The Seneschal's question was delivered with the tenderness of a Healing Word. Opposite, Elvia felt her Seneschal's kindness as a physical blow to her diaphragm. "Tis a cross only I can bear. I am not opposed to it." "Child." Ashburn's plea turned melancholic. "I am not one to question the _Faith_ of a Knight Companion. However, I, as well as the Rectress, Mother Superior Fitzroy and a plethora of others in the Ordo, have grown very fond of our little Saintess. With enough _Faith,_ we can divert the course or at least turn its purpose awry. Is that not acceptable to you?" Elvia felt the temptation. Faith Magic was powerful. It was the origin of magic, tempered by will and desire. From its very inception, it was different to the sorcery of destruction wielded by Gwen, made consume so that win or lose, the gainful produce of the living were diminished. Unlike Spellcraft, Faith Magic was an equilibrium where life and death bisect. What the Seneschal was offering was a solution—but one she feared more than any other. For one to be saved, another must pay the price. But how could she ask another to pay?

In her early twenties, Gwen had been extremely popular with middle-aged managers. Thankfully, the men that now came to see her were future employees and not suitors. Even better, when the veterans of the Militant Faction arrived, Gwen was happy to discover that her candidates were of sound mind and skill, as opposed to the frayed folk found in Sydney's infamous slot machine farms. It was a spectacular sight that instantly conjured the Chief Editor of the Sun Herald, who had assumed that a new protest was in the works. When his bleached blonde reporter asked questions like: "What foul grievances have Magister Song committed this time?" promising that " _The Sun_ will be your voice!" The hopeful veterans were ready to drown the witch in the dockland's polluted waters before the Bunker's Dwarven sentries intervened. Their anger was understandable; over the yesteryear, the collapse and subsequent restoration of the Veteran's Pension had left many Militant patrons greatly dissatisfied with the outcome. It wasn't so much that they had lost capital—rather, it was the case of their friends and families in the Grey and Middle Factions seeing their pension double due to investments in the IoDNC. The disgruntlement was further aggravated by veterans in the Norfolk Fund having boasted that their nest eggs were magnitudes larger than their peers. Therefore, the news spread like wildfire when Thomas brokered her offer under House Lancaster's authority. The lower rank and files heeded the call, and a perfect cocktail of envy and greed grew their ambitions far beyond vague promises of loyalty. Her unforeseen popularity empowered Gwen to warrant full-page spreads in the METRO, offering the same terms to civil employees looking to fortify their pensions. The same offer had also been delivered to the refugee camps. However, quantifying qualifications in the absence of degrees and documents made the discovery of "authentic" talent a long-term affair. Nonetheless, she could relax a little, thanks to the influx of human bodies. As an upper-tier consultant, Gwen knew that a city's administration was not something a paper general like herself could handle. She would be the Viceroy of the Mageocracy's authority—but the true actors of her municipality would be her Assistant City Managers, hand-reared by Walken and then delivered to Shalkar. She would also have to borrow a handful of experienced administrators from Gunther's Sydney Tower so that her city would have its triumvirate of Factions. The _Militants_ would handle communication, police, fire and rescue. The _Middle Faction_ would manage the permits, inspections, planning and developments. And finally, the _Greys_ would regulate general services, commerce, and trade. She would head the Administration Bureau and, most importantly, keep a claw on the budget. As for the city's auditing, she was thinking of handing over her Flights of Shadow Mages to Richard, creating a "Chief of Staff's Office" to oversee a cross-sectional evaluation of the various departments. Combined with the light of the London auditor's office, the shadowy use of the Manipuri Mages' unique talents and their Ruxin-inspired loyalty would leave no account unmolested. As a pragmatist, Gwen welcomed corruption, theft and exploitation in constructing her new city. Such liberties were necessary to keep the gears of progress oiled and moving forward. That said, she would also make a public spectacle of those who overstep the boundaries of greed into willful destruction. For these men and women, be they Rat, Horse or Men, she possessed means to make them confess to every sin. Sincerely, Gwen hoped she would never come to the use of _that_. The reality, Gwen knew, was seldom so hopeful. That was why she would have the city's mission statements contracted in bold black fonts. All participants would express consent and willingness to follow agreeable tenets of mutual profit before they embark upon the journey. For those whose greed would not produce even an iota of public good—may Yog-Sothoth savour their souls. Despite the promises of grandeur sold by Magister Song to the three Factions of the Commonwealth Mageocracy, London's refugee crisis continued to decay. By October's end, the House of Commons could no longer keep a lid on the simmering sentiments of the nation's citizens. At every level of society, from the Lords and Ladies sick of seeing the refugees to the common man fearful of having their work snatched up by itinerate labourers, all _vagrants_ were relocated from the Mageocracy's capital. Even the Isle of Dogs, singularly responsible for handling the majority of resettlements, had to shut down its charity operations as all non-Magically gifted refugees were exorcised from London proper into camps on the rural east coast. To Gwen's knowledge, the Tories' only charity was that the region was long pacified, with monsters few and far and the Magical Creatures long domesticated. As for herself, the stress was giving her split ends. Between Elvia's operation leaving the city for Suffolk and her catching snatches of sleep between magical lessons and preparation audits, her sanity was growing threadbare. Yet, rather than fighting the local authorities or trying to bribe the administrators, she channelled her growing irritation into organising the legal logistics of the Commonwealth's displaced citizens. As Walken had advised, whatever feelings the capital might possess for the diaspora of their Frontier folk, the duties of dominion had to be demonstrated to its citizens and their critics looking from the outside. Between her myriad errands, she took out a few hours to luncheon with the work-worn body of Magus Williams, the American _Technomancer_ , a title that was as good as official nomenclature. Gwen had read the man's report—or rather Gracie had—but the results were positive enough for her to want to hear it from the horse's mouth. With a glazed and greedy look, the academic poured over the Ilias Leaf like a father over a sick child, tracing his fingers along every vein and node. "We _can_ make the photosynthetic Essence work." The NoM erudite turned the leaf repeatedly as if every flip offered new bouts of inspiration. "We can use Dwarven Runecraft to construct artificial thylakoids by forming micro-pillars of chloroplasts, but the framework still requires Essence to activate. Mana, or what we have of it, is far too rude an energy source." "Please don't speak in tongues." Gwen dug into her beef Wellington. "In layman's terms, what does that mean?" "We can make the conduits, but we don't have the fuel source," the American explained. "Magister Brown tells me you can produce Essence yourself as a Vessel? There are other Vessels as well—and I am sure the New World will have its share—but the energy you're looking for, Magister Song, is on a magnitude unimaginable to any individual, even Dragons." "Would it be _imaginable_ for a World Tree?" Gwen asked. She fondly thought of Sufina, who would probably wink at William, driving him wild with longing. Williams gave her words some thought. "I am sorry." The Technomancer's brows furrowed. "I don't have access to that branch of classified data." Gwen's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. She had worked so often with so many others with knowledge on the subject matter for so long that she had forgotten that everything associated with the Hvítálfar was shrouded in mystique. "But it IS possible to mimic the Ilias Leaf's design?" She asked. "On paper." "I know we can, but it is neither cheap nor convenient," Williams had barely touched his food lest he spent a few minutes away from the priceless specimen. "We can reduce the size, cost and scale over time if you choose to industrialise the process, but for now, we're looking at something the size of a building." "How big of a building?" Gwen asked. "The exchange unit is at least the size of a hay barn." The man illustrated the size with his hands. "Excluding service buildings, parts storage, tooling sheds. The receiver unit will be barely man-portable—but that's beside the point. We have nothing to power the pair, even if we make it. The nodes cannot work with mana. For all we know, the whole thing will shatter, instantly vaporising the porter of the receiver unit. If the exchange unit blows up well, it could do real damage—" "I see." Gwen acknowledged the future lawsuit. She took a bite and a sip. For Soho, the Beef Wellington was quite good. "Well?" William met her eyes. "Do you still want to sink… HDMs into this?" "I do." Gwen was already glad the idea was possible. "Essence-wise, I can spare a dozen _cubes_ now and then, though these will be Essence mixed with my mana. The next stage would be exploring the possibility of utilising this type of hybrid fuel. Am I correct to assume you will be coming with us to Shalkar?" "I am." the Magus nodded eagerly. "I've contacted a few interested parties from home as well. My colleagues from MIT also wish to see your work first-hand and speak to you regarding the communication network. As you are aware, high-sorcery Demi-humans are far and in between in the New World. The absence of the Hvítálfar and the rarity of Dökkálfar constitutes a significant gap in our access to ancient magic." The man finally took a bite of his Beef Wellington. The American frowned. "What a waste of a perfect cut. Give me charcoal and good basting any day." Gwen waited for the Bostonian to continue. "Do you wish me to continue the work even in Shalkar?" "I do," Gwen replied. "Working proofs of concept are an important part of my forecasts." "You should take these blueprints to the Boston," Williams said seriously. "There are better scholars there than I. Since our nation's founding away from the Mageocracy, our Magisters have worked with workarounds so much that it's become an institution unto itself. What you've asked of me can become an amazing magitech, Magister Song, for Mages and NoMs everywhere. However, in London at least, I don't believe building a proof-of-concept model is possible." Gwen raised a brow. "Not here in London? The heart of Spellcraft?" "Not to disparage our cousins of the far green isle." William looked sheepish. "But did you notice that they're very… traditional?" "Not at all," Gwen smiled sardonically. "But do go on." "There's a certain… rigidity? Something baked into the formulae of the sorcery and the way it's taught here. Especially at the tertiary institutes, there's a reverence for the craft of the Demi-humans, whose theories they had inherited while neglecting _Human_ potential. Likewise, there's a parallel rigidity regarding Mages and NoMs. If your _Essence Repeater_ would work, would the Tower help or _impede_ its implementation? I would guess the latter." "Is that an official statement from Magus John C. Williams of MIT?" Gwen teased the man, making his cheeks bloom a dark scarlet. "I am a Magister of The Shard, you know? And a research fellow at Cambridge University." Stolen novel; please report. "Tis the ramblings of a drunk." The American pointed a fork at the untouched red wine. "I am sure London has the capabilities to do what you wish, though the New World could do it faster, better, and at a fraction of the cost and complications. Our Magitech manufacturing is second to none, and you'll need far more than the Dwarves are willing to spare for the coverage you envision." Gwen considered the man's limited hypothesis of what she had in mind. John was a good investment, though the man gave outlandish advice. Things might be harder in London, but here was her base. Here, she had tentacles across the Mageocracy's various estates. The New World might offer incredible opportunities, but she would have to pay a steep price to pinpoint the cost of business. If she _were_ to build a base in the New World, it would manifest as a Direct Foreign Investment, a direct acquisition of a local Magitech firm. The two exchanged more hypothesises. Luncheon ended, and William received orders to gather his research to be ready for transportation via the ISTC in a month or two. As for the new Viceroy, she returned to her labours. For a freshly assigned demesne, the Shard would provide the lion's share of the budget through a bond. The volume of resources the Mageocracy dedicated to a Magister depended on their clout. The more a regent of the state loaned from the nation, the less profitable their venture became for their backers. Comparatively, the more profit a Magister sought for their Factional allies, the greater the resources they would have to pull from private pockets. Success, meaning profitability, was a precarious balance designed to minimise the Mageocracy's budgetary burdens during periods of expansion, using the Mageocracy's political authorisation as a mediator between competing interests. According to Williams, the New World had done away with such restraints from the government, having corporatised the colonial process, leaving the reigns of power in the hands of the "people". Gwen could guess what the man meant by the "people", though she held little faith that these noble-minded folk Williams extolled were different from the _nobles_ of the Mageocracy. But that was for the future. In the present, Gwen had to organise inventory and conduct interviews. She also had her magic to learn, and in the spare moments after that, she would have to pick apart the cat's cradle that is Shalkar al-Jadeedah's multi-racial diplomacy. Two months. Her many labours were a good distraction while she waited for her milestones to arrive, one in the form of Golos, who should soon be ready, and the other in the womb of her Astral Body, within which Caliban stirred. There was also the matter of Ariel's newest nourishments, assuming that the House of M was successful in its procurement. Even so, until she had a handle on Cali and Gogo, she could not afford also having her Lightning Familiar fall into Draconic slumber. Hopefully, before a fresh calamity struck the construction of her shining city on the hill, all her deterrents would be ready. The dreary days of October gave way to the frigid mornings of November, then invariably invited the unwelcome winter to ravage the Mageocracy's shivering holdings. In the middle of December, following a solar eclipse that saw an upswell of Mermen incursions and a meteor shower that shook skies over Carrauntoohil and sent the Fomorians flooding into the foothills, a rare and unusual guest arrived at The Shard's VIP ISTC array. Magus Slylth McAllister Morden, by invitation but not really, was met by his contemporaries from the Imperial College. As he materialised, the young _Mage's_ patience was at an all-time low, for he had applied to visit The Shard in October, only to be held up by his duties in Suilven. Another Mage of his influence and talent could have rescinded their participation in the Purge of the Fomori raids, but not so Slylth. As a part of his promise to Mother, he had certain duties which he had to fulfil, chief of which was the duty of his Clan and kind, the stabilisation of the Axis Mundi in Carrauntoohil. Once the Fomori lay smoking and crispy on the hillside, Slylth waited until his mother returned to her slumber, then answered the affirmative invitation from London Imperial. His only concern had been the viability of the Glyph placed upon his Core for what mother had called his "live-action role-playing", though his safe arrival at Heathrow had disproven his paranoia. According to mother dearest, London was the heart of the Mageocracy, and its security was second to none in the human world. Now that he was here, Slylth could only huff at the ignorance of the Humans. Presently, his combat potential as a Human Mage exceeded what his _true_ but youthful body could accomplish. Even so, the chaos he could sow could be nothing short of catastrophic, especially as the Human Queen would not dare to take Slylth's life. Of course, Slylth would never do such a thing, for he had grown fond of these mortal beings with their interesting, fleeting lives. Nonetheless, the knowledge that he "could" ignite the city made Slylth's heart a little happy. "Lord Morden." The Magister leading the contingent bowed deeply, drawing eyes from around the ISTC station. The attention was pleasing to Slylth, who nodded at the man and allowed the others to introduce themselves. "Welcome to London." "I am welcomed," Slylth announced. Here in the Human city, he could almost smell the scent of the female that had preyed upon his mind for months. He even felt his Draconic heart quicken, for it could hardly wait. "Shall we begin our tour with The Shard itself?" The Magister announced with a face full of smiles. "We have prepared a banquet as well, though I am sure an academic like yourself would be foremostly interested in The Shard's many projects. If Suilven could guide us on anything that may interest you, we would be honoured." "You're far too humble," Slylth dismissed the man's obvious lies. "Though there is something you can help me with which will bring this Morden great joy." The Magister and his colleagues stood to attention. By now, a crowd had gathered to witness the spectacle that was Slylth's casual regard for the azure-robed Magisters and Maguses. Slylth, who considered his human form the epitome of perfection, possessed no doubt his noble visage had ignited the curiosity of his onlookers. "Ask, and you shall receive." The Magister laughed, clearing a path for Slylth. "Walk with us, Master Morden. Be literal in your desires." Slylth held his patience for a second more before finally delivering the line he'd been waiting on for two months. "Then I shan't be a stranger, Magister Clyde. Bring me _Gwen Song._ I have an interest in her." The Magister almost appeared to stumble before he restored himself. "Sorry? Master Morden, did you say Gwen Song?" "Yes," Slylth affirmed his request. "She is a female favoured by Lord Ill—by the er… Frost Lord of the South Seat. You know her, surely? She is a Vessel. Bring her here to me." The Mages footsteps slowly came to a halt. Looking at their expressions, the Magister and Maguses seemed as troubled as he was confused. " _Bring_ … Magister Song?" The man squinted. "To your lordship?" "Yes." Slylth was growing a little annoyed. "Use teleportation if you must." The men looked at one another. "I don't think… _anyone_ can do that except maybe Lord Ravenport or our most esteemed eternal rose of the House of Winsor," Magister Clyde explained. "I can put in a petition for your lordship, though I do not believe it will be heeded for some time." Slylth felt a strange emptiness in his chest, like someone had scooped something out and tossed it away. "Why not?" "She's not here in London," the Magister said. "Magister Song has long since left London for Shalkar, her new domain. To recall her would take a feat far beyond what we can manage at London Imperial—I fear it would have to be a true emergency." Slylth felt like he was about to give Magister Clyde a _true emergency_. "She's not here?" he repeated. "Nor can we compel her if she was." The Magister's bewilderment was palpable. "Is something the matter?" " _Yes._ " it was all Slylth could do to keep the Glyph on his Dragon Heart stable. "I want her. I am going to Shalkar." The Mages around him fell silent. "Is that a _problem_?" Slylth demanded, his voice growing sulky. To have his prize snatched away by something as trivial as _distance_ was beyond infuriating. His Flight spells were mediocre at best, and the velocity of his true body was likely unimpressive compared to their cousins of Lightning. "Where is Shalkar, anyhow? Is it near the Fire Sea?" "Shalkar is... far. And there is also an issue." The Magister's tone stiffened. "Shalkar is a special operations zone overseen by Magister Song. Without her consent, a Mage of your prestige and calibre will be unable to set foot in her domain. We will do our best to grant you privileges befitting your station, Magus, but you're an esteemed _guest_ —not one of The Shard's preeminent operatives… Umm...are you quite alright, Magus Morden?" Slylth circulated his mana until his irate temper cooled. For a second, all he could see was flaming hellfire, volcanic eruptions, and his sleek red body tearing through those reflective buildings outside The Shard. The most difficult aspect of his self-control was to keep his Dragon Fear from leaking—an act of such supreme effort that his human physique almost peed. "I NEED to be in Shalkar," he announced to his hosts, his face almost the colour of his scales. "Please, make it so." "We… can put in a request." Magister Clyde and the others did not appear to relax even as Slylth's aura dimmed. "And the final say… will need to be affirmed by Magister Song. However, meanwhile, there's plenty to do and see in London. Many in the college are anticipating your arrival as well. It has, after all, been decades since a demand had come from his lordship, the esteemed Magi of Suilven." As the party exited into the snow-slathered exterior of The Shard, Slylth felt as though he had accidentally shunted himself into the realm of Lord Illaelitharian. "How long?" Slylth croaked, unused to so much Elemental ice in the air. It was calming, though. At least there was the discomfort to chill his Dragon heart. "We'll submit a request now." Magister Clyde immediately sent off two of his Magus-tier aides. "Though from what I've heard… Magister Song is a very busy woman.." Magister Gwen Song, Viceroy of the Britannic Mageocracy, was pouring over zoning charts and proposed city designs when her aide-de-camp, Chief Officer Richard Huang, came in with a strange expression and a desire to interrupt the long meeting. "I am very sorry," Gwen apologised to the table of esteemed personages she had gathered from London and beyond. Of her audience, half were Dwarves, shared between her Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth allies and the new Germanic Clans seeking to repopulate the city. The larger part of the enormous pavilion tent was occupied by Centaurs and their Şöpters war priestesses, all serving under Khudu, the Khan's Cherbi. Besides her, the Rat-men occupied the smallest quadrant, with each of the twelve Clans having dispatched their elders to support Strun. Finally, Gwen and the representatives of Humanity took up a sliver of the oval planning table. "Milords and eminences, please excuse me." She left her PowerPoint(™) sorcery operation and squeezed past the Horse Lords. Once outside, Richard led her to the camp's forecourt. "What's the news? Is Evee coming over for a stint?" She asked with anticipation. Christmas was soon upon them, and Elvia's Ordo would be having their carols concert to raise money for the refugee resettlement. She desperately wanted to be there to support Elvia and donate in person to raise the bar—but her duties here, like Walls of Force, were keeping her caged. "Yeah-nah," Richard shot her down without mercy. "Golos wants to talk to you about something important. He says it is _urgent_." The middle of the forecourt housed an enormous yurt, within which her Planar Ally made his abode. The front flap was left open, allowing Gwen direct access to the giant who rested within. Golos, the scion of the Yinglong, now improved by the Frost Wyrm's gift, was no longer so brutish. His humanoid form was akin to Ruxin's favourite guise, though far inferior in regality. Her Wyvern—or, more accurately, new _Dragon_ , paced endlessly over the velvety carpets provided by the Khan and gifted by the Khudu. "Calamity! You're here," Golos approached, all three meters of him bristling with discomfort. Gogo's mien was now ruggedly handsome, with an aggressive masculinity that pleased Gwen's sense of aesthetics. Gwen arrived by the former Thunder Wyvern's side. "Alright, I am here. What is it, Gogo?" Golos took a deep breath. "I just received a vision from Father..." "Christ." Her heart quickened. "Go on." "Yeah. A Vision." Golo's expression remained strange. "So… you ready?" "Ready for what?" "The vision." "Just say it," Gwen discerned a dark and unhappy suspicion. "I have work. And if this is a problem, we'll solve it." "Alright." Golos' smouldering eyes sizzled. The Dragon-kin took a deep breath, then made the delivery. "Calamity… we'll soon have a new niece or nephew." Gwen's frontal lobe flashed white. She scrolled through all the possibilities, eventually reaching the only conclusion. "HE DID IT? UNCLE finally did it? Ayxin's pregnant? Does Babulya know? HOLY SHIT, Richard! Uncle knocked up a Dragon!" "Hahaha…" Richard shook his head. "Now that's the true measure of a man. How will Hai ever live up to that?" Gwen's brain throbbed. Her uncle, the Dragon layer, was now a Dragon daddy. Richard patted her shoulder. "Perhaps it's time… to call Uncle Jun and congratulate him, eh? Imagine, cousin, our youngest cousin, a Dragon-kin!" Gwen agreed. She should call and congratulate them, maybe send them a pallet of the finest milk powder from Australia. Still, looking at Golos, she had to agree with a certain something. Now was a joyous occasion, so why were their hearts so agitated? If she were to go by instinct... the news almost felt like... the opening act... to some unknown, long-conceived calamity.

Gwen wasted an uncertain number of minutes doing the equivalent of standing next to the ocean and having a smoko to tether her feelings to the correct pylons. In Huangshan, she had fancied Jun as a supplementary father figure, and that had given her a rare happiness she hadn't known in either of her lives. Her cynical consciousness also knew without a doubt that her feelings were no more particular than the pharmaceutical euphoria Dr Monroe had prescribed and that any fulfilling joy of daughterhood was merely a fleeting Ryxi among the Huangshan fog. Instead, she should be happy. Uncle Jun had given her a kickstart to success that the dickhead Hai never managed. And now that Jun was a father, the responsible thing to do was to be a good aunt. Or so Gwen narrated to herself. After a while, Golos joined her. "Calamity, you look pale." The newly evolved Dragon-kin's voice was more mellow than his previous self. As a being with whom she had shared more mortal moments than a daring cartoon mouse, she knew Golos was now different. Still, to have an empathetic Gogo was stranger than fiction. Incredibly, upon his arrival, her Planar Ally had even suggested bringing his brood, meaning Phelara and the chicks, over to Shalkar. Her future city, Golos had explained, sat on a significant node of the Axis Mundi. Beneath it, her Dwarves had little use for the crystallised Air and Water within their craftsmen's furnaces, which were separated for trade. And considering the geo-political landscape here, she needed a guardian to keep an eye on the Demi-humans. Her Dragon's suspicious proposal had sounded like Ruxin talking. That said, she wanted to believe in Golo's new bloodline. Certainly, Ruxin's demesne was profitable, Ryxi's was bountiful, and Ayxin had made Huangshan verdant and rich when she stood in for the Yinglong. It was only Golos' domain that stood out as Blackheath. Logically, there was only Golos' inferior bloodline to blame, for it wasn't as though Dragons attended Civil Service classes. QED, Gwen deeply suspected that genetic knowledge tied to the "Essence" of Dragons had much to do with their innate wisdom and knowledge. "I am fine, Gogo," she replied. "Thanks for asking." "Heehee, just thought I'd ask," Golos cackled. "A quick query, Calamity, would you mind if I sowed my seeds around here? Some of those Şöpters have been throwing themselves at me and the mares as well…" Gwen instantly rescinded all of her praise for Golos. She gave a hard, critical stare at the homeless vagabond. "… How about the rats? I know you favour egalitarianism. I don't discriminate, Calamity. I am the fairest of them all, heeheehee…” "Golos," Gwen said seriously. "Let's build the city first, shall we? After things settle down and we have a home for the refugees, you can work on nesting. I'll even commission a building for you and your… _brood_ if you're serious about settling down." "Hee, alright." Her Dragon-kin scratched his head with a claw. "When are the knife ears coming? This place has no trees at all. I don't think Phalera and the chicks will like that. As their aunty, you should do something." A very human part of Gwen wanted to shout that she was in no way an "aunt" to what must be several hundred colourfully feathered nieces. If that many Harpies surrounded their "aunt", some unknowledgeable observer would immediately consider Gwen to be the greatest betrayer in the history of humanity. On the other hand, that Golos was a better dad than Hai was so profoundly gut-wrenching that Gwen felt obligated to play her part. "Alright, I'll chase them up," she promised. "Let's head back. Richard must be antsy by now." She also promised herself that she had to call Shanghai and congratulate Golos' sister and her uncle. However, that would have to wait until she set up the Divination Towers or teleported somewhere with an existing exchange. When she returned to the giant pavilion the Dwarves had helped erect, the adjourned meeting had broken up. That was no surprise, for the Horse Lords did not see any value in the opinions of the Şöpters nor the Rat-kins. They respected the Dwarves, but that was because the Germanic Dwarves had brought an Ancestor in the form of a Balefire Golem to insure their interests were maintained. When the Khan had met the Balefire, he was so impressed by the display of potential destruction radiating from the expressionless metal casket that he took off his helmet and poured out his best kumis personally, hand-delivering it to the glowing furnace of the Golem. The Golem had incinerated the helm, booze and all, in a blue-blaze of ultramarine fire, sending Gwen's heart to her throat before the Khan declared the Dwarven Golem pilots honourable horses. As for Humanity, Gwen could only say that Ollie's hair loss was not in vain. She had given her fellow Magister a week off to nurse his scalp and catch up in London. She understood perfectly that the Horse Lords, the premier "war band" in the region, fundamentally saw little difference between the bipedal Şöpter and the non-magical Humans. A month ago, Ollie's proposal of introducing "weak" refugees to the area had utterly confused the Centaurs and made the Khan fume. With her return to the region, the Khan's tone had instantly changed, for he respected the Afaa Al-Halak Garp, which meant he rightly held concerns for its priestess, Magister Gwen Song of the Shard. As for the humans under Magister Song's rule, they were Şöpter sycophants, at best chattel, at worst parasites, which deserved no respect from the haughty Horse Lord Warrior castes. Or, as Richard had elucidated, "You can shake the hand of the dog belonging to the woman who can swallow your yurt, but you don't sit her dog with your daughter at the banquet." Which was, Gwen guessed, why Golo's suggestion made incredible sense—assuming Golos himself could be at all trusted to "rule" a coalition of competing interests. Within the pavilion, her attention was redirected by the waving hand of Richard, who stood head and shoulders above the Germanic Dwarven ambassador. The homogeny of the Dwarves was, for Gwen, another source of wonderment, one offset by her latent knowledge that Dwarves were not so much like Humans, who belonged to continental homes and cultures, but hailed originally from a single mega-metropolis—Deepholm. Thereby, to call them "German Dwarves" was a misnomer, for the correct breakdown was closer to that of _Brethren lost on the Himsegg, now living in the mountains the Humans called Bavaria._ If she had to draw an analogy, Dwarven homogeny was best captured in the classic Aussie anthem by Men at Work _._ Be it Bombay, Brussels or a fried-out Kombi—the Dökkálfar lived _down under_ , ran forges that glower, pubs where men chunder, factories where Golems thunder, in mines with minerals to plunder. And no matter where under the crust the Dwarves may find themselves, they all ate sausage on Stone Bread, drank copious amounts of beer, and knew a cousin or nephew living in another Citadel. She could almost hear the song playing as she hailed the thickly bearded ambassador, Stone Lord Yossock Axenhoff, son of Nossal Axenhoff. "Milord Axehoff." She slightly bowed when speaking to the ancient Greybeard. The venerable Engineseer was the Forge Master of Vethr Hjodlik Kjangtoth, the White Citadel under Zugspitze, known in Dwarven as the Sword Spire. The master crafter, according to their earlier meeting, had blood relatives within the now hollowed-out _Mimm Agaeth Kjangtoth_ , the Citadel below Shalkar. "How fares your talks with The Cherbi?" "Poorly, I fear." The ambassador shrugged, nesting both hands in the folds of his enormous braided beard, the length and weight of which had made Hanmoul green with envy. "A proud lot, but young—too young a race to have as much arrogance as they put on." The ambassador's dismissal of the Horse Lords was within Gwen's calculations, for Axenhoff's concern was an existential conflict between a local civilisation a thousand years in the making against the considerations of a culture whose Balefire Ancients were a thousand years old. "We'll mill them down with kindness," Gwen promised with a smile. Her confidence lay in the Shaman Saran, teacher to Temir, Khan of Khans, a priestess who held her Elven allies in total and complete reverence. She knew not what horns the Şöpter held the Khan with, but the giant Centaur seemed to put great faith in the woman's advice. She had few good guesses as to why a Wyrm-chopping Horse King would listen to a smiling sheep, but she was thankful. "Of course, the Horse Lords are no threat to _Mimm Agaeth._ They're wary of any space without the blue sky overhead, much less the impossibility of breaking a Citadel." "That may be true." Axenhoff stroked his beard. "But our fortunes, at least until the deep granaries are established, will be tied to the supply of produce provided by the Mageocracy. Those, to my understanding, are grown under the Himsegg, yes?" "With the blessing of our Hvítálfar allies, food and fodder should fall in line," Gwen assured the ambassador. "Although our knife-eared friends are not my only insurance for Shalkar Al-jadeedah. In the outskirts lie our Afaa al-Halak guardian of the city, and in the future, Lord Golos may very well nest among the city's highest _Tower_. Between the two of them, there shall be peace." "Peace by the might of arms?" The ambassador gave her a sideways glance. "Is that wise for a region so infamous for Elemental incursions?" Gwen redirected the ambassador's gaze toward the table, where her PowerPoint (™) presentation had remained frozen in time. "Might is temporary, but peace by profit lasts as long as there is money to be made," Gwen reminded the Greybeard. "The world is in chaos, venerable Engineseer, and we are here to provide the grain, the grease, and the motivation to see the chains reforged. We need your Dyar Morkk. You need our support." "The richness of the Steppes is temporary. That was the last point of our discussion." Axenhoff raised a stubby, thickly-skinned finger. "My point remains. Our Citadel would outlast your stability. In my opinion, conjoining our cities is a poor choice. Our Deepdowners have grown liberal, thanks to our work with the Germanic peoples—but they won't stand for such _varadam_." "Human lives are short," Gwen did not refute the man's criticism of the more mortal races. "However, longitudinal goals have only marginal correlations to immediate opportunities, which, once lost, shall not come again. When will _Mimm Agaeth_ see another opportunity as we have now? How much longer will it take to transfer a hundred thousand Dwarves overland to repopulate the shattered Citadel and reopen the clogged veins of the Dyar Morkk? The longer your people wait, the longer the low ways remain lost and crumbling, perhaps forever to the _Sinneslukare_." The Dwarven Greybeard appeared to be physically assaulted by her sibilance. "The Mind Eaters do not wait a hundred years," Gwen continued. "The longer the Citadels of the Deep remain disconnected from Deephelm, the greater the chance that Aberrants have taken over. Following our investigations in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, did Vethr Hjodlik not also find these saboteurs in your midst? The news from Deepholm—if they can be trustworthy, was a bit of a quake, no?" "Aye." The Dwarves, as always, were categorically against the notion of weaselling around the truth. Gwen's tone turned sympathetic. "You are not alone. Dwarven participation and investment are essential. As I said, a percentage of all products created by the Rat-kin will be made available at wholesale price to your people. The city, once built, will supply this entire region and its restoration operations. Once the Dyar Morkk underneath is live and active, you can connect this entire webwork of the lost citadels back into the European low-ways. The benefit for your folk is existential, while for us, the economic and logistical boons are immeasurable. We both profit. Our foes have only woe." Gwen indicated the reports she had produced on the projected production of goods in the region, which rested with the Engineer's aides. She understood very well the position of the Dwarves. They were already invested in expanding the Dyar Morkk into Shalkar Al-jadeedah, the last hurdle to be crossed was merely the stubbornness to create an inverse "Himsegg" city. Thankfully, her "Bunker" on the Isle of Dogs was already a concrete example that such a design could work—albeit their planned project was on a far larger scale. "There will be trouble. We will have clashes. I have no doubt my people's conflict with the Horse Lords will be pre-eminent. However, I would like you to think of such inconveniences as merely the cost of business. These are not situations to be resolved—Milord, but tinkered over time, tempered by unceasing hammer blows." The ambassadors' expression softened. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. "We will deliberate on this," the Greybeard promised. "Please do, and do continue to attend our council meetings. Richard, can you see to our guests?" Gwen bowed her head. "Also, tell Pats we'll be having dinner together. She and Williams have been wielded to that Fabricator for weeks." Richard obliged. Gwen then took the opportunity to retreat toward the enormous round table, where her Rat-kin allies demurely waited their turn. "Strun." She arrived with an air of authority, but could not help patting the fury, piebald head of her Champion. The Rat-kin allowed her fingers to glide through his luxurious fur. A little over a year since their meeting, Strun was now a father of several hundred Ratlings. Her Rat-kin had promised to raise them as an elite guard in her service that would eclipse the Shadow Mages. The man was serious, for his children, each bearing minute motes of Almudj's blessed Essence, was already twice the size of regular rat babies. Gwen had explained that proper nutrition, rather than starvation and slavery, was likely the cause, but the Rat-kin were adamant that the "Priestess of the Afaa-al-Halak" had elevated the fur-balls and they should gift her their life in turn. "You didn't have to wait for me." Gwen greeted the hunchbacked Rat-kin elders in their sand-coloured cloaks. There were a few broad-shouldered youths among them—but most of the tribes preferred to have the longest-surviving members as leaders. "The meeting's done, as you can see. We'll have to hash things out another time." Three of the Elders, Rat-kins from the Clan Chuluu, Plithf, and Kalk, dropped to their knees. "O Great Priestess, please gift our Clan with obedience, that we may also prosper from the gift of Lord Garp's Essence." Strun caught the old fellows before they could perform a full-bodied kowtow. Gwen had clearly expressed her dislike for such displays, though Strun's growing success was an irresistible advertisement. With time, the Soul link between Garp and Strun had been strengthened, particularly by Strun's ability to communicate with the Earthen Wyrm. The result of such a connection was a Rat-kin who stood as tall as a Human, with the vitality and strength of a Centaur Tumen. Even the Khan's Cherbi, Khudu, gave word that Strun was a formidable warrior and that in sharing a helm of brewed goat's curd with the Rat-kin, the rat should no longer be considered a Tasmüyiz but a "warrior". And when Strun rode Garp on patrols of the region, uprooting the infestations of Afaa-al-Halak larvae and bursting Sand Wolve dens like a grown man kicking a termite mound—observing eyes had grown rounder and rounder. The other Clans had already sent their daughters to Strun—but the Rat-kin's growing political power worried them all. Very soon, Strun would not be a Rat-kin but a Rat-KING. Of this, Gwen was of two minds. Strun, as well as the others she had blessed during their exodus, was bound to her. They could not disobey her will if she exercised her Necromancy. It meant that Strun as "King" would bring absolute pacification to the Rat-related issues in Shaklka Al-jadeedah. At the same time, she knew human nature too well to know that tyranny was not the way forward. Eventually, she would be tempted to rule rather than govern—for subtle applications of Soul Tap could easily subdue the Centaurs, control the Rats, and bring the surrounding Demi-human tribes into the fold. It would be a catastrophic success—particularly if the Shard then categorically decided they did not fancy a prospective Soul Reaver pacifying the region for profit. "I shall gift your most talented warriors with the blessing of Essence, that they may grow hale and defend your homes," she promised something she knew was agreeable to the elders but would not challenge Strun's unique position. "Rise now. All within our council chambers are equal— I do not wish to see such displays again." After another outrageous display, the Elders stood around with nothing to say. Gwen smiled and sighed. She knew it would take time for the Rat-kin, who were still used to their existence as Tasmüyiz, to speak their minds, so she left instructions with Strun to oversee the development of the new fields around New Shalkar. The sooner the Dwarven delegating could see the green shoots of the potato fields arching around the horizon, the less passion their resistance would possess, especially if mountainous truckloads were being moved onto barges for export, away from thirsty distilleries. Her next stop was with the Horse Lords, who had taken the opportunity to leave the insufferable indoors for a game of Buzkashi outdoors. With Strun keeping watch, there was no Tasmüyiz used as a ball. Many of her allied folks had gathered to observe the Horse Lords. The Dwarves, in particular, were already discussing if pilots could reenact such a blood-boiling sport in Golem suits, played with a magnetic oval ball, on rolling skates. The Rat-kin looked on with a strange fascination, their macabre interest caught between their passion for the sport's history and their prior, passive involvement. Only a week ago, the newly arrived Golos had participated. With so much testosterone on sale, it was almost impossible for the Dragon not to be embroiled in the egotistical combat of physical prowess. As expected, the newly minted drake was sufficiently "dominating" in power and agility, even in his bipedal form. To praise the victor, the Horse Lords had come from all over to drink with the Dragon, and Golos had made new pals by promising not to eat the studs he liked. "Milord Cherbi." Gwen found the sweating Centaur dripping wet under the blistering sun. The tall gent, his body alive with vivid tattoos and inscriptions from Saran's crafty hand, was pouring chilled buckets of water over himself while a pair of mares brushed his hair and tidied the fur of his muscular rump. Every muscle, oiled and gleaming, was on display. "I see you've made a home for yourself. It makes me glad." "Magister Song." The Centaur's bony face grinned, revealing teeth well-stained by betel nut tea, looking like he chewed blood. "This is a good place you are building. Many strong warriors are here, from these stout iron smiths to your cousin Dragon..." The Cherbi habitually talked about fighters like blokes discussing MMA at a water cooler. One of the reasons the Horsemen and the Dwarves got along like a Yurt on fire, Gwen suspected, was that both had a laconic culture that respected mastery—whether its mastery of war or the knowledge of the craft. When two competing tribes of Horse-kin met on the Steppes, contests and skirmishes opened the negotiations, followed by Buzkashi or all-out war. Afterwards, the survivors got smashed on fermented cud, made merry, and came to an accord. On the other hand, Dwarven entanglements began with intoxication, leading to brawls and grudge matches, until they sobered up and returned to their serious, stoic selves. Unexpectedly, the Centaurs shrugged at the prospect of her city being erected on their grazing grounds. A part of it might be that they've successfully razed anything anyone had ever constructed since the inception of the Khanate—that or deeper plots and ploys were a-hoof—which Gwen felt could be attributed to the Shaman Saran. "...The Tasmüyiz have only the rat—but he is very strong indeed. As for your female swordswoman, the Horse God should have made her a mare!" Gwen laughed politely. "I digress. The steppes have become interesting, a good outcome." "I am glad to hear you say that, Lord Cherbi." Gwen bowed her head, but not too much lest the Cherbi thought lowly of her respect. "As discussed, shall I count upon your support for the outer region's security?" The Centaur snorted, blowing back a few locks of her sun-tossed hair. In the early days of their proposal, the Cherbi had hinted at his desire for a duel—though Golo's arrival, reaffirmed by Garp's labours in literally flattening the surrounding landscape, had since put that desire to rest. Gwen suspected the challenge had initially arisen from the incompatibility of cross-cultural expectations of gender. For the Horse Lords, respect for their females was based upon wisdom and lineage, with a strong emphasis on fertility—a mare matron with many warrior children, for instance, the Cherbi's mother-mare, held momentous sway within the Sārai. On the other hand, Gwen was a locus of power but also a childless female, which made Khudu's role as a _subordination_ existentially uncomfortable. A _subordinate_ —for that was how the Horse Lords thought of each other and all other existences. Superiors and subordinates, within the kin, between tribes, and between the Khanates. "There is little profit but great labour to come." The Cherbi did not shy away from confronting her with his muscular form. "Don't you agree?" "We pay very well." Gwen allowed the muscles to confront her. In her opinion, the sunny smell of horse sweat was more intimidating than the towering Horse Lord. "We are the only mercenaries on the Steppes who can guard your caravans and barges." the Cherbi reminded her as a mare braided his tail. "Should we not command a better price?" "Ours are the only employees hiring." Gwen threw the retort back unflinchingly. "Who else has the grains to keep the Khanate flourishing? The Fire Sea still looms, milord. It is not extinguished." "A starving Khanate is like a starving wolf," the Horse Lord reminded her. "Why do you think we're building granaries underground?" Gwen motioned to the Dwarves in the distance. As they spoke, the Fabricator Engine, towering above the pavilion, rumbled past, leaving enormous foundation trenches for assembling the gated entrance into the Dyarr Morkk below. Its gait resembled a colossal Salamander: in front, manipulators and Spellswords tore at the land—behind, perfect units of construction material and a geometrically aligned trench were left in its wake. "Mmm…" the Cherbi wasn't sure how to respond to the logos of supply and demand. There was a solution—to raid the Rat-kin as always, though the Horse Lord would be reluctant to threaten such a thing without first besting Golos or Garp. "Dwell not too deeply on it," Gwen assured her ambiguous ally. One of the mares came close, offering to braid her hair. Gwen waved the girl away. "Shaman Saran said the seasons will remain rich for some years, did she not? Think of what we can gain now—as for the future, why not let the might of our arms speak their mutual terms? With the Khanate at its full strength, a glorious conflict awaits us all." Her final announcement was enough to bring the grin back to the Horse Lord's face. "You have a way with wisdom for one with no fawns from the loin." The Horse Lord gave her flat belly a nod of acknowledgement. "I shall not deny more of your time, then. You have a city to plan and build. Ours is the entirety of the northwest region. Do not forget." "I shall supervise it well," Gwen answered in turn. "Do visit Lord Golos when you are free, Khudu. Gogo is often bored and in need of a competitive companion. My mind can be at ease with your prowess keeping his mischief caged." Her humble-bragging flattery was enough to disengage the Cherbi, who laughed heartily, drank deeply from a horn flagon, and then focused on the mares. Gwen retreated. When she was far enough, she took deep breaths, already tired even though the sun was not past midday. Her mind was on her uncle and Ayxin, though she had one more stop. On the outskirts of the FoB laid a small tent beside a larger one, with the modest yurt used for housing and the other as a laboratory. The two yurts were also set up in the middle of New Shalkar's only cemetery. A Frontier city had many deaths, and real estate for the deceased was necessary. Of concern was that she was now in a region with known Spectre activities, _Necromantic_ ones at that. Only five hundred kilometres toward the direction of Petra's old Tower was a hotspot of Undead infestation, Ufa. On the other end, less than a thousand kilometres into Siberia laid the Undead Wildlands, worse than Pyongyang because it was a Necromancer's free-for-all. These were the regions where the Great War had banished the milling millions of the dark craft, with Moscow as its great gatekeeper and China as its long-abused neighbour. On the other hand, after her six-month campaign against the Undead at sea, her feelings toward _land-based_ hordes were nothing like her dread of the Mermen. As long as her city did not "turn", she was confident the threat could be managed. Which was why Gwen now came to the cemetery. When her refugees arrived, she had no wish to mediate a debate between the Horse Lords and the Humans, with the former advocating for the bodies to be left as carrion to nourish the plains, then stomped into the earth to prevent reanimation. "Master Litvak," she greeted the robed figure emerging from the larger of the two yurts, casually wiping his bile-soured hands upon profaned towels. "How fares your research? Will our people be safe when they arrive?" "No mutations, nor increased potency, thank her Majesty's Grace," the Necromancer replied with visible relief. In Gwen's mind, his skeletal skull always seemed to rattle as he spoke. "For now, whomever's forces that had harassed our settlements no longer has the means to modify their _necrophage_." When he spoke, the Necromancer's eyes glistened. Though the bloke's dabble in the craft was far older than hers, the untitled Magus was in awe of her achievements in the "forbidden" avenues of spellcraft. After all, sorcery to do with Essence, particularly the subjugation of living beings, was magnitudes worse than raising Undead. The rationale was simple, for Soul Reaving was the gateway to the creation of intelligent Undead with thoughts and agendas of their own. According to her access to sanctioned knowledge, it was also the principal path to Lichdom. "How's our vaccination programs progressing?" She peeked into the man's laboratory. The interior was dark, but her enhanced eyes could still discern the gruesome collection of flasks, samples, and offensive energies. "Your Rat-kin has been using up everything I've made." The Necromancer looked at her amusedly. "They call it the Priestess' Blessing and urge all their relatives and children to participate. Those who do not are publically shamed and ostracised—sometimes cast from their burrow homes…" "Right…" Gwen could imagine that. "The bad news is that your Horse Lords are less inclined to prevention. Their mares have been spreading rumours that the inoculation solution will weaken their studs in the long run or are responsible for infirmities, whatever that means. The men say it affects their erections. The updated dose has been very poorly distributed." "What does Mistress Saran have to say about this?" "She says to leave the Khan's men to their demise." "She said _what_?" Gwen blinked. "Demise?" "That was what Mistress Saran _inferred_ ," the Necromancer confessed with a lopsided grin. "An interesting ally we have found, Magister Song." "Indeed." "If I may. Has the matter of our discussion from last time… settled?" Litvak asked, his dull-blue eyes unsettlingly milky. "No dice." Gwen shook her head. "The Dwarves will not work on constructing a Necropolis, no matter the reason. They did offer to build you a furnace for cremations and such. We won't be getting help from the Horse Lords for obvious reasons. The Rat-kin will help—but only if I tell them to—which I wish to avoid." "I see. Then I shall deal with the influx of… Faiths… as best as I can," Litvak replied with a shrug, then opened the flap to his tent. "Please shield my labour, Mistress. If you do, no Undead will rise, or you may subjugate my soul. Shall we?" "I trust that they shall not," Gwen concluded, deciding that she didn't want to inspect Litvak's laboratory anyway. If the man said he's ready to deal with an enormous influx of bodies from natural or unnatural sources, that's good enough for herself. So long as the unique circumstances of a Frontier fringing an Undead Front were accounted for, that's the best any regional administrator can do. “Thank you, Magus Litvak. I still have paperwork to do, planning zones to establish." The Necromancer lowered the flaps, bowing deeply as one might to a superior in the craft. As for Gwen, her mind turned once more to her office. From under her shawl, she withdrew the Ilas leaf. Golos wanted trees, the rats wanted shelter, and the Dwarves needed convincing. In Shalkar Al-jadeedah, there was no rest for the wicked.

Shanghai. As a cultural custom of the People's Liberation Army of the Communist Party, weddings were seldom publicised and never celebrated in public. Even when someone as august as a Regional Secretariat, foremost of the Party's members, welcomed their spouses, the media had been instructed to stay clear with their lumen captures. As a tradition, announcements were modestly pronounced by the national paper, written in the "People's Daily" in a small box, stating that "Wang Citizen married Jin Citizen on this day." That was how Jun Song, the People's Hero and renowned Dragon Layer, a man Elementally opposed to romantic thoughts, had imagined his union with Ayxin. Now, Secretary-General Miao Yang-Bò, Master of the Central Commission for Discipline and Inspection and the man closest to inheriting the chairmanship, stood two feet away, loudly criticising the frugality of the PLA. "We are not a poor nation anymore." The Secretary-General was almost choking from the emotions running through his voice. "Ah-Jun, you can't do this to your wife. I won't allow it. We haven't used you so much that the Ash has burned away your sensibility! We didn't!" Jun had a feeling that if Ayxin were here, she would have hissed at the man, and the matter would be done with it. Unfortunately, his wife was asleep. The conception of their child, according to the wisdom of his father-in-law, the all-knowing Yinglong, had exhausted Ayxin mentally, physically, and in "Essence". A Dragon usually borne, then nested their eggs for centuries—but Ayxin had wanted their child to grow with Jun so that they might share, if only for a century or two, the joy she had seen on the Lumen-casters. The news was shocking to Jun. Not so much as the child itself, but that Ayxin would split her Essence-gift from the Yinglong between herself and the child in her womb to hasten its maturation. Before Huangshan, he had expected to retire in his sixties— but was now provisioned by her ladyship to remain youthful for a century and more. It was a prospect that immediately made him think of Gwen. His niece had also inadvertently partaken in the blessing of a Mythic, becoming its Vessel, and she would also live far longer than her mortal peers. The boon in years was to Jun a terrifying prospect. Perhaps in a century or more, only Gwen, himself, Ayxin and a half-dragon child might be around, while their friends and contemporaries might not. For someone bred on the duties of filial piety, to see his parents peacefully pass away was his duty—but to see Hai? Nen? Even the little nephews and nieces grow into old men and women, then waste away with time? He had to derail the freight train of his thoughts immediately—and focus instead on the present. The present was the wedding. It wasn't so much that Jun hadn't given thought to marrying Ayxin. Instead, he was under the impression that he was a son-in-law of the Yinglong and that the Dragon would stipulate the terms. And in terms of men marrying into their spouse's households, the thing to do was to smile and keep silent. In front of him, Secretary-General Miao had been pacing back and forth excitedly for some time, growing more excited with every chorus of "it must be grand!" and "fit for an Emperor!" Of course, modern China had no Emperors, and anyone proclaiming so would be sent to the Stasis Chambers to reevaluate their ambitions. However, the Secretary-General saw this as a new opportunity to reach parity with their direct competitors in the Mageocracy, whose nobility has known ties to the Great Red on Carrauntoohil. The alliance had been instrumental in holding back the Wild Hunt, a war band of Elementals inhabiting a Demi-plane to the far north of the isles. What the CCP desired from the Yinglong isn't so nearly taxing—only the guarantee of rain in the nation's largest rice bowl, the Su-Huang region. "Ayxin would want something private and intimate," Jun protested even as his military-trained body stood to attention. "You know how much she despises crowds." He paused. "...Retail therapy notwithstanding. I guess Ayxin learned that from someone." "She is also exceedingly… accommodating to your needs, Ah-Jun," the Secretary-General was firm in his decision. As the man had said during the induction speech to new Grey Ghosts, their bodies were not their own but the country's. Their will was not their own but the state's. "I know what I am asking. I know it might be unreasonable. Our country needs Ayxin to smile for the Lumen-casters, if only for a few hours." Of that last point, Jun had no doubt. Like every other nation in the world, their government was being rocked by unforeseen changes, ones with ties, or so the winds whispered, to Gwen. Within the last six months, the Yellow River's flow had lowered to a level not seen since the mythical droughts of the dynastic era. Conversely, the entirety of the Qinhai province was awash with floods and landslides, cutting off the Frontier from the PLA and leaving it to the ravages of the Elementals. In Yulin, a catastrophic earthquake ravaged the Frontier's defences, ushering a deluge of newly homeless Goblinoids like a living landslide from the secluded mountainscape. The nation's metropolises lived on the edge, fearing for food and the safety of their sons and daughters as drafts drew men by the millions to the Frontiers to alleviate the new threats. The country needed a hopeful signal, an auspicious one, and there was nothing better than the politicisation of a mythic union not seen since the dynasties of yore. That the marriage was furthermore between a Party faithful, a known hero who had sacrificed his body and health for the good of the masses, was a fairytale of propaganda too good to miss. Jun knew all this because he had already seen the immensely popular picture books of himself and Ayxin. To have the Central Planning Committee declare that the nation's food security shall remain abundant for the foreseeable future was vital for putting the minds of hundreds of millions of citizens at ease. "I will personally ensure there will be no interviews, disruptions, or any interruption to your spouse's privacy beyond the single day of public affairs," Miao promised, his voice grim with the determination of the Internal Security Bureau. "Any outlets that break the agreement, even if it's a direct affiliate of the Central Communications Bureau, will cease to exist in short order. You and Ayxin shall have my word on that." Jun chose not to show his dissatisfaction, knowing he would relent sooner than later. On a personal level, Secretary-General Miao Yang-Bò had been good to him and his family, using personal guan-xi to ensure that a soon-retiring Guo Song received his full honours while suffering no repercussions or retributions from the delinquent Party bosses he had gifted Stasis vacations. For Gwen, the man had also put his foot down when necessary, freeing his niece from the CCP's paranoia and building an amicable trade relationship with her allies in Myanmar. Lastly, Jun was certain that the privacy they had enjoyed since Hai's wedding would have been impossible were it not for the Miao's constant and gentle reminder of the Party's various public and private appendages to leave the pair well alone. "I'll speak to her," Jun promised. "And explain the necessity." "Thank you, Ah-Jun." The Secretary-General gave him a half-salute. "And please reiterate my promise to your spouse that so long as I live, the two of you shall raise your child as you see fit, with no interference from the Party." Jun could only appear grateful. Miao extended a hand. "And, of course, we'll take good care of your nephew. Once he's proven a capable administrator, we'll induct him into the Party's inner circles. That young man, mark my words, will have a brilliant future ahead of him.' "I'll make the case, Secretary-General." Jun shook the man's hand. "Uncle Miao," the Secretary-General insisted. "When you first came under my wing, you refused to call me that, citing that you were a subordinate. It may very well be that I am now no longer your equal, Ah-Jun, so humour this old man." "Uncle Miao." Jun shook his head helplessly. "I'll relay the good news. Soon." "Will you be inviting our newly appointed Imperial Viceroy of the Mageocracy to the wedding?" The old man's smile was crooked. "I don't dare not to," Jun felt a little uneasy at the thought of Gwen finding out she wasn't invited. "She's quite the personage these days." "Will you be..." the Secretary-General's smile remained. "Having her as Ayxin's maid?" Momentarily, Jun recalled his brother's wedding, with his niece in that dress, and the men she left whimpering under her heels. That and Ayxin's Draconic irises turning into twin murder slits if he ever suggested such a thing. "I wouldn't dare..." he confessed. "Yes. I think it's best if Gwen's a guest of honour. Maybe a state invite. Put her somewhere close, but not as a part of the procession." "Then, may I make a suggestion?" The Secretary-General's expression remained puzzlingly amused. "Sir—Uncle Miao, speak your mind." "The Yinglong—believe it or not, has another Vessel— and it's a foreign girl." Jun nodded. He knew, and he knew of her connection to Gwen. The pair shared a bond of sometimes sister, sometimes more, though he wasn't sure what to make of it. "Would you mind if... she was the bride's maid? Her Ordo had contacted us to request a visitation permit. And for your best man, how about your nephew? The committee believes this would appease our Viceroy while also having her on the sidelines." Jun felt his chest constrict. "I don't think we should do that to Mr Wang. Tao is his only son..." "I meant Percy..." Jun looked at his Secretary-General. The old man looked back. "My father..." Jun understood. His father had thin skin when it came to the family. He couldn't ask Gwen to stay, and he couldn't ask this of Jun now. "Yes, he desired it. The young man needs to show his face, be known to the nation. The wedding is a rare opportunity. Of course, if you are unwilling..." Jun did not disagree. It was true what his now-dead comrades in the Grey Ghosts had said. In a Party-organised wedding, the bride and groom were the least important component. Tianjin. The witching hour. Percy Song, the heir to the House of Song, hovered over the crashing waves of the coast, while behind him, the sparkling coastal port painted the rolling city fruit shop bright. The midnight flight was his ritual, exercised like the Lantern Men of the distant dynasties; only he was a Flaneur from the future. The lustre of the port, however, was nothing compared to its urban sprawl, home to six million souls. When he and Mei had visited the city during their rest and relaxation, he was shocked to learn that Shanghai was not the largest port in China. Rather, it was Tianjin that took the crown, possessing a coastal network of docklands and ports that spanned fifth kilometres of deep water, further developed by man-made canals that interconnected the central infrastructure of the city. Over forty percent of the food that southern China produced was transported to the north through Tianjin—making it the pivotal arterial highway necessary for feeding the fifteen million residents of China's administrative capital, Beijing. But Percy wasn't just seeing a city. He had been shocked to learn that a long, long time ago, there existed a China that his history books had erased. It was a nation called _Xia_. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. A nation that worshipped Kirins. Looking at the light pollution turning the sky a brilliant azure, Percy struggled to imagine a China ruled by Magical Creatures, each a Mythic, each with their tribe of camp followers providing their Demi-gods with the nourishing power of Faith. The greatest and most legitimate of these was a proto-Emperor named Shûn, a descendent of the Kirin Tribe. At first, Percy could not even begin to comprehend the Jade Kirin's visions. His understanding changed when he had finally arrived at the place of its birthright, and the Kirin invited Percy into the miasma of time to part the shrouds of befuddled history. As he glided over the landscape, his cerebral senses pierced the veils of time, spying on titanic battles between the Mythics. The Kirins, Masters of Humanity, had sought to control the flow of the rivers, damming, guiding, and draining a four-decade flood to carve out a nation for their people. Their opponents were the tribes who worshipped the Mythics of water, the invasive Dragons of the sea, who desired dominion of the ley-nodes on the mainland. In their contest, mountains toppled, rivers overflowed, entire cities were drowned, and millions of men and animals died, giving rise to intermittent reigns of Undeath. Nightly, as he and his pendent traced the city's ley-lines, making laps around its Tower, Percy had felt the hot breath of the Kirin's phantasms kiss the interior of his skull, filling his frontal lobe with fantastic visions of power beyond the wildest imaginations of Spellcraft. The voice of his patron was deep and resonant, like the rumbling of the earth itself, injecting its memories of the past directly into Percy, unfiltered and unreserved. And like a toddler, his eyes slowly growing into focus, Percy saw the world as it was and should have been. In those days of antiquity, the Kirin tribe, born from these jade-rich seams, was banished from the Prime Material. In their defeat, the hearts of mortal men turned. The Kirin King of Xia, the Shang-Di Gods of northern China, was supplanted by the great, all-encompassing heavens of the Jade Emperor, pronouncing the first "Tian", the kingdom under heaven. The Han people, as the imperial analects recollected, now only knew themselves as the Descendants of Dragons. Gone were the Kirins, becoming mythology to frighten or delight children, made into belligerent fools or loyal subordinates of the heaven-traversing drakes. And his sister was one such Vessel of a usurper, He who Heeds in the south: The Yinglong, the lapdog of the Jade Emperor. She was more than that as well. A long time ago, when she still wore the pendant in Sydney, his Kirin had saved her life. When his sister had been toyed, played with, and abused by a dark magician, the Kirin had reached out of its amulet to grasp a loose strand of Essence her assailants had neglected. It was a local land God: an old one called Almudj, an existence akin to the Kirin, born of the Prime Material itself. From that singular mote of Essence, his sister had begun her transformation, beginning with seducing the land serpent, a being with the mind of an infant but the wrath of a stratospheric tempest. She was a conduit, therefore, of two consciouses, one old, the other scheming, a creature of cunning creatures beyond her ken. The vision Percy knew to be true, for he had seen Gwen's metamorphosis. And his patron had wholeheartedly displayed the befuddled recollection of his sister's desperation, coming across as flashes of abject terror and mewling submission. That was the Gwen he knew, the true Gwen—not this headstrong stranger walking in her skin, wielding Necromancy. Percy took a deep, cold breath, allowing the frigid northern air to fill his lungs. Tianjin was so vast. To think that all of this and beyond belonged to the Kirin. Each time the visions faded, Percy would feel a stark sympathy for his patron, whose Core now nourished his ambitions. In his absence, Humanity had carved the mountains and river into the artifice of their own making—but his patron's connection to the land that nourished his kin had remained. All that was required was the return of the rightful king—then the land and its leys would sing to its originator. And they would nourish him as well. That was a promise he well-cherished, for the power and influence wielded by the possessor of Tianjin's ley-lines was beyond his youthful comprehension. What his sister had achieved—her wealth and status—what good was it compared to the city that fed the north of the world's most populous nation? His nose wrinkled, his spirit soured by the darkness to the northeast. Even here, with all the distance between Yantai and the blasted peninsula of Pyongyang, he could scent the entropic energies of Undeath. A _calamity_ was coming. The Jade Kirin was sure of it. The land trembled in anticipation of the ravages to come. The Kirin had told him that this was divine will. After all, with the exile of his people, the Heaven of Shang-Di had been shattered. Now, the usurpers hold sway. And mortal men syphon away the land's energies to power lumen bulbs, horse-laughing at the banal comedy displayed upon their lumen casters. Percy Song, the rising star of the Liberation Army, would also perish here, leaving his dues for his sister, who would recover the pendant and exorcise the Kirin forever at the behest of her Draconic Masters. For a long while, he had been unable to sleep, and Mei had to send for the Yang's sleeping herbs from home to aid his nightly rest. Then suddenly, inexplicably, his circumstances had changed as if driven by fate. His uncle, against all expectations of reality, had impregnated a Dragon. That Dragon, a true descendent of the Yinglong, possessed the potent blood of the Imperial lines. According to his patron, Jun's child was collated from Essence and will, put in place by the Yinglong, a phantasmal desire made manifest into reality by the will of a Demi-divine being. An impossible conception. An impossible child. An impossible birth. The cost in _causality_ , the Kirin had explained, would be dire, hence the calamity to come. However—what if Percy were to benefit from the trespass of heaven's will? What if, by tapping into the alteration of reality willed by the Yinglong, they could save the city and emerge as its benefactor? The child, his patron had informed Percy, was a font of Draconic Essence, a Dragon's share of which belonged to the Kirin tribe. The child in Ayxin's womb was a hundredfold richer than the "Egg" that had held the wayward mote of primordial Essence, a bounty a thousandfold richer than his sister's transformative gift. One mote! Just a single mote was all that was needed. He must find an opportunity to awaken his patron with the borrowed Essence. The Kirin knew not how, when, or if it was possible, but his message had been clear. Succeed. Or, like the Kirin tribe, it would be best for Percy to enjoy his remaining weeks with Mei, then send her away, leaving behind an heir for his Grandfather. Shalkar. While hairs fell from heads on the east Asian coast, the gaze of Shalkar Al-jadeedah's Pantene(™) perfect protagonist washed over the Barsakelmes low-lands, the largest body of water for hundreds of kilometres. Before the Fire Sea's emergence, the region was a verdant wetland, an Eden where rolling desert and sandstone plateaus overlooked a vast shallow lake, fed by an unfathomable underground reservoir known far and wide by the Rat-folk as the Jewel Sea. After the Beast Tide, the lake dried up, becoming parched sand, with only the December rains bringing relief to the temporary watering holes. Now, in the aftermath of the Fire Sea's retraction, together with the verdant boon of water over the region, Gwen was looking at a vast blue yonder some hundreds of kilometres from edge to edge, swallowing every landmark that had emerged in the three decades since Vynssarion left its imprint across the central continents. Her present predicament as Lord Viceroy of the region was establishing the water supply to her new city, meaning installing an Elemental Water processing plant on or near the deepest part of the "Jewel Lake". Her obstacle was imperialism. The original inhabitants of the Jewel Lake were, without a doubt, the Ix, one of her Rat tribes who took up fishing and aquaculture as a means of living. When the lake shrank to nothing, they were forced to move north, where the Horse Lords enslaved them as the Tasmüyiz. Since that exodus, almost three decades had passed, and during those dry seasons, other Demi-humans native to the region had thrived in place of the agricultural Rat-kin. Foremost were creatures capable of evading the Horse Lord's wrath—collectively known as the Kobold Clans of Barsakelmes. Before today, Gwen had only known of the Clans on paper, for they were seldom seen on the surface. That is until the Dwarves began their spiderweb expansion of the Dyar Morkk underneath Shalkar Al-jadeedah. Before that, there had been no significant conflicts between their interests and the Kobolds. Now, there was. A day ago, Garp finally bore through the granite bedrock of the region to come close to the water-rich aquifer core of Barsakelmes. It then turned in disgust, returning to the rich Elemental earth of the open steppes. What was left was for the Dwarven excavation team to set up a Forward Operating Base, preparing the area for the arrival of the Fabricator Engine. Instead of progress reports, Gwen received news that Kobolds, as a tide, had spilt into the tunnels, overwhelming the Dwarven survey teams. Consequently, four Golems were lost, including their pilots and one Engineseer, now prisoners of the tribesmen. As expected, a Message device pinged her from the Ambassador's office, and here she was, putting out fires. Below, the entrance to the "township" of the Kobold Clans was a modest fort, no more than twenty meters in height, cylindrical, with small windows that gave it the impression of a dangerous, clay-coloured pineapple. Beside her, Golos hovered in his human form, mumbling about the ease by which he could barrel through the fort and make a meteor crater capable of accessing their inner sanctum. Behind them, Lulan sat on one of her infamous iron slabs, advising about the ease by which she could send down a hail of iron to penetrate the Kobold's inner sanctum. "You know," Richard, her advisor who decided he needed some air from the paperwork, was critical of their path forward. "… you could probably drop a Maelstrom and crack that thing open so far that we'll be in their inner sanctum before you know it." "Please do it," the elder of the Ix, a Rat-kin named Jubibi, was having the time of his life with her Mass Flight. The same could be applied to the troop of shivering, flying rats behind him, all hopeful of returning to their occupied burrows. "Christ, we have a hostage situation," Gwen growled at her followers. "What's wrong with talking to them? They look… cute enough." Much to her surprise, the Kobolds were not the mangled goblin folk so common to the underground. Instead, these were furred and mammalian, with long, serpentine bodies clad in leather, sporting vicious little faces that resembled the Marbled-Cat ferrets. They reminded her of her cats on old Earth. And she was naturally opposed to the outright oppression of the locals. According to Ix, their neighbours were hardly innocent. They were merely one of the many mortal foes of the Rat-kin of the Steppes. In times of plenty, granary raids seldom resulted in deaths. In desperate times, they ate the farmers. With such a history in mind, Gwen lowered herself until she was well within the range of the poisoned implements these Kobolds wielded, something between a crossbow and a stave with rudimentary magic. Stake Darts was what the Dwarves had called them—highly penetrative projectiles made for fighting underground monsters of the Murk rather than the overground creatures, nothing like the man-portable Spellswords used by the Dwarves, but numerous and deadly to the unarmored victim. "CLAN GANNRK! I AM LORD VICEROY OF NEW SHALKAR! I WISH TO PARLEY WITH YOUR ELDERS!" her Clarion Call boomed over the fort. "I come in pea—" _SPRACK—!_ A dart pinged off her double-glazed shield. At any rate, a lucky hit would not penetrate her crowskin unless it aimed for her face—and even so, she doubted the poison would be fatal. "CEASE YOUR FIRE!" She commanded, her voice stern and without quarter. "WE WISH TO PARLEY!" _SPAK—! SPAK—_ _SPAK—PING_ _SPAK— SPAK—Pin-PING—_ The bottom of her shield remained clear, for it was Lulan who had blocked the incoming stakes. "Lulu! Hold!" Gwen stopped the imminent launch of a dozen tungsten projectiles from Elemental Earth, each self-sharpened by the velocity of their pressure-induced launch. She drifted upward. Lulan followed. That said, the ammo holds for the Stake Throwers were impressive, with the deterring volley lasting almost half a minute. Each attack chipped away a micron of her pity and sympathy until her brows furrowed un-prettily. "Calamity! Your Human diplomacy won't work here," Golos' laughter was grating on her nerves. "If you believe they will simply return those stout-men pilots and their priest, you're surely mistaken." "And you have a better plan?" Gwen indicated to the fort below. "Our foremost priority is to secure the Dwarves. After that…" "Let me show you how to speak through strength," Golos cracked his neck. "Then, you will know if I can govern your franchise." As the last words left the Dragon's mouth, his body shifted and transformed, growing elongated and large while radiating so much Dragon Fear that their Rat-kin guides spontaneously suffered a colon cleanse. Richard strategically moved behind her while Lulan impassively took the brunt of the Wyvern-turned-Dragon's prideful metamorphosis. The Thunder Dragon's body stretched out, its wings opening like the proverbial butterfly tearing through an Astral cocoon, turning the skies dark as the region's elements reacted to the oppressive presence upon its ley lines. When finally Golo shook out the static discharge from its neck, he was a vision of malevolent dignity. Besides Gwen, her Planar Ally was almost twenty meters from snout to tail, still possessed of his Wyvern heritage's spiked club. His wings were deep blue, semi-transparent where the membranes stretched over the protrusive shoulder joints. Two forearms, large and muscular, extended from where his wings used to be, each possessed three clawed digits clad in azure. With each breath, the plating on his chest rose and fell, discharging static so that it looked like the Thunder Dragon possessed a living Core of lightning. A Western Dragon. An adult "Blue", albeit an immature one. The Core given by Illaelitharian, unsurprisingly, was not an Asiatic Thunder Dragon. “Watch—“ Golos descended. As expected, there were no attacks, only watchful silence as the shit-stained Kobolds stood their ground, dumbstruck by the sight. Like deer in the path of a slow-flying Fireball, they stared at the Thunder Dragon, unable to move, their expressions one of blank incomprehension. When he was close enough, Golo craned his neck to magnify his arrogance tenfold. "INSECTS OF THE EARTH!" The Dragon spoke in the universal tongue of the mortal creatures so that the meaning entered their brains and made itself known. "You filth have my property! Return them to me unharmed and thereby LIVE, or else, ALL SHALL PERISH."

New Shalkar. The Barsakelmes low-lands. After the Blue Dragon's thunder, there was silence. Not true silence, but the tinnitus calm that followed the wake of absolute chaos and destruction, a lull born from shock when nothing more could be broken. Despite her Dragon's "wisdom", Gwen's brows twitched. She did not like the direction their negotiations were barrelling toward but intrinsically understood that politics on the Steppes were a one-way track of escalating violence. The Dwarves would have words about the "property" business— but that's assuming the hostages emerged alive to complain. If their Engineseer and pilots did not... In the womb of her Astral Body, Caliban purred. Outside, while Golos loomed large, the world awaited the Kobold Clan's answer with bated breath. Her internal metronome swayed from left to right. Gwen counted about ten more seconds before Golos began to draw breath, puffing out his chest so that the scales under his neck and between his collarbones grew sapphire bright with cascading energy. "Golos, hold." She halted the Dragon Breath by touching the Dragon's wing tip. "Ten more seconds…" The world resumed its waiting. God knows she wanted to give the Kobolds a chance. At the count of eighteen, a sleek-furred figure wearing robes, looking like a Shaman, spilt from the iron-wrought gate to prostrate at the looming shadow of the Blue Dragon. "O LORD of the vast blue sky—!" Came a voice that was half-yelp, half meow. "Clan Gannrk greets your greatness with every—GARRROK—" " _SSEJINW—!_ " The left side of Gwen's face grew suddenly brilliant from the fusion reaction plasma pouring from her Planar Ally. The Draconic admonition delivered by Golos was a bright, retina-searing beam of lurid lightning that drew a line from the bottom of the fort to the top, exploding a section of its masonry while erasing the speaker from the Prime Material. Before Gwen could react, the electrified door fell inward, no longer being supported by its melted hinges. As the heavy, red-hot metal fell, more screams came from inside the Kobold fort, punctuated with curses and cries of dismay. "BRING ME MY PROPERTY—!" Golos demanded once more. "NOW!" Gwen wasn't sure if the Dragon's threats worked, only that the survivors scrambled inside. When another ten seconds passed, and no Kobold made themselves seen, Golos was ready to reduce the fort to molten slag. "Gogo!" Gwen intervened, this time applying her will to the command. The Dragon was here to dominate, but she needed her Dwarves alive, even if it meant blunting Golos' ego. The Dragon growled, straining against her mental admonishment. "Clan Gannrk!" Her voice tunnelled into the fort like Garp. "The displeasure of the Azure Godling can be held back only so long— release our Dwarven friends, else there won't be a hovel left!" This time, the holdup was worthwhile. The shapes exiting the smoking hole were stout and bearded, although bruised and stripped of their precious armour. Of the four Golems lost, one was a precious Fabricator-Excavator—between the pilots and its operators, the total tally was a sacred score. _Seven_ Dwarves, Gwen had been told, and she counted each emerging head with growing relief until there wasn't. Six. SIX fucking Dwarves. Thankfully, their Engineseer Greybeard was among that number, but the outcome did not bold well for the weight of the decisions that now bore down on her shoulders. "Ariel." She conjured her Kirin. "EE—EE!" Her Kirin somersaulted through the air, landing upon the slagged battlements beside the Dwarves' ragged cheers. Demanding that Golos remained in place, she hovered closer until she landed beside her creature, who stood with its torso against the entrance in case a sneaking Kobold attempted to spike her from the shadows. "Gentle brothers," she spoke in high Dwarven, bowing her head toward the Greybeard. "I see that you have not enjoyed Clan Gannark's hospitality. If I may enquire, where is your seventh?" The Dwarves, as expected, appeared ashamed by the question. Their culture had nothing against being taken prisoner—but losing a junior and their ancestral armour was a deep grudge to bear. "Our youngest… refused to un-don his Golem plates," the Greybeard's jaws were clenched. "He fought… killed one of the Kobold guards. They staked him until he bled out, his armour was torn apart, and he returned to the ancestors." Gwen fought the desire to pinch her brows with each revelation. "Where is his body?" She asked finally, throwing her internal levers into contingency mode. "That we may return his flesh of stone to the Ancestors." "Within their citadel," one of the Golem pilots gruffly answered, then mumbled, "I have the layout memorised," under his breath. The pilots, Gwen noted, were bruised and wounded, though the Iron Guards, selected for their grit and stamina, healed fast and had little patience for pain. The removal of their armours, she understood, would have left scars on their psyche as deep as the canals excavated by the Fabricator Engine. In their overtly rational minds, the survivors had allowed such a disgrace because they were not officially in conflict with the Kobolds. That and their Greybeard wasn't a Deepdowner and could therefore value life over honour. "They're keeping his Ancestor's Golem Plates as a trophy," another said between bruised lips. "We knew we would be rescued… but Torkirk was too young, too hot-headed…" Gwen exhaled a deeply disturbed breath of repressed air. As expected, Magister Murphy's Law was in full force. She had to be responsible here. But responsible to whom? Her allies here in Shalkar? Her foes who would impede her city? Or altruism? "I will ensorcel all of you with flight," she said after considering her next steps. "Ariel here will guide your path toward our FOB." The Dwarves expected a good answer from her, but the patience she wished to afford her foes was not a display Gwen wished the Dwarves to know. The Greybeard waited for her to continue. "You have my word, venerable Greybeard. I shall recover your looted armours, the tools, AND the Golem parts. Every recoverable component shall be returned to the Craftmen's Guild." Her thoughts guided her audience toward the entrance to the underground warrens. "An attack of this magnitude cannot be by accident or on a whim. It was premeditated and planned. If the Kobolds are merciful on themselves, I will extract the leader responsible, and your Ambassador may decide what to do with him." The atmosphere softened. "A wide judgement," the Greybeard concurred. "Clan Nodstromme shall repay this debt one day, Regent Song." Gwen did not refute the Engineseer's claim of yet another Debt of Haj-Zül. Instead, she materialised healing potions for each of them. "I shall return Torkirk's blessed Core to the Ancestor's Halls, regardless of the costs," she declared. "Please advise the Ambassador that I shall return shortly…" She glanced at Golos, who drifted closer, making his purpose known. The Greybeard wrung his beard. "We await your arrival at the base, Regent." With the Engineseer's permission, Gwen drew the Sigils for the rune of Mass Flight, imprinting her sorcery on each of the stout Earthen men. As non-Mages, they would have little control over their "Flight", which was why Ariel, through its command of Elemental Air, would see that they smoothly made it home with minimal trauma from navigating the Himsegg. "EE—EE!" Ariel lifted off, not unlike a single Rodolph with a string of six Santas. She watched the men drift across the horizon. The ordeal had taken a good ten minutes. Yet, there had been no response from the culprits. _Thud!_ With the sound of crumbling stones, Golos landed behind her, dislodging a cascade of loose shale and mortar. Lulan alighted as silently as a bobcat. Besides her, Richard drifted into being with the help of Lea. "Shall we?" The Dragon licked his enormous, tooth-lined upper jaw. "I could eat." Gwen regarded the entrance once more. Futile as her chances of a resolution, she felt obligated to make one last attempt. After that, they would resolve matters in the only language of the Steppes. "Elders of Clan Gannrk," she threw her voice into the gaping earthen orifice through her mastery of Illusion. "I offer your people a chance for repentance. Here are the conditions given by me, the Regent of the Mageocracy. FIRSTLY, deliver the Kobold Chief responsible for the assault on our tunnels. SECONDLY, collect and return all looted Golems components, including our men's armour. THIRDLY, bring me the remains of the young Dwarf you murdered, and I shall temper my mercy." Holding the eager Golos at bay, she afforded the Kobold Clan five more generous minutes of life. No reply came, nor Kobolds. "I think…" Lulan, sensing tremors with her Affinity for Elemental Earth, met her eyes with great expectations for the violence to come. "They've fled deeper into their warrens. These will be well fortified, I imagine, by their best warriors. I do not believe we should delay further, for we do not know how speedily their main population may evacuate nor how far." "Gwen," Richard cleared his throat. "... _Regent_ , I do believe our usurpers of Clan Ix's domains have made a conscious choice. Not a good choice, mind you, but we should respect their… free will." Somewhere above, Gwen could imagine the still-hovering forms of Jubibi and his kin nodding furiously. Her temples throbbed. Conflict, when it came to hearth and home, was inevitable. It was drama as old as antiquity, a cascading history of human strife harkening from a primordial Terra when Dragons still vied for ley-line nodes to nourish their beings. Civilisation had changed the terms of engagement, but the crux of the matter had remained immutable since the dawn of Humanity and all the species that preceded it. Maybe that was why the Elves were so revered. They had their home. They remained within its confines, nurtured it, and expanded its spaces when needed through the infinite possibilities of the World Tree. Meanwhile, here they were, the mortal races, children on an island, bickering over the conch, setting fire to each other's camps, worshipping rotting pig heads. When she finally allowed her shoulders to sag, a quarter of an hour had passed since the Dwarves departed. Without warning, her aura changed, drinking in the light of midday. " _Caliban._ " The space around Gwen violently rippled as her Familiar emerged, fresh from its long slumber within her mind womb, fattened by the dire bodies of foes who had feasted upon the world, only to serve as her Caliban's feed. Lulan took a step backwards, as did her cousin. Golos took off, his wings beating the air. Below, a monstrous form birthed itself, squeezing through a sieve to negate the fabric between the Planes. A coalescing fog emerged, vaguely humanoid but hunched and hungering, so uncanny that even Gwen felt a distinct wariness for Caliban's new likeness. The dark, Void-rich fog condensed, its acidic vapour taking shape with every passing second. As Caliban inexpertly collected itself, the viscous goo dripping from its solidifying form sizzled the sandstone pavement, making deep, weeping trenches of bubbling silica. The result, though incomplete, was vaguely humanoid enough to be called feminine. However, Gwen knew its simulacrum nature was because Caliban fed off the psychic energies of her deep psyche. "Shaa…" The fog shifted, its final shell metamorphosing as it moved. Stolen novel; please report. Gwen guided her Familiar with her mind until its exterior finally settled into place. Caliban stood a head shorter than herself in its docile form, with a silhouette that could have been mistaken for a malicious midnight Sufina. Its body was congealed ferrofluid, though each micro-movement seemed to displace motes of Void matter, intermingled with Negative Energy, from its being. "Strewth," Richard remarked beside her. "I infinitely prefer Cali's Spider Form. At least that made sense." "Shaa—!" The Familiar purred, its faceless mien warping to reveal a depthless, jagged orifice. "Caliban," Gwen raised a tender, un-gauntleted hand. "Are you hungry?" Tendrils, forming from the immaterial into thick ropes of slime, wrapped themselves against her digits. Another distended from the Void-mist to lick her face. Gwen allowed the gesture, stroking the tentacles as they withdrew. The vague, featureless face nodded. The newly reborn Caliban understood her words and intentions. That fact alone had infinitely renewed the fascination of her London compatriots. A month before, Magister Brown consulted the rarest Bestiaries in Cambridge to ascertain what might have caused Caliban's change. The scholar had suggested that a formidable Death Knight was serving as the Necromancer's guardian, a monster sutured together from the parts of Magical Creatures into a chimaera Core. In war, at least one always served as the sword and shield of the offending Lich, the supreme leader of a Cabal, a nasty, malicious creature tied to the soul of its deathless Master. This particular "Death Knight" had been a resident of the Negative Energy Plane. Ergo, her fellow Magisters pointed their wands at the possibility of a _Nightwalker_. Also known as Death Stalkers. Apex hunters that haunt the Negative Energy Plane. The Major General of an Undead Legion. The conjecture made sense—Nightwalkers were siege breakers, ancient allies of the eternal night that existed only to consume the light of the living. They possessed powerful auras of undeath that bolstered the Undead minions of the Lich and his Necromancers. When fully fed, the calamity-tier giants could grow taller than three storeys. They leapt into the armies of the living without trepidation, shedding necrotic shadows and driving allies into frenzies of undeath until nothing alive was left to feast upon. Against a World Tree—there would be no better final hand to play than a Nightwalker, a parasitic being that grew stronger with each assault until the Elves committed enough resources to finally extinguish its Core—a cost so great as to wound the tree for centuries. But Caliban was no Nightwalker, at least not yet. For one, her Cali was having enormous trouble condensing its' loose strands of Void energies, making it more akin to a toddler with tremendous strengths it could not control. Her monster needed nourishment and practice to grow—and here lay both. "Caliban," she informed her scarcely corporeal Familiar, running a gauntleted hand down the back of her creature, her fingers dancing over the bumpy ridges of a spine. Acutely, she shared Caliban's hunger as it drooled through the flooring. "Prune the fort," Gwen gave the command with a hardened heart. " _Feast_." Her Familiar opened its non-existent mouth. " _SHAAAAAAA—_ " It was like a horrid hymn of undeath filled every inch of the fort's cathedral tunnels. Richard and Lulan's mana shields sprang into place while Golos growled, shielding itself with a leathery wing. As an obscene arrow loosened from a taut bowstring, Caliban shot into the tunnel's darkness, skittering on all fours, clawing at the wall's sides to accelerate its downward spiral. As it descended, the wail continued as an unceasing shriek emerging from breathless organs. It was a wail of extinction, a paralytic, panic-inducing song of undeath distinctly possessed by upper-tier Undead. The party from New Shalkar listened to the siren song of Caliban's newfound ability as the sound grew thankfully distant. "That—" Richard unstoppered two bolts of water from his ears. "—is God damned terrifying." _SHAAAAAAAA—_ Lulan nodded in complete agreement, her shoulder-cropped hair bobbing to and fro. "I wouldn't want to fight Caliban…" _SHAAAAA—_ "I prefer the Screamer…" Golos delivered his sincere opinion with great solemnity. "better than the snake." _SHAA—_ Finally, the howling grew faint. The party regarded one another. "Is he…" Richard pointed at the hole. "Or she… gone?" "No. Alive and securing a beachhead." Gwens spoke while looking into the middle distance; both eyes glazed with Link Sight from her Familiar. "Did you know it can shed little Calibans now?" "It sheds… Calibans?" Richard raised both brows. "Like birthing them as she… it goes?" "It's a peculiarity of the Nightwalker form," Gwen explained. "They're just Hydras, although I am currently the battery empowering Caliban's ability. On the plus side, the fingerling Calibans are highly necrotic, and the Aura of Desolation I am empowering through Cali empowered them to frenzy." "Do we go in?" Lulan drifted closer to the entrance, from which the unending _Shaa—_ could still be heard. "Caliban doesn't need support?" "It's a field test." Gwen could feel the warmth infusing her icy fingers as the feedback from Caliban began. The Kobolds could fight many things—but a Nightwalker, even the mimicry of one, was beyond their ken. Steadying herself, she walked to the edge of the fort's battlement, then sat in the lotus pose. "Dick, call me if something happens. While Caliban continues the labour, I shall be… overseeing its education." Richard wove the Water Barriers into place. Lulan extracted her swords, then drifted into formation. The screams of Caliban's victims echoed in her mind while silhouettes of fleeing victims filled her vision. "Oi, what about me?" Golos' thundering voice washed over them, sounding both hurt and cheated. "This was my idea! The prize… the prize was mine—!" Shalkar Al-jadeedah. The Dwarven contingent had already gathered in the courtyard before the Regent of the new city even arrived. When she appeared over the newly erected walls, all but the Greybeards made the close-fisted Sign of the Ancestor's Cog to welcome their regional administrator. Gwen landed on shale pavement with a click of her crow skin heels, rasping the metal like a nail on sheet metal. With a wave of her hand here and there, she materialised the Golem components piecemeal, allowing them to land in resonating thunks and clanks. Once done, she deposited the Deep Plates of the Golem pilots: re-looted from the shared treasury of the Kobold Clans. Finally, in front of the white-bearded Ambassador, she cradled the immobile body of Torkirk Thrumkrik, a little mangled and bruised all over but still in a single piece. "Stone Lord Yossock Axenhoff, I return your kin to the Ancestors," Gwen bowed her head deeply. "We are truly sorry for the loss." "We thank you for returning our friends and cousins." The Ambassador received the rag-doll carcass with both arms, then rested it reverently on a levitating ceremonial slab. A metallic keening followed, shrouding the body in a thin metal layer. "Torkirk, his dishonour is avenged?" "I have _pacified_ the region," Gwen spoke without displaying any overt emotions. "Clan Ix will bring its warriors to occupy the fort in the next few weeks. The area is now safe to continue with the construction. Lord Golos has also volunteered to remain in the area for a few days to feed... to oversee the clean-up operation." "Then we are well satisfied," the Stone Lord sent the floating tomb slab adrift before turning his attention back toward her. "For Torkirk's Clan and kin, all of Bavaria's craftsmen brotherhood thanks you." "It was my duty," Gwen did not shy away from the crushing handshakes the Dwarves used as a form of trust and confidence. "My only fear is that the incident will not remain… isolated." "Those who seek fortune in the Murk know its dangers," Axenhoff gave her a grin of acknowledgement. "The Clans are not strangers to such necessities, Regent." "That's not very OSHA…" Gwen remarked, falling back to some light-hearted private comedy to blur the heavy toll of what had transgressed. "I think, Ambassador… that it's time we sat down and discussed risk management. I know there will be dangers—but let's walk in the dark with our eyes wide open. If you open the Murk to us, the Rat-kin are more than capable of fielding Purge teams, especially if supported by Golem units." The Ambassador stroked his beard, but then his gaze wandered. Their discussion was interrupted by the return of Lulan, whose facial control was not made for poker playing. "Lulu?" Gwen nodded at the Ambassador before separating herself. "I can see something's up. What's the news?" The Sword Mage shyly drew closer before leaning against her ear. "Master-aunty… er… requests your presence at her _wedding_." The student of Ryxi whispered. "An official message just arrived, with an official invitation from the CCP to follow within the week. You've been asked to represent the Mageocracy, Regent, at the Wedding of Jun Song and Mistress Ayxin in Shanghai." Tianjin. China. "They want ME to be their best man?" The voice of Percy Song, astounded by the Message from the device attached to his wrist, quivered as a plucked zither string. While his grandfather's voice continued to drone, Percy looked to the blue yonder beyond the windows, his chest expanding with such rapturous joy that he could barely control the desire to lift the Kirin pendant from his chest and toast the heavens. Not far, Mei laughed at his theatrics, chortling so violently she almost spat out the breakfast congee she was nursing. Percy smiled back, though internally, he scoffed at her ignorance. How could his fiancee even begin to understand his ecstasy? He—Percy Song—was to be in Uncle Song and _Aunt_ Axyin's bridal party, not his sister! What a fortunate opportunity! What a heaven-blessed fruit to be plucked! If this was not the divine will of some higher, unseen power from the Kirin tribe, Percy knew not what else to say. His father's wedding had catapulted his sister into the orbit of influence and infamy—and his uncle's wedding will perform no less for Percy Song! "You are agreeable?" The gruff voice of his grandfather sounded happier than his usual judgemental self. Percy empathised with Guo's barely disguised joy, for his good son was finally getting married, and there was a new grandchild to add to the family roster. A literal Dragon-child, an heir to the Yinglong and, thus, the nation's longevity. All that, and most importantly, a threat to the centrality of Percy's career and his future trajectory! "I'LL DO IT! I agree! Thank you, Yeye!" Percy affirmed his involvement with all the sincerity he could muster. It wasn't all good news. "… There will also be another in attendance— a woman called Elvia Lindholm, a _Vessel_ of the Yinglong. I did not wish you to be paired with her. As you know, there is no doubt your sister will attend, this time as a guest of the Party. To pair you with Miss Lindholm would be a calamity...." Percy looked at Mei. The girl looked back expectantly. Percy smiled. Of course, his fiancee would contribute to his future. "Yeye, I would be overjoyed if Mei could partner with me as a maid. I would choose no one else as a partner to care for Aunty Ayxin." His fiancee blossomed like a flower at his declaration. As for Elvia Lindholm, a vision of loveliness was all Percy recalled. The girl, Elvia, had been his sister's friend—though she had never visited their home. He had seen her occasionally in those rare instances of his sister's attendance. The girl-child possessed a beauty that made the heart sore—though Percy hated the sanctimonious altruism Elvia seemed to exude. At the same time, he recalled the tale of her unlikely ascension, that his obsessed sister had foolishly introduced the western Cleric to the Yinglong to share her favour, and that the Dragon had taken a liking to the blonde. The Party had considered the act a cardinal sin, an affront against its interests, and were it not for his grandfather and the efforts of Secretary-General Miao, his sister would have never left the country intact. Either way, a Vessel of the Yinglong rightfully deserved a place at the banquet—for it wasn't as though Ayxin had girlfriends to serve as her bridesmaids. From behind, Mei embraced him. Her body was warm and soft, and the mounds of her sumptuous flesh pressing against his back made his smile even wider. There was a great danger in Lindholm's unexpected invitation—though Percy understood very well that an opportunity to be alone with a fatigued Ayxin could not and would not rise again. "When will the wedding take place?" "During November," his grandfather replied. "There will be a week-long national celebration during the Mid-Autumn Festival. The wedding will take place on the night of the full moon…" A schedule that made perfect sense to Percy. The Mid-Autumn Festival was known for its mooncakes, poetry competitions, coinciding with the national harvests. There wasn't another time as auspicious and filled with good cheer as the season mulberry trees turned to flame. "The main wedding will take place in Hangzhou, and we will hold a flowing water banquet for all the Party faithful." His grandfather continued. "We shall be expecting you and Mei?" "I'll be there! I'll do everything I can to make it perfect!" Percy's feelings were wholly genuine. He still had several weeks to prepare matters here in Nanjing. All the Kirin Amulet needed was a moment to approach his aunty—all the better if, as the rumours said, she was constantly tired and sleeping from the exertion of childbearing. Of that certainty, Percy knew a little more than his family members, for he alone understood that Ayxin was weaving the Essence from the Yinglong into that bundle of improbability in her womb. And if Uncle Jun were to be away with a rare guest… such as his sister… And if his sister could be preoccupied with her blonde… And if he could be trusted to look after Aunty Ayxin for only a few interrupted moments… "Hahaha..." His grandfather allowed an uncharacteristic display of emotions. "Good lad!" "Hahahaha…" Percy couldn't help but laugh as well. The Kirin pendant on his chest pulsed warmly. His patron was laughing too. "Oh—Percy..." Mei giggled beside him, tittering innocently at the prospect of being presented as his fiancee to the public. Percy knew he must now hasten his plans in Tianjin—for when the moon grows round, both bane and boon will calamitously collide! The Yellow Sea. Lei-bup, the High Priest of She who Devours, ran a clawed finger up and down the numerous lesions scarring his torso. He lounged on a throne of coral-wreathed bones—though he was not its possessor. As he had professed, the divan was not his seat of power, for the crown surely belonged to the Pale Priestess of the Great Devourer herself. Presently, his Shoal was housed in the interior of a fledgling Leviathan, one they had rescued from the unhappy fate of being devoured by the aberrant Shoals of rot and decay. The battle was costly—though Lei-bup was glad to acquire a comrade in arms who was both shelter and siege engine. A mermaid gently directed his hand from his flaking scales, then continued to apply the salve made by his court apothecary. The constant agony of the self-devouring flesh beneath his silken robes was a reminder of the Priestess' blessing, urging Lei-bup to continue to gather up comrades and to lead the Great Shoal Forward with humility. "Comrade High Priest..." A Turtle-kin, one of his many advisors, presented the reports from their outer Shoal. "The Deathless Shaols are on the move. They have left the sheltered coves of the domain of undeath and are marauding toward the Human city." Lei-bup furrowed his fishy brows. Fishes don't blink, though his eyes flashed with a dark intelligence. "A rising tide?" "They grow through forage, yes," the Turtle-kin stroked his chin beard, a prized symbol of his wisdom. Rapping three armoured fingers against his shell, his advisor made the final calculations. "There are six Shoals in all, converging into a Great Shoal. Our adversaries are marching for war—though we are not its objective." "An assault on what then?" Lei-bup growled. Since that strange ripple that had shaken the seven seas some month ago, strange occurrences plagued the deep like scale rot. Monstrosities of the Elemental Plane of Water, such as Oonerie, their rescue Leviathan, inexplicitly roamed the Prime Material, not knowing why or how they had left the abode of infinite water. At the same time, since their first appearance a dozen moon cycles ago, the Undead Shoals had grown into an obscene, tentacled Kraken, pushing back the Seven Kingdoms' domains and erasing entire underwater citadels from existence. The events had driven Lei-bup's Shoal into roaming the shallower depth of the Yellow Sea, always avoiding the northern depth, where the Undead grew ever more numerous. More urgently, the Shoal was short on supplies from the shore, namely their dwindling pallets of SPAM, used to induct new members into the priesthood of the Pale Priestess. The pragmatic part of Lei-bup dreaded the prospect of becoming the leader of the only living Shoal soon to grace the Yellow Sea's once-rich domain. Yet, a part of Lei-bup informed him that perhaps, this was the precise purpose of his being—why he, of all the fishes in the sea, had been chosen by the Pale Priestess. "So... not an assault on the mainland. Not yet... currently, I see it as an amassment," the Turtle-kin answered Lei-bup. "Shall we move the Shoal?" Lei-bup considered his purpose. "No. Comrade Secretary." Lei-bup shifted his burdened body. He felt much older than his actual age, even with the aid of his Faith and the precious elixirs from the various guests of his Shoal. To kiss the appendage of a God of the Void... was to be changed forever. "We wait and see what these desecrators are up to. If they indeed instigate chaos... then we shall use this opening to raid the shipping lanes of Tianjin—" His hands made two balled fists. "—And _liberate_ their cache of holy SPAM!" London. The Imperial College. Slylth Alexander Morden, his patience at wit's end, snatched the paper from his host's hand. For the past few weeks, he had been teaching, preaching, and living life to the utmost boredom a Red Dragon could imagine. Anymore, and he was seriously weighing the possibility of burning down a portion of the city. Very quickly, his eyes scanned the invitation. "Mid-November?" He looked up, his scarlet orbs flashing. "I must wait until November before I can enter the Shalkar Protectorate?" "Our colleagues at Oxbridge were very particular about Magister Song's schedule." Magister Clyde's fatigued countenance informed Slylth that there was no more recourse and that this was the best the London Imperial College could manage. "Nonetheless, we have secured the permission. Will you attend, Master Morden?" Against his nature and instinct, Slylth controlled the better half of his existence. "Push it forward," he demanded of the weary Magister in front of him. "Offer them something! Tell them— I'll personally teach the girl the craft she needs! Just... no more! No more of this damned _lull_ in London!"

In modern times, Dragons tended to sleep, sometimes for centuries. This peculiarity was the basis for grand narratives of cataclysm where peaceful settlements would "happen" upon a Dragon den while mining rich seams of HDMs or harvesting countless rare herbs. In all cases, the mortals would invariably awaken the calamity and then cry foul. Conversely, a Dragon could also choose not to sleep, arguably for as long as they wished, for such had been the circumstances of survival in the Primordial World. Therefore, riding on Dragon juice, the Lord Regent of New Shalkar now abused this feature to level a mountain of paperwork. Together with her eidetic recall, she performed the work of a dozen executives, planning, signing, proofing, and projecting every major aspect of the city's construction for months ahead of schedule. Of course, Regent Song was no Oracle of Delphi—and her projections are not of the future—but rather the budgetary concerns of cash flow, inventory and materials. A line of credit had also been established with the Germanic Dwarves, who would continue building their partnership, and her city, even in her absence. Within the week, refugees would also flood into Shalkar. Before then, residences, public transportation, security checkpoints and healthcare facilities had to be constructed and skeleton staffed—with the missing roles to be assumed by the refugees. As a responsible Regent, she had to ensure her future citizens felt the state's tender care. There would be dissidents, naturally—for the paradox of the human mind made them unique among the denizens of Terra. As The Bloom in White had intimated, the strange dimensions of human desire were unfathomable. For instance, even among the refugees driven from their homes, exorcised from the summer of their lives into a desolate winter of bureaucratic apathy, a non-small volume fought tooth and nail against having new lives in Shalkar Al-jadeedah. To be saved, given a new home, employment and a future with their family wasn't enough! They desired to be rescued—but only on their terms! But that was a fish Regent Song would have to fry another day. Her immediate concern was the October wedding. In a world without the internet, she would have to teleport to Paris and drop some serious HDMs. After that, she had to pick up the gifts she had sourced. With great foresight, Gwen had discerned that for a Dragon princess who lacked nothing and a military hero who wanted nothing, the only worthwhile bundle was the most outrageous baby and toddler's clothes, cribs, playsets and strollers magic could afford. Uniquely, hers would range from Elf-woven masterpieces to Dwarven-tinkered perambulators. All of which would drive Axyin's future play date parents to bouts of insane jealousy! After consultation with her city's stakeholders, she, Richard, Petra and Lulan would attend the wedding as a group—with Lulu filling in for Ayxin's side of the family. Gwen's role would not be the niece of Jun nor the grandchild of the Songs. At Secretary-General Miao's behest, she was to be the Regent of Shalkar Al-jadeedah, a high-level Magister, a diplomat of the Commonwealth Mageocracy. When she asked Richard to unpuzzle the politics, her smiling cousin had explained that the Secretary-General did not wish any unpleasantness to ruin her enjoyment of a state wedding. With the diplomatic immunity bestowed to her, she had the freedom to do as she wanted—but would also be bound by the role to answer to her diplomat-superior, the Duke of Norfolk. Gwen had identified the arrangement as a gilded cage, and she, an exotic Magical Beast. She was disgruntled—until Richard reminded her that if anyone, Ayxin was the exhibit. A pregnant exhibit. Gwen then felt truly sorry for her "Aunty". She discerned that if her spouse had asked her to parade a swelling belly on national television, she would have asked if they also wanted a Shoggoth. However, Gwen knew her uncle, and she understood the desperation of the Communist Party's need to throw an auspicious bash to undo a time of general anxiety. Since Erebus, every nation on earth, whether because of catastrophes of destruction, or conflict catalysed by unseasonal boons, sat on geopolitical pincushions. The same applied to the Demi-Humans, be it old civilisations like the Dwarves, who jostled against the horrors of the Murk, or the Kobold residents of Shalkar, who recently "vacated" their homes for Clan Ix. In the darkness of a long Dungeon, even a small torch was worth its weight in HDMs. Shanghai. Putong Tower. The ISTC Mandala flared quicksilver, depositing its cargo of transmuted individuals hailing from the ancient Abbey of Battle. "Putong Tower welcomes our friends from England..." The presiding Magister, Wei-Wei Xing, bowed, instructing his fellow to perform likewise. "We greet our most honourable guests from the Ordo St George and Bath." The newly arrived entourage involved three Knights and a Companion. Two were Knight Lieutenants, sporting the dark officer's uniform of the Ordo Bath and cloaked in rich velvet and ivory Moon Moth silk. Both made a half-bow, their white gloves pressed upon the crest of the radiant sun. Their descent was followed by a young man with ash-blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes, richly dressed in the uniform of the Ordo St George, attired in a double-breasted carmine jacket embossed with gold buttons and cut with a crested ivory sash. Elvia Lindholm was the last to step from the raised dais of the ISTC. Compared to her companions, she appeared meek of stature but grand in the air of her presence, for she was fully cloaked in the pale blue regalia of the Knight Companion, additionally wreathed with rare mink, which made her flaxen hair all the more vivid. As the Chinese Mages approached, it became obvious to her that the Magister's deference was not for her Knights but for her alone. "O Anointed One." Elvia saw the man beam as he met her searching gaze. "Hosting the Yinglong's Vessel in our city is a great honour. I have made the best accommodations ready for your inspection. Would you like to rest now, or is there another pleasure I may first fulfil?" "There is, Sir Xing. I would like to know..." Elvia spoke softly, for her mood had been grave of late, and their final arrival at the destination of everything she had worked toward had made her reticent. "If Magister Song has arrived in Shanghai." "Magister Song?" It took the Chinese Magister a few moments to process the request, likely via Message channels. "Ah—The Regent of Shalkar has not. We are five days away from Mid-Autumn, and the Regent has informed us that she will arrive the night prior." "Very well. Has my itinerary been modified since our last communication?" Besides her, Mathias pulled out a data slate. "We have not received an update since Monday." "I must check with the Central Planning Bureau for Public Affairs." The Chinese Magister appeared apologetic. Though Pudong Tower was equal to the PLA Tower on paper, the PLA's big wigs comprehensively controlled every detail. "Are we restricted to the Tower for the wedding's duration?" She asked. Awaiting their answer, Mathias casually placed a hand on the hilt of his Dwarven-made Spellsword. "No—" the Magister quickly answered. "You have been granted total freedom, per negotiations with our counterparts in the PLA Tower. Is there anywhere you would like to go?" "Yes." Elvia nodded. Shanghai was Gwen's city. Gwen had spent two and a half years here, knowing its nooks and crannies. "First, I would like to go to Fenbo Village." "Fengbo... village?" The Chinese Magister appeared to be gently sweating. He quickly scanned his fellow Maguses and guards. "I've not heard of such a provincial region..." "It's a restaurant near Fudan," Elvia explained, realising that perhaps, the place wasn't nearly as famous as Gwen had raved. The Magister absorbed her request with every iota of his Astral Soul. "Are you meeting someone there? Milady?" "I want to eat Beggar's Chicken." "Beggar's... chicken?" The pause, Elvia felt, had lingered a little longer than could be considered diplomatic. "Of course! We have prepared a limousine," the Magister recovered well enough. A few of his men immediately left, their arms raised to indicate the use of their Message Devices. "This way, Companion Lindholm—" "Oh, and while we luncheon," Elvia swallowed the bile in her throat even as she recited the names. "Please arrange an appointment with Lord Ayxin. Likewise, before the wedding, I wish to meet Grandfather and Grandmother Song—and most importantly, I would like to commune with my fellow bridal party members, namely Magus Percy... for... reasons." After a sumptuous meal of Beggar Chicken, Elvia and the crew were bundled into the limousine for the Yu Gardens. "It's a historical manor that survived the Ming Dynasty," Magister Xing explained to the Knights and their Companion. "Central wanted Mistress Ayxin within the _protection_ of the PLA Tower, and we wanted her within range of our Tower in case disagreements arouse—so we figured a garden complex with rockeries and ponds similar to Hangzhou would give her privacy and peace of mind. It's an extensive palace—one I hope would satisfy Lord Yinglong. Yu Garden sits at the heart of The Bund, close to every conceivable pleasure Mistress Ayxin may desire." "Privacy is expensive in a city such as this," Elvia spoke in the stead of her sponsor, though she knew the Yinglong could not care less about the comforts Humans may provide. "I am well-pleased that the Party cherishes my Mistress. How fares our groom? Is he just as well?" "Master Jun is very busy, considering Mistress Ayxin's need for rest," Magister Xing affirmed her knowledge of Jun's actions. "He's keeping a close eye on the wedding's preparations to ensure Mistress Ayxin has minimal exposure—the very picture of a model husband. Once you review the program, Companion Lindholm, you may consult Master Jun regarding additional concerns." "I shall, once I have examined Mistress Ayxin's health," Elvia answered as politely as she could. Ayxin, as expected, had rejected all offers of health-check ups from the CCP's Healers. Elvia knew there would be nothing wrong with the child in her womb, but she still needed to ascertain the condition of her Patron's daughter before going forward with plans of her own. After half an hour, the car pulled into an enormous gate beset by two stone Kirins each a storey tall. Kirins were the traditional guardians of China's east coast. While disembarking, her three knights formed a vague triangle around her as the local Mage garrison assumed defensive positions. Magister Xing flashed a jade trinket that indicated his rank and position within Pudong Tower. Messages were divined, and the guards returned to their posts, allowing Elvia's group entry into the central courtyard. Within, serpentine corridors were built over a blue lake brimming with koi, its surface refracting the mana haze in the atmosphere. The walkways led to a series of multi-storey pagodas, themselves interconnecting nodes that pointed toward the enormous residences within the Yu Garden. "Mistress Ayxin is expecting you, Miss Lindholm. Your companions will remain here." At the second set of meandering walkways, female Military Mages uncomfortably dressed as servants in modest qipao accosted the group, allowing only herself to proceed. Elvia accepted the conditions, diverting her companions to a pagoda with prepared plates of dim sim desserts and a Mage trained in tea brewing. "Mathias, Sir Reginal, Sir Kass," Elvia bowed her head. "Please wait for my return." The men relented without complaint. All of them had by now seen her—or rather—her pets, Sen-sen and Kiki, in the throes of combat. Elvia crossed the final threshold alone, feeling like a bureaucratic scholar parting the last paper door to an empress' chamber. Within, the rich scent of sandalwood incense aromatised the air. Elvia proceeded as one might in a Dungeon until she finally saw the reclined form of Ayxin, daughter to her Patron, half-lounged on a divan, looking down from the ceiling. Elvia raised her head. Ayxin was not in her Human form. Instead, the pearlescent Dragon took up almost a quarter of the enormous four-storey interior, an extensively modified space for accommodating its new Mistress. Though she had often seen her Patron in her dream visions, the cut of Ayxin's Draconic true body still held Elvia captive. The demi-divinity was an aesthetic that made her heart ache: from Ayxin's mother-of-pearl scales to the brilliant feathers that crested its neck frills, the female Dragon was breathtaking. Elvia curtsied as one before a monarch. "Mistress Axyin. As promised. I am here to accompany your ceremony and to examine your health." Ayxin's head made a fatigued arch before resting a meter above her. " _Father_ slumbers... he too is exhausted by my stubbornness." "The Lord is aware," Elvia relayed what information she felt could be forwarded. "Of the events to come." Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. "Not _events_ —but Calamities that shall soon come to pass," Ayxin's slitted eyes narrowed. Perhaps because of their mutual connection, Elvia could feel Ayxin's uncertainty—an emotion she had never imagined a Dragon could express. "But not what of. Will Father allow me the pleasure of knowing? Or shall I meekly endure like your Nazarene?" "Lord Yinglong has made preparations," Elvia knew better than to decide for her Patron. "Milady should worry about the wedding and what comes after. The child will be months more asleep—but hungrier for Essence." The enormous head drifted closer. Elvia comforted herself with a mote of her Patron's blessing as Ayxin's presence washed over her like the pressure from a forceful waterfall. "Unlike Ruxin, I dislike _plots_ ," Ayxin protested in Draconic. Elvia said nothing. The Essence in her body affirmed her silence wholeheartedly, resisting Ayxin's probing. "Will... my child be safe?" Ayxin asked, half-sighing, half-resigned to fate. "Can you tell me that?" "The young Master will be safe," Elvia promised. "Will... Jun be safe?" "Yes." Elvia's tone remained unmoved. Jun would be safe. The war hero would survive for Gwen's sake and Ayxin's. "Then all is well." Ayxin released her Dragon Fear. "What else might matter? We each have our roles to play. Vessel. I hope Father has disbursed you well." Elvia breathed once more. Indeed. All had roles to play. "Mistress," she allowed Ki-ki and Sen-sen to sneak out from her broad-brimmed robes. "I need to examine your well-being if you will allow me. It needs to be in your human form since that will be the form you will present yourself during Mid-Autumn. _And_ I am only familiar with humanoid physiology..." Ayxin's body glimmered, forcing Elvia to shield her eyes. When the Dragon-wife of Jun Song was done, Elvia stood only a head shorter than the diaphanously robed Ayxin, looking every inch like a fairy from the Chinese wood-cut tales of the heavenly Jade Palace. Her hair was now a mixture of blues, with eclectic strands of silver-white or pale cobalt, making her exotic beyond belief. Ayxin's eyes were Draconic, no longer mimicking Gwen's but truer to her noble blood. When Ayxin tried to shift her body, the Dragon woman stumbled, disorientated by the complex polymorph. Sen-sen quickly caught its grand Mistress, infusing her limbs with a generous dose of Faith-infused vitality. "Human bodies." Ayxin's brow was shiny with a fresh sheen of sweat as she re-orientated herself on the Dragon-sized armrest. "Are so frail." "You needn't have to transform yourself now..." Elvia regretted informing the woman of her father's wishes so soon. "Jun will be home soon." Ayxin shook her head. "He's not often at the Garden of late and won't be until all this is over. When he is home, I want to be in this form." The tone of love and adoration in Ayxin's voice made Elvia stiffen her spine. She as well, for love and devotion, had taken on certain forms. "Please don't push yourself." She touched a finger to Ayxin's wrist, allowing their Essences to conjoin. As the motes circulated through their Astral Bodies, she could feel the pulsing life within Axyin's transmogrified womb. Within Ayxin's Astral Soul, her child of impossibilities slumbered, insensible to the cost of its existence. A total innocent, bearing no sin but the hopes and dreams of its parents. Was the young prince a being of virgin birth? According to Gwen, Ayxin was no virgin. But regardless, the hypothetical dilemma had caused no end of dissent and debate at Elvia's Ordo seminary. But virgin or not, Elvia affirmed the quickening of her convictions—she would shelter the sinless child—and by that good—a greater good shall beget. Shanghai. The Song Compound. With three days left until the fated wedding, the entire city and the country had stirred to joyful action. China's east and south coasts, consisting of its most populous cities, had readied themselves for the greatest "party" since the fiftieth anniversary of the Party's founding. Red Lanterns with pictograms for prosperity and happiness were issued to all citizens and all Districts. Some cities had gone the full length of funding pyrotechnical displays, paralleling the mass Propaganda of "We Chinese, The Descendents of Dragons". Across its vast landholdings, even in the remote Frontiers, children sang full-throated limericks praising the Party and its alliance with the Yinglong while on lumen-casters, cartoons and dramas glorifying the banishment of mythical _Drought Gods_ played back-to-back on every channel. This year, Percy needn't pull strings to receive his Golden Week vacation, usually a metric to test a cadet's Guan-xi. While the consensus was that there would be no exceptions for individuals missing families, mooncakes, or loved ones, those with connections in the Party almost always appeared just in time for banquets before sneaking back to the barracks. While penalties were harsh, they were often watered down by sympathetic superiors who themselves had done no less in times of peace. It was a humanised loophole in an unforgiving system that Percy had manipulated innumerable times in Tianjin, taking advantage of his role as the "Best Man" to the Dragon Princess to free up his duties. For the last two weeks, he had religiously toured the old city's remnants, rediscovering the ancient wells of power left behind by the Kirin tribe. Some were easy to find, such as a mana-rich lode of jadeite hidden beneath a Confucian Temple of Piety. Others were problematic, having been built over a dozen times. Thankfully, the Ming Dynasty had only repurposed the sites, and the Manchurians who had arrived later knew nothing of their history. As a result, except for two nodes now made into shopping malls, Percy could transmute, tunnel, and ensorcel his way into six of the eight tetragram Mandalas. Unfortunately, the "Eye" node was where Tianjin's regional Tower sat, rising from the riverside as a monolithic concrete atrocity of Communist Brutalism that stabbed into the sky like an inverted lance. From the deep ley-node beneath it, the Tower drank deep the mana meant for the upkeep of the Kirin's domain, using it to project the semi-sphere shield sheltering the deep-water harbour from oceanic threats. With each successful excavation, Percy had become more convinced of his Patron's past usurped destiny, one that mirrored his own. After the wedding, once the mote of its original Essence had reinvigorated the Kirin, Percy could return to the city and "cultivate", as his Patron had so archaically prescribed, into an existence rivalling the Sea Dragons. What Percy Song had not expected was that the moment he stepped into his home, a visitor was already waiting on his pleasure. "Percy, do you know of this Elvia Lindholm?" Mei asked beside him of the reported guest. "That's who they're talking about, right? The Vessel to the Yinglong?" Percy shrugged. Like Mei, he had no idea why Elvia was here, though the rationale for her presence was sound and logical. If they were both going to be on Lumen-casts in two days, it would be natural to be acquainted before final rehearsals, especially if his sister, Gwen Song, wanted in on the action. Steeling his nerves, Percy buttoned his uniform, covering the Kirin pendant. With Mei in tow, he made his way through the crimson-lit courtyard with its blazing lanterns to arrive at the main hall. Inside, his babulya and grandfather were having tea, smiling gently at a richly robed Cleric who looked younger than Mei, sitting demurely in the guest's parlour. "Percy, my boy! You've arrived!" his Yeye was kind enough to rise from his seat. Astutely, Percy Dimension Doored inward, bowing as he went, forcing his grandfather to return to his redwood chair. Once the oldies were appropriately satisfied by the show of filial piety, not to mention the supernatural smoothness of his Spellcraft, they returned to nursing their teas. "Good evening, Companion Lindholm." Percy bowed from the waist. "We're not strangers, but you are the Yinglong's Vessel." "Percy." Elvia stood, then curtsied. "My word, it has been a long time. The last time we met, you were just a boy! Now look at you! So handsome! Gwen would be so proud." It was only now that Percy noticed that others were in the room, seated deeper into the rows of spaces provided for guests. One was a blonde-hair youth studying him with a solemn intensity. The other two were older, and their gazes were less devoted to peeling him like a banana. Their uniforms were nothing short of outrageous. Knights of the infamous English Ordos! Percy's mind registered the emblems. The English Empire's oldest surviving militants with a history that traced back to the Faith Wars of the Holy Crusades. Could he take one on? Percy wondered. His craft had grown more significant than anyone in the PLA could have imagined—but he had also never fought a Faith Magic user. If indeed their sorcery exceeded the practical understanding of Spellcraft, he had little desire to find out. "You look the same as always." Percy grinned at the Healer currently inspecting him like a side of char-siu. "Not a day over... sixteen? Was that how old you were that time we met in the city? Sister was taking you out for lunch—I think—that or you were shouting her—" "I was shouting." Elvia's countenance blossomed like a flower at the recollection. "Your sister wasn't always so wealthy, you know. I dearly miss those days." The two of them shared a well-earned smile, breaking the ice. "This is Mei," he introduced his future spouse. "She's my fianceè and partner for Aunty Ayxin's wedding. Do you have a partner, Miss Lindholm?" Mei waved. "Mathias will accompany me," The girl indicated to the Knight. Percy gave the man a nod and a sunny smile; the man nodded back, withholding all expressions. The laconicism, Percy guessed, probably made the man more attractive to the ladies, for he looked exactly like those picture books Knights of the Ordo that he had read at Prince's. "Did you have time to sight-see?" Percy asked, sitting beside Elvia while Mei sat further away to give them space to converse. "Shanghai is a changing city, very metropolitan." "We visited a restaurant already," the Healer explained, describing the Beggar Chickens she and the Knights had demolished. "They have a picture of Gwen by the door, endorsing the chicken..." Percy attempted to imagine the scene—three Knights of the Ordo and a sweet saintess Vessel—four gweilos eating clay chicken with their hands shoulder-to-shoulder at a stall, attired in dress garbs. The vision was... _amazing._ "Will you stay after the wedding?" Percy asked, unsure of how to proceed. "I am not sure if Gwen will be staying, but if you are..." "I will. I suspect there will be a _great_ deal to do after the wedding," as Elvia spoke, Percy found her utterly unreadable. Knowing that Elvia was not a Radiant Mage, he could only assume that this was the effect of her absurd Affinity for Positive Energy. Against the pale flesh of his collarbones, the Kirin Amulet throbbed. He sensed a deep yearning—not just for the Yinglong's Essence, but the rich seam of Positive Energy the girl exuded. Of all the Mages he had thus encountered, the Kirin Pendant had never acted so enthused, indicating just how much of an elixir the girl would be for his "cultivation". But draining the friend of his sister, a Vessel, and a Knight Companion of the Ordo was so ludicrous that even Percy felt a shuddering of the soul. Quietly, he drank his tea, made a show of despairing at the lukewarm temperature, and then heated the water with a showy cantrip. "Are you looking forward to the wedding?" He asked. "There's a lot for us to discuss, for sure." The Cleric, to his surprise, sighed. "Mistress Ayxin is very tired from her exertions," Elvia explained. "I'll be taking care of her, but even then, I would advise Secretary Miao against asking my Mistress to maintain the _form_ the Chinese public desires for the duration of the entire celebration." "I hear Aunt Ayxin is very... sleepy of late?" Percy felt his heart palpitate. Against his chest, the Kirin Amulet performed likewise. "She's extremely lethargic," Elvia confirmed. "I met with her earlier. For the day Wedding, we will be retreating directly to the Yu Gardens after the show and tell. Your uncle will be very busy once that happens, considering the speeches and the public praises to come. I hear the Lumen-cast program is almost ten-hours long, from midday to midnight?" "We can appeal," their Babulya replied with genuine concern. "Our daughter-in-law will be the top priority." "We have Secretary Miao's full support," Guo added confidently. "Miss Lindholm, if there's a medical rationale for Ayxin to retire early, do not hesitate to let us know." "I'll help," Percy offered himself selflessly. "I'll carry my Aunt back to the Yu Gardens alone if Uncle Jun isn't there... assuming I am strong enough." The gathering laughed, including his grandfather, who rarely shared their delight in anything. "Then, in my Patron's name, I shall thank you all." The Cleric stood and bowed, which made them all rise to return the courtesy, lest the Dragon felt insulted. All lowered their heads while Elvia remained bowed, awaiting the Vessel to be seated before they could lift their heads. " _Master Percy._ " The cordial atmosphere was cut short by the unusual tone of the pale blonde priestess. There was no Dragon Fear, Percy was sure of it, but still, his heart skipped a beat. "Would it be too much to ask if I wished to speak to you alone?" The Kirin Amulet flared hot under his t-shirt, matching the palpitations of his heart. _Unwise._ His Patron warned. _Tread with care. Prepare to shelter._ His little finger tingled. A man in his position must have preparations, and Percy had two Contingency Rings prepared. One to the PLA Tower in Shanghai, gifted by his Yeye, and the other to Tianjin, bestowed by his Regional Secretariat. If the Yinglong were to attempt something untoward, his first rule of thumb was to retreat to the shelter of unknowing allies and then observe how the crisis may play out. "Of course." Percy made sure not to falter. With a nod at his grandparents and then Mei, the pair left the banquet hall for his Yeye's study, where he knew Guo had protective Mandalas embedded. The Cleric followed, unperturbed by his choice of location. Once inside, Percy shut the double doors, then bid the Yinglong's Vessel take a seat while he took up the chair usually used by his grandfather. Unhappily, the girl sat next to him in his babulya's chair. "What would you like to speak to me about?" Percy asked, fighting the strain in his facial muscles. "Your _sister_." The Cleric was uncommonly forthright. "Oh." Percy maintained his guard, his hands growing clammy. "What of Gwen?" "She loves you," came a reply he had neither inquired nor expected. He forced himself to raise his head. From the tone of Elvia's voice, Percy suspected that this wasn't one of those lectures from Yeye where he could hang his head and think of Sydney until it was over. The Kirin Amulet pulsed. A meter away, the young woman's eyes were two pools of limitless ultramarine, so pure and clear that he felt consumed by their sincerity. "Gwen can be a bit difficult." The Cleric reached out with a gentle gesture. When her fingers made contact with his icy hand, he felt the invasion of a warmth that possessed depthless compassion and empathy. "She has had a hard life. Yet, each time she and I are together, she speaks about her family in Shanghai, how happy they made her, her babulya, her uncle, her cousins, and her little brother." "Not Yeye?" Percy chuckled. He subtly attempted to remove her hand, but the girl's fingers had somehow arrested his own. Elvia chuckled in turn. "Less so, I'll admit. Percy. I know from Petra that you and Gwen have had some differences due to your mutual inheritance, but I can vouch for her unconditional love for you. Are you willing to believe me? A Faith Cleric of the cloth?" The girl, Percy could swear, wore a fucking golden halo. However, since his Mind Magic devices had not triggered, his vision could only be contributed to being dazzled by an earnestness that could be metaphysically manifested. A part of him wanted to suddenly cry, to utter his sister's name and confess. On his chest, the Kirin Amulet throbbed. His heart rate slowed, restoring the clarity of his emotions. Quickly and thankfully, the rush of heat and colour left his cheeks. "I love her as well," the white-gold vision that was his sister's companion confessed to something amazing. "So much that sometimes, I find it hard to be myself. But I don't think I'll ever possess what she feels for you. And that makes me incredibly jealous." This time, Percy successfully withdrew his hand from those dangerously soft digits. "She _saved_ us, you know. All of us," the girl continued as though in a trance. "During the Royal National, she saved me and Yue. Then again, when Sydney was attacked. From the IIUC to Shalkar, your sister's calling card is to save the desperate and downtrodden... then give them gainful employment and a pension." Percy attempted to read between the lines of the Cleric's words. All he could recall was those sermons from Prince's—the psalms about the Nazarene—about salvation and saviours. Was his sister one of those? The notion was simply absurd. "I... see," he muttered. At least now, he knew this wasn't a ploy from the Yinglong but a kind-hearted wish fulfilment attempted by one of his sister's stooges. "That's nice of her." "Gwen saves." Elvia's eyes once more pierced his soul, forcing sweat to ooze from his neck and back. Thankfully, his quasi-magical clothing showed no sign of his discomfort. "One day, she could save you too, Percy." Percy caught the weighed words like a brick wall receiving a Catapult from a high-tier Transmuter. But it wasn't gladness that he felt. He discerned no need for his sister to save him. Hadn't he communed with the Kirin on his own? In the last three years, Percy Song, alone, had navigated the paranoia of the PLA, plucked the talents from those Rogue Mages, and uncovered the secret places of the Xia, all without the aid of others. He had trained day and night, abused his body to exhaustion, and threw himself into mortal danger in every engagement with the Undead. These were _his_ achievements. Not Gwen's, not anyone else's. She might "Save him?" Was he a damsel in distress? Was he like this mewling Vessel of the Yinglong, begging him to be nicer? To say that the simmering irritation inside him was igniting into something of a rage would be an understatement. "Thank you for your concern." His facade faltered, but he held on. "My sister's affection is something I've always cherished. You're right. I should be more thankful for it, considering the power she now wields." The girl's warmth waned. It was a mere flicker, but Percy caught the subtle signs of a sad sigh before Elvia's blazing flames of affirmation and boundless compassion continued their retina-searing brightness. He felt a bit thrilled by her dimming confidence. He knew very well the position this blonde Vessel held for his peers in the PLA. He also knew of his sister's obsession with her. Seeing Elvia like this was a strange pleasure and a gentle affirmation that he had confidently walked the right path. They talked a little more about their past, their mutual lives in Sydney, Lilith's and Prince's, and then the ritual was done. "Shall we return?" Percy gestured toward the direction of the hall. Wordlessly, the pair reentered the hall, where his family entertained the Knights. _DING—_ A Message chime chose this precise junction to blossom beside them, simultaneously filling their ears with the capsuled voice of its originator. "It's from Gwen!" His babulya was the first to address the returnees. "How fortunate!" Percy silently played the Message, as did they all. It was indeed from his sister. As Gwen's sultry, husky arrogance filtered through his Divination Sigil, he once more felt the Kirin stir, this time from the excitement of what would soon come to pass. His attention, however, was arrested by a bonfire of positivity erupting beside him. The ever-lovely Elvia Lindholm seemed to grow more beautiful than he could imagine, becoming so blissfully happy that a flora Sprite accompanied by a root-vegetable leapt from the folds of her clothing and began to dance a jig. "She'll be here— _tomorrow_?" Percy repeated the only part of the Message that mattered. For some reason, his scalp crawled. "To watch the rehearsal?" "Yes," came an affirming cry, not from his babulya but from the Vessel of the Yinglong. "Aren't you excited, Percy? Your sister, the Regent of Shalkar Al-jadeedah, shall be personally overseeing your performance!"

Shanghai. Fudan Tower. Much to the surprise of all involved, Gwen Song, Cambridge Magister, Mistress of the Isle of Dogs, War Mage of the Commonwealth Mageocracy and preeminent Lord Regent of Shalkar, did not forget that once, she was the Worm Handler of Fudan. To the chagrin of Pudong Tower's dignitaries, their rare guest did not choose to arrive at the VIP lounge of Pudong Tower but at the ancient, three-decade-old ISTC of Fudan University's student Towers. After an initial surge of hesitant mana, the ISTC array flared into life, materialising a trio of guests into the humble, local array used by the students. "Honoured Regent!" Dean Lou, the first to receive the announcement two nights prior, was dressed in his best Mage robes, something between a changshan and a battle garb. To prepare for this moment, he had not slept for a day, having personally led the Conjuration Research Committee and the Enchantment School's best members to retool the ancient receiver. "Welcome!" "WELCOME TO FUDAN!" The dozen Magisters and Maguses behind him also bowed, lowering their heads but not their eyes. "Dean Luo—" came a voice both sultry and sweet, with a tone akin to a niece chiding a childish uncle. "—You honour us too well. After all, isn't my return to Fudan more like a homecoming?" The speaker possessed the same youthful face Luo had etched into his memory, barely touched by the passage of years. Her infamous coming-of-age, however, had robbed the girl of the doe-eyed doubt that he recalled being so prominent. “Magister Song—“ “GWENNIE—!” The Dean's speech was interrupted by a shout of pure jubilance from another rare guest he dared not interrupt. Elvia Lindholm, Knight Companion of the Ordo Bath—the Vessel of the Immortal Yinglong, launched herself up the stairs, then latched onto his guest. To have two such visitors meet in Fudan was to bring more attention to the school than when they received a handful of Cambridge Magisters as instructors in exchange for delivering Magister Wen, their resident Void Specialist, to England. The visit had been, Luo knew, Gwen's way of paying back the school that had gifted her a stepping stone in reaching the upper stratum of Spellcraft. Together with the national attention they invited into the campus grounds, their alumna would also announce an Isle of Dogs Scholarship, one with a potential pathway to exchange programs in Oxbridge. Lumen recorders flashed, bathing the room like a lightbox. Watching the smaller girl hang onto the neck of her taller companion, the Dean felt suddenly nostalgic for the "Flashbang" custom Evocation his ex-student once wielded with such pride. "Magus Kutznetsova…" The Dean bowed his head again, greeting the girl's entourage. "And Miss Li and Magus Huang. It's good that you've all returned to the motherland." Richard and Petra were Mages with impeccable grades, model university students that quickly became widely known throughout the campus. Many of the Maguses gathered today had been their instructors, which made their presence all the more pride-inducing. "Dean! How are ya, mate?" Richard was the first to reach out and shake his hand, dispelling the awkwardness of Gwen's occupied state. "Sir." Petra bowed, making Luo feel an inch taller. "It's good to see that you are well. Is Ellen's training coming along?" "She's doing well, though she did decline to be here, haha..." Luo made a glance at Gwen. Petra delivered an understanding nod. Luo inwardly signed. Seeing one's student take on roles that had tangible impacts on events and lives worldwide was something even he had not dreamed of coming so soon. Yet, here they were—a pair of Maguses under the wings of Magister Gwen Song, making waves in the Black Zones, carving out new niches of living space for their fellow man. As for their last member, Luo wasn't sure how to exactly receive the girl. Lulan Li had been the mad dog of the university, a student for sure, but one who had brought more trouble than merit. Yet, through Gwen's guidance, the girl somehow recovered from her mana deviation, made a name for herself in the IIUC, and then… disappeared. Luo had even received requests from the Tower asking if she should be stricken from the student register for failing to attend even a quarter of the lessons and submitting no credited assignments or Dungeon Quests for her final third-year grading. Luo had instantly rejected the request—and looking at the girl now, he felt only relief for his informed choice. Lulan Li, the disciple of Ryxi, is known to those in high places as a Yinglong household Faction member. A girl as sharp as her jade blades, carrying herself with the air of a dynastic swordswoman, like those narrated by popular novelists of the old ways before the Clans succumbed to the ease of Spellcraft. No matter what the regulations say—Luo shall always think of Lulan as a "student' of Fudan. "Dean." The girl tilted her head slightly, her eyes scanning the room for what Luo hoped wasn't anything dangerous enough to cause her to act. With the press corp here, should anything happen to the Regent of Shalkar, Pudong and the PLA may raze Guanghua Towers to its foundations. It took a dozen more breaths for the Vessel of the Yinglong to peel herself from the Regent, who then held the Vessel's hand even as they spoke to the press about how gracious they were to be received by Fudan. More Hands were shaken. Lumen-pics recorded and Messaged. The scholarship was announced to general applause. Then Luo gave a prompt speech about cooperation between Oxbridge and Fudan. After that, he stepped from the podium, knowing his part in the play was done. A long time ago, against the ignorance of others, he had given a girl a scholarship. Before those naysayers had even finished their tenure, that girl had returned to gift the university with a hundred scholarships, recognition and connections. Once the rare hour of his old student's apportioned time was spent, she would be off to grander accomplishments. As for Luo, he would have to return to the mortal duty of organising the largest celebration the university had ever held since its inception: an extravaganza extolling the marriage between a mortal man and an immortal Dragon. With Elvia clinging to her arm like a lost koala joey, Gwen felt no impatience as their limousine glided soundlessly through the orbital highways of the city. She felt content, for Elvia's face was warm against the skin of her shoulder. Outside, the mana smog was only mildly obscuring her view of the city, and her nostalgia was thicker than a bowl of shark-fin soup. She wasn't sure why her friend was so impassioned by their three months of separation, though she could hazard a few guesses. Ahead, a few spaces away, Richard and Petra made small talk with Mathias, Elvia's Knight Protector. Lulan sat behind the driver, keeping a keen eye on the nervous NoM's manipulation of the luxury vehicle. Their limo was also escorted by police on rumbling motorcycles, clearing the traffic with flashing batons. "The traffic is almost impossible," Elvia explained, having been in Shanghai for a few days already. "You should have applied for a Teleportation permit." The traffic was impossible because half of the small roads had been blocked by banners, banquet tables, lanterns strung across the buildings, and people already packing the city's spaces, readying to get unbelievably drunk at the Central government's expense. To ensure that no citizen felt a shred of ill will toward Ayxin, the Planning Committee of Shanghai had spared no expense, releasing a budget so generous that the next governor would likely lose a full head of hair just paying back the interests. "I spoke to your brother," Elvia said. "You did?" Gwen smiled at the thought of Percy. "Isn't he so handsome now? And he only has one girlfriend this entire time. Could this be the end of the curse of Hai Song? I should thank Mei for keeping him in line, hahaha." "His opinion of you hasn't changed much." Her Cleric's tone was sad and discouraged. "From when we were in high school." "He IS a Salt Mage." Gwen made a poor joke. "He'll grow into it, I am sure. No doubt he's seeing Shalkar and feeling a bit… overwhelmed." Her soul mate did not offer a counterpoint, which was, in Gwen's opinion, what made her love Elvia so much. "They say the city will be a sea of firecrackers and lanterns in twelve hours." Elvia pivoted as she sunk into the folds of her well-glamoured Parisian dress. "The jubilation of China's cities will be heard from the Yellow to the Eastern Sea." "If it's as amazing as you say," Gwen answered dreamily. "We should go for a fly around later, after the wedding. I can request Flight privileges for this region as a part of my entry permit. Seeing the fireworks from the top of a pyrotechnic city would be incredible." "I would like that," the girl on her shoulder whispered. "I hope the wedding's aftermath isn't too taxing." With Elvia so docile, Gwen silently mulled a recollection of Auckland as their palatial vehicle snail crawled through the diverted traffic. They were both older now, wiser, and worldlier. Their friendship-not-friendship, for the lack of a better word, had been the right choice to buy the both of them time so that the fruit would be sweeter, the wine richer. Not knowing why, she reached out and patted the girl's hand. "Your fingers are a bit stiff," Gwen remarked. "Nervous? You weren't even nervous when you performed for that enormous crowd at Christmas Mass. You should know that my men on the isle are still raving about that like it happened yesterday." "The wedding is… in front of a nation of almost a billion people." The Cleric squeezed her hand in turn. "Imagine if something were to go wrong." "Ha!" Gwen thought of the man who had invited her, the stern-faced Secretary General Miao, and the hypertension-fuelled meticulousness of her grandfather. Not to mention, somewhere near Hangzhou, a mythic would be watching the telly with eyes glued to whatever Dragons used for lumen-casters. With such an arrangement in a city with TWO Towers and, reasonably, at least ONE Magi sitting in the PLA Tower, how pear-shaped could events become? "Relax, Evee—if the collected force of China's best Mage Flights cannot put out a few fires, then you've got me, right?" "Yes." The Cleric's hair smelled amazing against her chin. "If anything, Gwennie, I'll have you." "PEACHES!" “Mah Gwennabi—Arrrgh—Mina! Stop it!" The cousins embraced, or at least Gwen embraced Tao while Mina twisted the man's flesh like a slow juicer, extracting moisture from his eyes. Of her two cousins in Shanghai, Mina had completely transformed, shedding the cocoon of her rich girl party days to become a respected young professional at the Second PLA Army Hospital, an apprentice Healer under the care of their grandmother. Conversely, besides the pant-suit-attired Mina, Tao's Adidas tracksuit was forever a branded metaphor for the man's commitment to his fruity persona. "That's Regent Song to you!" Mina's hands appeared to be fighting themselves from strangling her brother. "We're cool!" Tao attempted to throw down something with his talkative hands, only to be interrupted by Mina. "Yeah, dawg?—STOP IT!" "We're cool." Gwen laughed, patting them both on the back. "Seriously though, Tao. Don't let the cameras catch you saying it. Yeye will skin you, ask Babulya to heal you, then skin you again." At her behest, her cousin settled. Their current whereabouts were the interior space of a refurbished Shanghai Stadium, usually reserved for mass sporting events and propaganda parades. An area of around ten thousand seats was arranged into a sea of carmine, with scarlet drapes hanging like waterfalls from every ledge. The stage itself, where they now stood, was almost four storeys tall from the base, accessed by a long flight of stairs. What was most impressive was the stage backdrop itself, an enormous mural of the Yinglong dancing over the sky of the Forbidden City. It was crafted entirely from shades of precious stones like Jadeite, additionally punctuated by pearlescent shells of Magical creatures. From Mina's introduction, the Mayor of Shanghai had taken donations from individuals and corporations, meaning behind those jadeite plates were logos, inscriptions, messages and well-wishes. The itinerary of the ceremony started with a twelve-kilometre motorcade from the Yu Gardens to the stadium, with Jun waving and playing the part of the national hero with his military mates from the Northern Campaign while Ayxin rested in a carnival float bus that was fully enchanted and shielded from the outside world, recreating her room in the Yu Gardens. Once begun, speeches and performances would be put on for the people while the pair prepared for the tea ceremony. The latter would take place on the transmuted stage, after which Party officials would preside over the wedding. The wedding party would then retreat to the bottom of the dais to the enormous banquet table to eat and watch several hours of music and dance numbers by the Cultural Committee's best appointees. Once the core performances praising the Yinglong and congratulating the newlyweds finished, Axyin would be escorted back to the Yu Gardens. Jun, as tradition, would have to remain behind to toast the Party's august power brokers and his friends and family. Traditionally, the groom was expected to pass out—though with Babulya's help, Jun could return before midnight to comfort his new bride. "So you're telling me…" Gwen pointed at the row upon rows of seats forming a near-oval around the stage. "They're going to have Illusionists in every row, projecting spectacles as a part of the show?" "Yeah!" Tao was beside himself, for he had also snagged a role in one of the more modernised performances, one performed by him and his mates. Of course, the performance would be one of the LATE NIGHT ones to grace the Lunen-screen, many hours away from the officious showcases. Gwen admired the "Jumbotron" Mandalas set up around the stadium. To imagine Tao throwing his gangster signs on national television was truly a sign of the times. "We're doing a number on the bitch-slapping of the Drought Gods," Tao beat-boxed a little as he spoke. "But like, Westside style, you know?" "Oh, I know…" Gwen couldn't help but laugh again. She laughed a little too much for a Regent of a Protectorate, but how could she help herself when she felt so happy? Her eyes continued to scan the stadium with its milling multitudes of labourers. At the underground entrance, she saw a sight that instantly made her eyes glimmer. "Sorry, Peaches. I need to go. Richard, Pats, Lulu, could you look after things here for me?" Before her companions could reply, she became lightning. A flash later, she was beside her benefactor, the bloke who had gifted her new hope. "Uncle Jun!" Her arms were around the surprised Jun before the Ash Mage could react. The bodyguards around her uncle shouted profanities, though it was too late to prevent her from wholeheartedly showing affection. "Whoa—" Her uncle's arms moved from pushing her away to giving her a returning embrace. "Mao, Gwen! That was fast! Your Spellcraft might even be better than mine now!" "Ma'am." One of the bodyguards wasn't having it. "Please step away from Master Song." "Captain Li, it's fine." Her uncle waved away his men. "Give me a moment." _PAP—!_ A Lumen-caster popped somewhere from the stands. One of the other guards growled, then Dimensioned Doored away in a puff of smoke. The two separated. "Let me look at you now." Her Uncle's smile was infectious. While he measured her, Gwen also studied her uncle. Compared to when they had travelled, her uncle appeared far haler, possessing a vitality that Gwen knew well. It was the blessing of Essence—the very same Essence that had flowed through her Astral conduits years ago. Her uncle was no Vessel, but he had reaped the benefits of being the son-in-law of a domain rich in Draconic produce. "You look older," her uncle joked. "Your aura does, anyway. Do you have a boyfriend yet?" "I have Evee." Gwen threw her uncle's all-too-Asian question back at his feet like a wet fish. "What would I need from a boy? I have Caliban. Have you seen how big Cali gets?" "I suppose when you're Draconic enough, there's always a way to have children." Jun appeared unfazed by her retort and even threw in some new knowledge. "I hope her Ordo doesn't mind." "They'd have to consider their budget going forward if they do," Gwen snickered. "Nothing is free, after all, especially my charity." Jun lifted his head and laughed out loud. Gwen shared the joy, drunk on her uncle's unbridled happiness. Who would have thought that poaching Draconic Essence and trying to find Caliban a new form would result in this event, this day? To say that the Yinglong's claws stirred the pot mysteriously was an understatement. "When shall I expect a Dragon nephew or niece?" she asked. "You know I am very generous with gifts. Here's the first allotment." She reached into her pocket and pulled out the Dwarven-made Storage Ring. "This is for Ayxin and my cute nephew. Everything here is either Elven or Dwarven-made. The cot was hand-woven by Sanari, a Hierophant of Tryfan from the root vines of the World Tree itself." "That's…" Her uncle appeared taken back, an expression engendering great pleasure in her chest. "I don't even know what to think. A cot—made from the what?" "The World Tree of Tryfan." Gwen grinned, repeating herself. "From the long vines that hang down the sides of it. It's not a big deal." "Not a big deal?!" Jun shook his head as though seeing the God of a new religion. "Gwen, are we living in the same world still? I've never seen a World Tree with my eyes. Perhaps only our Magi know the Elves. I don't think anyone in our nation could order custom furniture from a race of immortals living in their unassailable Demi-Plane." "Then I hope Ayxin and my new nephew will like it." "She will." Jun looked like he wanted to pet her head but then stopped himself. Instead, he thumbed the Storage Ring, then placed it upon his pinky. "Thank you, Gwen." Gwen accepted the thanks, knowing her uncle was far too humble for a man of his station. She wanted to continue their conversation, but her uncle's bodyguards and event planners were waiting to get on with the day's events. "We'll speak later." She allowed the others a chance to breathe. "After the wedding." "Without doubt," her uncle replied, gazing past her. "I'll leave you to your friend." Gwen turned to see her Evee approach, escorted by a bodyguard as was protocol. The Vessel of the Yinglong curtsied at Jun, who nodded, and then the two groups parted. "You have no more rehearsals?" Gwen asked her friend. "My part isn't that complicated." Elvia smiled. "Secretary Miao has set up a penthouse suite for us at the newly built Hyatt Pudong. Do you want to remain here and look over the planning? Or would you like to retire from the long-range Teleport?" Gwen didn't need to think twice about Elvia's loaded proposal. They would sit on the lounge, wine glasses in hand, and the hotel's staff would have delivered a banquet spread to the kitchen table. Below them, the vista of Shanghai on fire would ignite from one horizon to the next, with the city's arterial highways lighting up like flaring strings of red-paper prosperity poppers. They would talk of the memories of yesteryear; they would savour the then and now like the absurdly priced Bordeaux vintage she would order, and then—they would make plans for tomorrow. _PA-PA—BANG—!_ _BA-B-ANG-BA-BANG—!_ Confetti in the form of explosive red ribbons set off by powdered mana stones erupted in every nook and alley of the trade city of Shanghai, beginning from the city centre and spreading like wildfire, racing from Shanghai to Suzhou and Hangzhou to the west, with the joy infectiously racing from Fuzhou to Beijing. Before the wedding ceremony could kick-off, the long-repressed public had revolted, disobeying the public announcement to wait, setting off a chain reaction of celebrations that spanned the nation's east coast. Joining the sound of miniature artillery was the clash of drums and cymbals, wielded by rogue street performers, with dozens to hundreds of men hoisting Dragon banners some a kilometre long, dancing in praise of the Yinglong. In both China and the nations lucky enough to have a Divination infrastructure capable of transmuting localised images, billions of eyes turned to the Lumen screens, counting down the minutes until the man of the hour emerged from the red-clad gates of the Yu Gardens. An hour later, the officious gong, together with thick ropes of firecrackers dubbed the "Dragon's tail", set off the ceremony's opening, ensorceled so that every corner of every city in China heard the sound of the nation's assurance of prosperity. The gates to the Yu Gardens opened, revealing the impeccable sight of the Ash Bringer, now Dragon Layer, in a fitted, bright red changshan, punctuated by golden embroidery of Dragons in perfect symmetry adorning both sides of the parallel knot buttons in mithril. Waving to the reporters and, thus, the nation, Jun Song stepped into the open-top parade vehicle and assumed his place, ready to maintain his most genuine affability for the next twelve hours. But the man was hardly the object of worship and desire for people born and fed on the mythos of Dragons. It was only when a silhouetted figure, heavily veiled and attired in blood-red silks embroidered with inter-woven Dragon and Phoenix motifs, entered the two-storey palanquin that the viewers' emotions boiled over. The city shook. The Districts erupted. The orbital highways trembled from the weight of the people. All of China's east coast was aflame with jubilation. The parade began. First came the Mage Flights, armed to the teeth despite their festive garbs, bristling with Wands and magical implements as they opened the path. Next came the musicians, a half-kilometre-long line of cymbals, gongs, flutes, shengs, string instruments and finally, the unmistakable, soul-rending screech of the suona, blasting with every ounce of breath, ensuring that multiple generations of Chinese would have hearing loss. Children waved Dragon flags, men raised babies to the skies for blessings, women grew hysterical as Ayxin's palanquin passed, and the elderly bowed or fell to their knees to beg for a prosperous future for their kin. At precisely noon, the parade arrived. The ocean of faces surrounding the stadium in every direction rose and fell as Jun stood beside the palanquin float. He was soon joined by his groomsmen, a bevvy of his friends from the Military, lined up behind the upright figure of Percy Song, Jun's nephew, all attired in dark navy changshans with a rose-gold lapel of flying drakes. The crowd roared, and the mechanisms lifted, opening the palanquin like a blooming flower, revealing the veiled figure of Ayxin, daughter of the Yinglong, the bride of the nation. Beside her were her handmaids, a dozen at least, headed by a pale blond girl in a pale peach qipao. "That's the Vessel of the Yinglong!" some shouted at the giant lumen projector. That's Elvia Lindholm!" "And there's Mei Yang!" other voices echoed the first. "Who is that beauty?" Another asked his peers. Not many recognised the girl in the midst, the former Mad Dog of Fudan, though the rest possessed the well-known faces of the Party's guan-er-dai. Pair by pair, the groomsmen led their partners away, until finally, in tune with the hoarse throats of the nation's people, Jun led his bride from the palanquin and into the well-lit belly of the stadium. Sixty-Four Mage Flights, the best men and women in the nation, took up their positions around the stadium. In the distance, The PLA Tower thrummed, its mana Core whirring up its protective Mandalas as a precaution, setting the city's budget balance aflame. The PLA and its leaders knew that there were too many important men and women at the stadium banquet for even a smidgen of danger to be acceptable. Today and tonight, for the next twelve hours, careers would be made or unmade. The Vice-Chairman of the Party, Secretary Yang Wu-Lei, took to the stage to address the nation. As he spoke, a thousand of the Nation's best Illusionists projected the subjects of his speech around the stadium, playing Lumen-recording of the Party's struggles, the Party's rise to power, and finally, this moment of glory and wonder. A masque followed, performed by the hand-picked Mages of the Cultural Committee, commemorating the memory of Magi Mao and his unification of a shattered nation picked apart by imperialists. Considering its international audience, the show was sensitively performed, shrouded by euphemisms and symbols, such as the Dragon's defeat of a flock of Da-peng eagles aided by children dressed as doll-eyed Kirins. With the dance number concluded, the Illusionists encircled the stage in clouds, parting a minute later to reveal a mock-up of a traditional Dynastic home. On the right sat the unknown faces and figures of Jun Song's parents, a lovely grandmother who looked younger than her years, and a happy but gruff-looking Secretary Song who looked ten years older than his wife. Both were humbly dressed, sitting on pincushions while waiting for events to unfold. On the right, in place of Ayxin's parents, was a huge tapestry of the Yinglong, announced to be a work by the late Chen Chun, an artist-documentarian of the Ming Dynasty who had faithfully captured the likeness of the Dragon through an unexpected meeting. The tea ceremony began, and once more, the nation held its breath as the stadium transmuted its interior to allow the bridal Party's entry. The men and women arrived like companionable birds of paradise. The musicians soared, and the nation cried tears of joy as Ayxin, in resplendent view, ascended the stairs into the mock relief of the manor interior. Tea, prepared by the staff, materialised for the newlyweds. Each held out a cup for the Yinglong. Inexplicably, the tea evaporated. The entirety of the stadium gasped, then launched into a cacophonic roar that had to be quietened by sonic sorcery. Next, without bending on her knees but still bowed and respectable, Ayxin presented the cups poured by her husband to the two mortals seated on the left. "Mother…" her words reverberated around the nation. "Father." With trembling hands, the elderly pair drank their tea. Gifts were given. Priceless pieces of dynastic jewellery from the nation's vaults were added to the weight of the Phoenix headdress on Ayxin's head, shackling her wrists with bangles from China's weighted history. Finally, the moment was upon them. For months, the nation had waited for this moment. Jun Song turned to face his bride. His bride adjusted her position, needing no aid like a moral bride disorientated by the head shawl. "ONE BOW FOR THE HIGH HEAVENS AND THE EARTH THAT DOTH GIVE." "ONE BOW FOR ANCESTORS AND HE WHO ANSWERS." "ONE BOW FOR THE ETERNITY THAT IS HUSBAND AND WIFE." The pair lifted their heads. With his emotions written unhidden on his face, Jun Song lifted the veil. Ayxin, the granddaughter of an Emperor, the daughter of the Yinglong, a woman whose blood was the noblest in all of China, gazed upon her husband, her face finally known by the nation. The audience fell silent, for they had never beheld anything so incomprehensibly beautiful, even across the sheltered shielding of the Lumen-casters' delayed seconds. The Dragon in her human form was flawless, timeless, domineeringly beautiful, a sculpture in mutton-white jade. She had no make-up, for nothing could be improved, from her long lashes to the angles of her face, the rouge on her cheeks or the fullness of her sensual lips. Maotai, a major sponsor of the event, was poured into ivory cups, one presented by Percy Song, the other by Elvia Lindholm. The couple's wrists entwined. Then—they each drank from one another's cup. The stadium shook. For an unending while, it continued to shake. Even the muting devices implanted by the PLA shuddered under the raw emotions. Everywhere, everywhere, impassioned celebrations flowed out, forming a tidal wave of psychic energies that enveloped the cities from coast to coast. In the middle of the banquet, seated just beside the bridal table, a camera caught the Regent of Shalkar crying what they hoped were tears of joy. Tianjin. The city shook. Then the city began to shake. For the first ten seconds, the shaking was accompanied by laughter. "A party for the ages!" affirming cries of the Party's faithful citizens proclaimed from their lounges or the public squares of the Districts. "A toast to our new Dragon bride!" Their smiles faltered when frames began to fall from the walls, dishes from their racks, and the lights of every household from Tangshan to Tianjin began to displace violently. When the Lumen-casters winked out at the sixteen-second mark, and a sudden, limbless dark pervaded the provinces, the joy turned to panic. At the twentieth second, the city's Soviet-era buildings began to collapse en mass, accompanied by an orchestra of terror as Districts fell in upon themselves and the hillside of the mountainous escarpments started to slip into the city below. At the thirtieth second, the quaking ceased, and the fires began. Great spurts of supernatural magma coursing through long dormant nodes of Elemental low-way once used by the Dwarven civilisations erupted, spewing unfathomable volumes of Elemental Fire into the valley below. At their fore, visible from the observation windows of the Tianjin Tower, was a giant with the skin of crackling magma, riding upon the back of a hellish ursine carved from the core of the molten earth itself. Behind the howling horror, the final battalion of the Brass Legion burned and fumed, ready to upturn the hated order enforced by the Axis Mundi. While the city reeled, the deep recesses of the China Sea to its east began to boil. Far from the reach of its disturbed Divination Towers, the begrudged masters of the pale-eyed Great Shoal began to whip its mass of dead flesh toward their new domain. For the disgrace of Shenyang, they would pay back the Human nation ten-fold! For the loss of a Demi-divine God of the Juche doctrine in the Antarctic, they and their allies would expand their flesh farms a hundred-fold! Shanghai Stadium. The crowd roared. The music bounced from wall to wall. The banquet's endless flow of exotic dishes was shaken by the rumbling of the building, spilling wine and unearthly sauces of culinary delight, engendering laughter by all. _DING—!_ A scarlet Message ping, plainly visible, blossomed beside the high-ranking party members, beginning with Secretary-General Miao Yang Bo. _DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-!_ _DING-! DING-! DING-!_ A second later, the Generals of the PLA and the Committee Chairs and Vice-Chairs received their summons and warnings, each clamouring with the hysterical voice of subordinates they had left in charge of their departments. Like a wildfire, a sea of scarlet began to cascade from the highest, most regal point of the escarpment, adding to the fiery lantern-glow atmosphere below. _DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-!_ _DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-!_ _DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-!_ _DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-!_ _DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-!_ _DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-!_ _DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-!_ _DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-! DING-!_ The stadium of guests, each admitted for their contributions, connections, wealth or privilege, now received their irrespective warnings. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. At the head banquet table, seated beside her cousins and her recently returned grandparents, the Regent of Shalkar's Message blooms were a technicolour of warnings and requests from the Tower to the Consular of the Commonwealth Mageocracy. Quickly, Gwen flicked through her priorities. "DISASTER WARNING: NATURAL EVENT IN TIANJIN. ELEMENTAL ASSAULT TO CITY EAST. REQUESTING IMMEDIATE DEFENCE ASSISTANCE AND DEPLOYMENT. TOWER AIRBORNE IN 15:21." The next was from her consular. "REGENT SONG. RETREAT WITH YOUR PARTY TO THE PUDONG ISTC FOR IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION. DO NOT TARRY. POTENTIAL BLACK ZONE. ASSUME SPECTRE. RE: BLACK SEA EVENT —MAGISTER O. EDWARDS" A part of Gwen's mind caught up immediately. However, the temporal lobe of her brain was still warm with the fever of the roaring ecstasy. Around her, those with enough clout to receive the Messages were rapidly sobering. On an adjacent table, someone vomited. Nonetheless, the show continued, the food remained fragrant, and the flowing streams of waiters, waitresses, dancers and singers on the stage did not cease. The surreality of it all made Gwen feel like she was caught in a dream sequence, pursuing something just out of sight, unable to be reached. Tao and Mina, lucky individuals spared from the impending crisis, looked at her in confusion. "Cousin, what's wrong?" Tao swallowed a mouthful of Swallow's Nest, then replaced his chopsticks. "Those Messages from Yeye?" "We're in a crisis, Peaches." Petra, who had not been spared, was ready to tear off her qipao and change into something combat worthy. "Tianjin is under attack. There's a real possibility it might fall." "I don't know if Grandfather's friends in Central should have expected this, but surely there are contingencies in place." Richard was his usual collected self despite the glowing Glyph. "Tianjin is almost a tier 1 city. Its Tower lies on a major ley-node, and Beijing can send the Zun Tower to reinforce." Her cousin's words managed to lower Gwen's heart rate enough to catch her breath—until she recalled the guest list presented to her as a Regent of the Mageocracy. "Richard, I don't think anything can be that simple. If this has the involvement of Spectre, as our consulate has suggested, Tianjin could be a distraction." "A distraction?" Tao and Mina both raised their brows. "In Australia, they tried to create a distraction in the Royal National to attack Sydney. In the South Pole, they used a natural disaster to open the sanctum of the Forest Elves for assault by the Undead." Gwen said. "If the attack on Tianjin is the goal, potentially, we can focus on our defences. But what if the attack is itself a diversion? Do you know who is here right now?" “Secretary-General Miao Yang Bo?” Richard stirred his shark fin soup. Is that important?" "Party Secretary Yang is here as well." Gwen pointed to the VIP table not far from them. "And over there is First Secretary Qi. Behind us is Deputy General Ding. If Secretary Miao is seventh in the line of succession, then numbers two to five are all here." "… and number one and six are in Beijing." Richard crunched the numbers. "If Shanghai diverters its Towers northward, they may be in danger?" "And even if these Party heads are willing to put their safety second, China cannot ever afford to lose Shanghai," Petra concurred. "Even a remote incursion of the Undead into Shanghai would be catastrophic. To have Undead overrunning Beijing would be the end of the Party as it currently exists. If this is Spectre, as you say, Gwen—they've been planning this for a long time. It has their modus operandi written all over it." "Then what?" Mina's voice quivered. "Let Tianjin burn? There are millions of people there. Do we go there and help? What if it falls?" "Who says Tianjin would fall? Did you forget who you're with?" Richard directed their attention first to herself and then to the wedding table. "Gwen… I think it's time for you to make a call as our Regent and War Mage—one that will obliterate every strand of hair from Ollie's body…." As a Mage with a foreshadowed life span, Jun Song was a very pragmatic man with a pessimistic outlook. He had been gifted with a rare talent. And for filial piety, duty, and the loss of his brother, he had exercised that talent until the Party grew wary of losing its Golden Goose. His retirement from the Front had been an unexpected reprieve, a rare display of compassion from his superiors, and one he had thought was the turning point of his life—until he met with an unknown niece whose tragic circumstances had made the ashen monotony of his life smoulder with new expectations. But he was wrong. Helping Gwen was only the beginning. On the mount, he met Ayxin. They fought. He had given her a Hello Kitty shirt intended for a teen girl. Then Ayxin had found him. After that, the next three years spent in the gilded cage of the perfect world created for them by the Party was a surreal second life. A life that culminated in the form of all his hopes and dreams. A child. A child of his flesh and blood. But all dreams had to come to an end. As a man who had known only the ultraviolence of treacherous war for the entirety of his life, his expectations were dipped in the smouldering ash of cynicism. When the warning erupted across the wedding banquet, Jun's first reaction, much to his shame, was a sigh of relief. As he read the brief, he knew with absolute certainty that the attack was framed with the celebration of his wife and the child in her belly in mind. As Secretary Miao has stated, their union was the guarantee to China's rice bowl for the foreseeable future. China was a rising drake compared to the decaying Dragon that was the Commonwealth's prime. But power aside, it was the most populous civilisation of "Humanity" with the least Demi-human admixture on their globular home of Terra. In his endless meetings with the CCDI, they had thwarted innumerable disruptions to the wedding and the peace of Ayxin's childbearing. Assassins featured prominently, which was why Jun had accepted their residence in the Yu Gardens. Terrorism against the celebration also loomed, so Shanghai was put into total lockdown. But an invasion of Tianjin? If true, this was no attempt at disrupting China's peace but an act of territorial war, the opening act to another decade of total strife. Jun's eyes fell upon his wife. Ayxin's eyes were hard. His Dragon bride was deeply unhappy about the disruption. Even so, she kept her temper in check for the hundreds of Lumen recorders broadcasting her flawless disposition. Their eyes locked. Jun forced a smile. _Husband…_ the voice in his head reverberated. _If you have a duty…_ Jun fought the impulse to kiss his wife then and there. He glanced at another Message: one targeted at active service members of a particular tier. "RECALLING ALL ACTIVE WAR MAGES CURRENTLY NOT ROSTERED: DISASTER EVENT IN TIANJIN. ELEMENTAL ASSAULT TO CITY EAST. CATASTROPHIC DAMAGE. UNDEAD MERMEN LANDFALL IMMINENT. REQUESTING IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE AND DEPLOYMENT. MAGE FLIGHTS AND PERSONNEL CURRENTLY INSUFFICIENT FOR REPEL. TOWER AIRBORNE 13:11. NON-COMPLIANCE WILL BE MET WITH DISCIPLINARY ACTION." _Tianjin!_ Jun felt his teeth grind. The same Front where he had once made his name in the north. His men, the soldiers who had served under him, the Mage Flights that had not been promoted and shipped around the country, were all still there. Now more than ever, they needed their Ashbringer. With their victory, millions had built their lives thanks to the death of entire companies, platoons, Mage Flights, comrades and friends… If the city were to fall now, was it all meant to mean nothing? "Axyin…" He took his wife's cold fingers, wishing he was a Healer and could warm up her trembling digits. He could sense the flow of Essence within her noble form. He also felt the flow of the Essence pool within her womb. Gently, as if responding to his thoughts, the oblong sphere of pure mana stirred. For his child, Jun felt he could do the impossible. His profundity was interrupted by a pale blonde in pastel pink, now kneeling beside his wife. Taking Ayxin's hands into her own, the Vessel of the Yinglong began the process of soothing his wife's Essence flow. "Lord Ayxin needs a quiet place to return to deep slumber," the Cleric informed him. "Do not make her worry more than you need." "Husband." Ayxin's eyes were twin pools of liquid. "Go." "JUN!" Several figures materialised beside the wedding table. His father, mother, and "uncle" Miao were upon him. "Ah-Jun, take Ayxin to the Yu Gardens and _remain_ there," Miao's words were delivered as a command. "We'll put the gardens on lockdown until this is all over. As for the broadcast, the Cultural Committee will fill the spaces somehow." "Jun, listen to Secretary-General Miao," his mother agreed. Jun looked at his father. Guo's mouth moved—but it was evident to Jun that the old soldier could not bring himself to command his son to hide with his wife, at least not while countless others died in their stead. Jun's jaws clenched. "Mother, Father…" Axyin's voice flowed like cool water over the hot coals in Jun's head. "If Jun needs to go… then he should go." The trio of elders stared at their Dragon-bride. "Is this…" The Secretary was the first to speak. "The will of the Yinglong?" "I do not presume to know my Father's mind," Ayxin spoke with the regal bearing of her usual self. "But I know that if Jun does not go, he will regret this moment for the rest of a _very long_ life." Perhaps it was the implication of the final words Ayxin used, but Jun felt the tension in the air grow slack. "Son." Guo bowed at Ayxin before turning to Jun. "Do you wish to go to Tianjin?" "My old Mage Flight members, the surviving ones, are here at the wedding." Jun indicated to the banquet tables in the middle of the stadium. "They will all leave shortly, as soon as the PLA Tower can secure the ISTC Arrays for rapid transit. I do not wish for them to leave like this from a wedding I invited them to… only to have them thrown into the maws of war." "I see. I have no objections." His father stepped back. "Klavdiya, as I've said before, Jun is his person. All we can do is support him." His mother's expression said it all, but Jun knew he had to disappoint her. "I will allow it." Secretary-General Miao made an audible sigh. "The wedding cannot continue, but so long as you emerge triumphant, even if Tianjin is destroyed—we can Purge, recover, and rebuild… Ah-Jun. You must survive. For Lord Ayxin's sake and the nation's sake. Only if you promise me that will I let you go." "Lord Song will return," the Cleric beside his Dragon Princess declared. "This is also his will. Besides..." _BZZZZACK—!_ The air around them sizzled before the Cleric could deliver a line for the history books. Miao's bodyguards drew their wands but were waved off by the Secretary-General as a trio of familiar faces appeared. "Without doubt, Uncle Jun will live to see his child and return!" The interjecting voice was haughty enough to draw Jun's tight lips into a broad, self-depreciative grin. "After all, with the Regent of Shalkar by his side, what's a mere Elemental Invasion and a Greater Shoal of Undead?" The cocky figure of his niece, prideful as a peacock, stood resplendently in her midnight-blue sleeveless qipao. In her heels, the girl positively towered over them, making even Jun feel diminutive in the nesting recess of his throne-like chair. "Gwen. You're not one of us anymore," Jun reminded the girl, just in case. "Do you not speak for the Mageocracy?" "I do, and if they deny it, then I speak for myself. As the highest authority in Shalkar, I am an autonomous agent, don't you know?" His niece flashed her pearly teeth at her audience. "Secretary Miao, I've fought these Mermen for six months in the Arctic. I know their tactics and how they work their overlapping assaults. I've also fought the Fire Elementals, Ash Elementals, and UNDEAD Elemental Magical Creatures, the lot. Allow us to accompany Uncle Jun, and I'll ensure he returns as soon as the fire is put out." "Gwen…" Jun was still wondering if he should risk his niece when his superior decided for him. "Regent Song. As the representative of the Central Committee, I thank you and shall say no more. You have my blessing and authority to be a part of Ah-Jun's Party. I will ensure that Tianjin Tower's Friend-Foe systems and the Chain of Command are subordinate with minimal limitations." "Gwen, you have a whole life outside of China now." Jun could not displace the acute feeling of guilt in his chest. "You don't have to do this. Tianjin's defences—China's Mages—our nation isn't so weak as to be defeated by a counter-offensive." "Husband—" Once more, Ayxin's voice quelled the disquiet in his heart. "Allow the Vessel of the Old One to go with you. It is…" "…A part of your Father's will?" Jun asked. "… her obligation to a benefactor," Ayxin concluded, then turned to Gwen. "Calamity, I don't know what my Father told the Vessel of his will, but you must bring back Jun." "To Elvia?" His niece looked straight at the Cleric beside his wife. "Evee?" "I have a duty as well." Elvia's positivity was enough to warm Jun's blood. "Perhaps my father knew that these two would one day preserve my husband and child," Ayxin confirmed his suspicions and wonderment. The more Jun thought about it, the more he felt terrified at the prospect of his Dragon-in-law's multi-dimensional chess mastery. Elvia Lindholm, a Knight Companion with the sorcery of Faith and the blessing of the Yinglong, was also from the Order of the Bath, an existential antithesis to the Undead hordes that once ravaged Europe. For such a girl to be chosen for a Vessel had to be intentional. As for Gwen... Had the Yinglong allowed them to leave Huangshan with her stolen Draconic Essence, having foreseen this day? As for the others... His parents appeared satisfied. Conversely, on the Secretary-General's aggrieved mien, he saw the unhappiness of a man who wanted to blame an immortal being for not giving them forewarnings. The Party had planned for the wedding for months and, in the final weeks, significantly shifted its military assets to ensure its capital's security and its Dragon Princess's safety. Now, one of their principal ports was left understaffed. In the Secretary's place, Jun could almost wonder if the Dragon was giving the CCP a demonstration of its power. Again, Jun steeled his resolve to attend to the city's defence. With Gwen and Elvia there... "… Tell Golos that if Jun loses a single strand of hair… I'll cut off his manhood and auction it as fertility medicine." His wife was very adamant as she spoke to the Regent of Shalkar. "I'll let Gogo know. So—How long until we can leave?" Gwen interrupted the conversation regarding Ayxin's sibling, her voice cutting through the ding of the growing chaos as the general public ponderously grew aware of the events up north. Already, the broadcasters were scrambling to shift the focus of the wedding into contingency mode, for the nation's Towers had to be powered up, their ISTC arrays Glyphed and entire regiments and platoons had to be moved northward to reinforce Beijing and contain Tianjin. "I can get you to an ISTC array in the next five minutes." the Secretary-General brushed away a cascade of fading Message Glyphs. "Is that too quick?" "Every minute we're present is a family saved from the fire and waters of Undeath." Gwen raised her Storage Rings. "I have here everything my team might need, as well as supplies for a small volume of refugees. But before we go…" Jun's niece walked across the gathered power brokers to arrive at a space a few meters from Jun. "Percy!" The young man being addressed almost jumped. For the whole while, Jun recalled, his nephew had been wholly silent, arrested by a world of internal thoughts. The young man's paralysis, he supposed, was completely natural. The boy was only a year into his military service. He was probably just as torn between the safety of Shanghai and the utter chaos of his service region, Tianjin. To go there now, especially as a novice Magus between the fourth and fifth tier, did not mean he would make a difference. After a dozen sorties, without any achievement of note, he would likely be sent back to the Tower, or in the worst case, return wounded but alive by his Contingency Ring. "Gwen." his Salt Mage nephew looked up to his looming sister. "Thinking of going to the Front?" "I am stationed in Tianjin. You should know," Percy answered adamantly. "I've friends there, platoons of them." "That's a good mindset," his niece said. "But you must trust me when I say you must stay in Shanghai." "WHAT—?" Percys stood up, as did Mei. "NO!" "You will," Gwen continued. "You should stay here; keep Ayxin and the others safe. As for why, let me tell you…" With hands on the young man's shoulders, Gwen pushed her brother back into his seat. "There will be an extreme level of danger. I am told that Spectre is likely the culprit, which means Elemental Princes… maybe even… Elizabeth Sobel… if Sydney was an indicator of what's to come." As expected, the young man's face blanched to the colour of boiled eggs. Sobel... Jun recalled the name. Assuming Gwen's intelligence on Spectre was right, there would be a hell of a fight. "And if I have to fight Sobel, and if I were to unleash Caliban to its full potential, or perhaps, even call upon Shoggy to level the Eastern Seabed, then I WON'T have you in the crossfire. Understand? There's no profit for you to be there. On the contrary, if you are in any danger…" Jun, ashamedly, felt his face burn. To think that only a few years ago, he was the one to shelter Gwen. Now he felt like a wayward sibling looking to a sister to shield him from a scary Magical Beast. "Gwen is right," Guo gave the final word, un-ironically, with an immense tone of relief. "Percy, stay home and look after Aunt Ayxin with Mei and the others. You'll go to the Yu Gardens. Your babulya and I are going to Tianjin as well." "Father…" Jun felt his heart leap to his throat. "I'll be working the triage centre," his mother said. "Your father will be with the auxiliary forces, helping to arrange the evacuation. We're too old to fight, Jun. We'll leave that to the young folks." "Then all is settled!" his niece concluded the impromptu meeting with a clap. "Let's get ready. It's a catastrophe; we must save as many people as possible. Now, if everyone's on the same page… let's get to it!" His niece raised a fist toward them. Jun couldn't help but give her fist a bump. Elvia joined in, then Richard and Petra. Sheepishly, the grandparents joined, followed by Percy and Mei. The Song family group then looked to Secretary-General Miao. Flustered, the man checked his Messages. "TWO MINUTES!" he declared. "Ah-Jun, for all our sakes, for Lord Ayxin's sake, you must return in one piece!" Percy Song nursed his ice-cold fur-peak tea. The Kirin Amulet was as hot as a bead of white coal against his chest. His mind was torn clean in half, a schism no less than Luther's sundering of Christendom, taught by his professors in Prince's as a simple student in Sydney. But he was no student now. He was the rising star of the CCP's next generation. And he was the promised Vessel of the Kirin tribe. When the warnings rang out, including on his own Message Device, his Divination Sigil had rang like a gong, electrifying every nerve in his body. Cold sweat had instantly oozed from every pore, drawing the attention of Mei, who was yet to recover from the news of Tianjin's crisis. His eyes had scanned the Message, reading the lines repeatedly as if the power of his will could change the implication. A part of him felt a natural concern for the citizens of Tianjin. The city had been his haunt for the past six months. He had visited its sacred places, patrolled its borders, and gotten to know the folk at the fair and the markets whenever he and Mei rested there. The better part of him cared nothing for the human fodder that fed the capital with its sea trade—if the city falls, it falls. Its perishing millions was no skin off Percy's nose. However—he was extremely concerned with a very important part of the city central to his plans for the future. The Octogramic Mandala of the old dynasty. The Jade Core hidden in the heart of the Tianjin Tower's ley-node. The Kirin had made it doubtlessly clear that the old empire's resources were needed to cultivate his role as a Vessel. But if Tianjin were to become a wasteland. Or if Tianjin were to fall into the hands of the Undead Masters of Juche. Then what? The reflexive question was not rhetorical, for Percy Song had no idea what would happen if either happened. Should he give up on the role of a Vessel for the foreseeable future? How long had it taken for Shenyang to be recovered? A decade? What had remained in Shenyang after his sister was done with it. Nothing! His woe was why he desperately looked inward, thinking of the Vessel of the Yinglong sitting only a few meters away. For his plans, stealing the Essence spark from Ayxin was only the first step. After that, he had to infiltrate Tianjin Tower, find his way under the Mana Furnaces, and rediscover the Jade Foci the Kirin Tribe had hidden. _Lord Kirin!_ He pleaded internally, transmuting every mote of his mental strength inward toward that burning mote of conflagration on his chest. _Answer me!_ His mind grew suddenly cloudy. _Vessel._ Came the unbidden thoughts, the voice in his head that was his own but not his own. _Retrieve the Jade Lode._ Usurp the Essence before the city falls to the defilers. _HOW?_ His frustrations rang out like the gong at the beginning of Ayxin's wedding. What am I to do? _Find the Node._ _The fucking Node under the goddamned Tower of Tianjin?_ While it's on maximum alert? Percy had to fight the impulse to shout at the amulet. _How simple and ridiculous could the Kirin…_ Suddenly, a puzzle piece fell into place. He read the summons to war once more. "DISASTER WARNING: NATURAL EVENT IN TIANJIN. ELEMENTAL ASSAULT TO CITY EAST. REQUESTING IMMEDIATE DEFENCE ASSISTANCE AND DEPLOYMENT. TOWER AIRBORNE IN 9:11." His wet swollen eyes blinked. _TOWER AIRBORNE IN 9:11._ Tianjin Tower would be fighting at the port. A floating battle Tower no longer connected to the base plate. His mind furiously turned. He looked up. His uncle was fighting with the older generation, desiring that he should be present at the Front. Knowing his uncle, the man would get his way, one way or another. Thankfully, Jun's absence meant aunt Ayxin would be quickly transported back to the Yu Gardens. She would be unguarded in her chamber, not alone but isolated enough for an opportunity to present itself. Once he could steal the spark, he would need to return to Tianjin before the city's siege was on full lockdown. There, he would do what he could. Either to defend the city and then enable the discovery of the Mandala. Or to retrieve what he could while the city burned. _Master Kirin, if I do manage to arrive at the location of the Jade Lode… are you able to retrieve it? Or recover its power?_ His question received no answers, though Percy no longer needed one. For some reason, Percy recalled one of his sister's Gwenisms. _A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty._ Unhappily, he had to admit that his sister was right. After all, hadn't she gone poaching on the Yinglong's mountain? Didn't she venture into the Murk to fight for the Dwarves? They say that she even spent six months in the Antarctic, accruing accolades to solidify her position in the Mageocracy. All of which had paid well enough to make her important enough to attend a national wedding as a state invitee. With his plans drawn and his paranoias quelled Percy felt the return of his spatial awareness. Carefully, he looked to his right. Elvia Lindholm, as expected, paid no attention to him, for the girl was busy circulating the Yinglong's Essence into the weary body of his aunt, all the while partaking in the debate of Jun's role in the upcoming evacuation. His mind brushed over the pulsing amulet. Would the girl go with Jun? Or would she stay with Ayxin? And if the Vessel remained… how could he approach his aunt? "Percy, are you alright?" Mei's voice was barely audible. Percy looked at his fiancee. In her pastel pink qipao, Mei was lovely as the day he had met her, a debt owed to his appearance-obsessed sister, who had sent the daughter of the Yang family a bounty of Elven fruits and infused Maotai on her birthdays. His mind churned. Tianjin. _The Jade Lode._ Ayxin, _The Essence Mote._ "PERCY!" Percy jumped, near-swearing that his soul had left his body and he had perished alongside all his dreams and ambitions. "Gwen," he replied. "Thinking of going to the Front?" his sister's face was full of mockery. "I am stationed in Tianjin. You should know." Percy forced his mouth to move. "I've friends there, platoons of them." His sister did not like that answer. "…You have to trust me when I say you must stay in Shanghai." Percy felt his spine tingle. The Kirin Amulet might as well be twisting off a chunk of his flesh. "WHAT—?" He stood up, as did Mei, still hanging from his arm. "NO!" The next moment, his sister's command came down like a high-tier spell. "You should stay here; keep Ayxin and the others safe. As for why…" With her enviable eloquence, she spoke of dangers, excuses, fears and duty. Percy's gaze, however, glanced past the imposing visage of his sister. Ayxin was in a daze. The Vessel was helping her, but the distress of Jun's desires was taking a toll. From their conversation, his sister would leave for the Front to protect Jun. And from the tone of their discussion, the Vessel and their Knights of the Ordo shall also participate in protecting his uncle. The amulet on his chest pulsed and flared, flooding his mind with potential possibilities. Within the pain, Percy felt the engendering of an idea not unlike reaching the threshold of a new tier of Spellcraft. Somewhere, Guo's voice drifted across like fog in a dream. "Percy, stay home and look after Aunt Ayxin with Mei and the others. You'll all go to the Yu Gardens. Your babulya and I are going to Tianjin as well.." "Yes, Yeye," he answered—or perhaps he did not. His train of thought had been derailed by the weight of the opportunity the heavens bestowed upon him, its intention implicit and without ambivalence. He watched as Ayxin said her farewells to the departing Party, though it would appear the Vessel would remain for a while longer. On his left, Mei's hands gripped his own, their fates entwined and inseparable. "Mei..." he whispered into the Silent Message Glyph pulsing besides his ear. "I need your help." Elvia Lindholm, Knight Companion, Vessel of the Yinglong, thought of her soul mate who had left to attend a higher calling. Unlike the cherished moment between Axyin and Jun, hers had been a brief goodbye, a fare-thee-well sealed with a casual promise of future meetings, a moment so weightless that Elvia felt hollowed by its unimportance. How many men and women would her friend save this time? Tens of thousands? Hundreds? A million or more? And how many millions of souls might have been saved if she, Elvia Lindholm, had not selfishly chosen to save her friend? A hundred thousand? A million or more? In the confessional, under the benevolent gaze of the Nazarene whose blessed feet had been nailed to the cross for mortal man's salvation, she had been long haunted by fantasies of agency and choice. Even now, she wanted to tear herself in twain to send her simulacrum to aid Gwen in the impending calamity. In the events that should have come to pass, her place was beside her friend, wielding the powers bestowed by the Ordo, repelling the howling Mermen hordes until the moment of the _calamity_. But now that she had chosen to remain behind, Elvia knew the Yinglong's vision was no more real than the mental apparitions of her cloistered prayers. The instance she had boarded the carnival float taking Ayxin back to the Yu Gardens, her trial was nigh—and whether weal or woe, she must now stay the course. Outside the shelter of their moving carriage, she could still hear the ragged cheers of hopeful people. For those who cared, the celebratory mood had long fizzled. Nonetheless, for most of Shanghai's citizens, the plundering of Tianjin was as far a reality as the hope that their lives would grow fruitful. In this timeline of her creation, only herself, Mathias, Percy and Mei sat within the enormous two-storey carriage, the only _family_ with sufficient clearance to accompany the Dragon Princess in person. Her Knight Protectors, Sir Reginal and Sir Kass, flew with the Mage Flight assigned to them, keeping a wary eye for outside forces that might intervene with the coalescence of events taking place. As for Ayxin, she could see why her Patron's daughter had been helpless to defend herself, for the pallid young woman rested on her divan like an ivory statue, her mutton-white skin wet with a snail-sheen of perspiration, doing her utmost to maintain the swirling possibilities within her womb. In a reality that was no longer, the PLA physician would know nothing of the young man beside him and his unnatural ambitions—and that a young man's ascension would lead to two decades of death and destruction so total that Humanity may never again possess the means to balance the Axis Mundi against the Elemental world. So how should she proceed? A part of her, long fostered by the horrors of the Wildlands and the Humanity her Ordo had aided, imagined herself suddenly launching an assault with Kiki and Sen-sen, drugging then strangling Percy Song to total oblivion. Another part of her wanted Mathias to lob off the young man's limbs while she kept him healed and sedated. That foresight had seemed the best—but if the promised Kirin were as vile as her visions, the only surety would be Percy's death and the amulet's destruction. As each paralytic possibility and its infinite array of consequences spread out before her, Elvia lamented Yinglong's wisdom. There was a reason why Diviners were often distant, deranged or delirious. To pluck and choose the threads of fate was indeed an impossibility. To slay the young man for a precognitive crime would be the cleanest means of averting her vision—but there were no guarantees as to what Jun's half of the Kirin Amulet might perform. To catch the young man red-handed? At least she could salvage her relationship with Gwen, though such selfishness would surely blossom into darker tidings. Or perhaps there was still good in the boy—for Elvia could not imagine that there was not. She had heard the confessions of innumerable sinners as she healed them, and all had lamented a slippery slope moment, one that might have been diverted. Or she would proceed as planned, with her body in the way of Percy's chosen Path of Sorcery, and shoulder the sins of the mortal men and their mortal ambitions. She turned from Ayxin's meditative slumber. Elvia took a long, deep breath. She was ready. Having read her moods in the years of their partnership, Mathias took up the middle distance between herself and the subject of their interrogation. "Percy." Elvia compressed her will into folded iron as she faced the pleasant young man, so lamb-like in his filial piety. "Do you remember our talk the other night?" "The one where Gwen saves?" the young man chuckled, his eyes averting her burning orbs of sincerity. "She's in Tianjin right now, saving the folks trapped between the cascading Fire Elementals and the Undead-infested waters," Elvia continued, reading off a defunct script of the future. "That's my sister for you." Percy's tone grew irritated, with both hands in his tailored mandarin jacket. Unhappily, the young man turned to face her. "Miss Lindholm, you've been at this for days now. However, we're now in a crisis time. Why don't you say your piece, and I'll promise to think about it?" Elvia swallowed. Her throat hurt. She had never been sick in her life, though she felt now the feverish pounding of blood in her head. "Then let us be plain, Percy Song. _I want you to recant your use of the Kirin Amulet._ I want you to return the unholy artefact of your family so that your sister can focus on saving the innocent and the helpless and not see them as pawns in her long war against Spectre." There was silence, once made more audible by the muffled sound of the partying "innocent and the helpless" outside the moving carriage. "I see." The calmness of Percy's reply, Elvia noted, was the opposite of the vitriol she had expected. "Did Gwen put you up to this?" "That possibility does not exist, Percy." Elvia shook her head at the misguided delusions of her friend's precious brother. "I am asking you to do this for the greater good. You have a bright future ahead of you, Percy. The Masters of the PLA have their eye on you. Gwen will give you far more than… whatever you think you may gain from the path of a deviant." " _Deviant!_ " The young man's tone finally grew restless and combative. "Is that the words of a Vessel of the Yinglong?" Percy's outburst, Elvia felt, was soothing. The facade they had both upheld had been grinding down their patience, and now it was finally time to give the festering wounds a scorching redress. "We humans are given free will by the Almighty, Percy. We have the freedom to choose. Thus, please choose wisely." "FREEDOM? You mean the Yinglong chooses, and we are all pawns in the grasp of his claws!" The young man stood. The atmosphere changed. Elvia tasted a hint of salt in the atmosphere of the carriage. "You, free will? You're a Dragon's pawn!" "MAGUS SONG!" Mathias's eyes glowed golden with the invocation of faith from his Relic crest. "Do not leave your seat. _Do not approach the Dragon Princess._ I will give this warning exactly once." Gwen's brother did not immediately sit. "Give me the Amulet, Percy." Elvia extended a white hand. "There is too much chaos in the world already. We do not need an old evil to add to it." Elvia expected the young man to protest in a rage, after which Mathias would strike, and the matter would erupt into a dire but momentary struggle. "So your Yinglong, it knew?" The young man laughed instead and then sat. He sat with both legs apart, then pointed at his chest with a free hand. "Does the Yinglong know what this is? Did Uncle Jun tell you Dragons everything he discovered at the ancestral home?" "I cannot speak for what my Patron knows," Elvia said. "I only know that I must save you and by association—Gwen. Will you relent the amulet, Percy? Or…” "I don't need you to save me." The young man raised an accusatory hand as if to place a finger on her lips. "If you want my Kirin Amulet, come and take it." "Elvia…" Mathias drew his sword an inch from its sheath. Elvia implored the Knight to pause. "This my choice, Mathias. I am the Vessel. I'll see it to the end." She leaned closer to the Salt Mage, her mind full of offensive and defensive incantations that could manifest in the blink of an eye. In the likeness of a youthful lover's longing, her arms breached the distance between the table and took command of the young man's collar. "You won't regret this, Percy..." her voice was calm and sympathetic. "Gwen will save you." Somewhere under that fabric was the conclusion she sought. Once the Percy half of the amulet was in her possession, she could petition her Patron or use the Ordo's Faith Sorcery to aid Jun in weaning him from the use of his half. Then, with both stones separated, she would cast the damned Relic into holy fire or leave it imprisoned by the Yinglong. It would mean the destruction of the Song's legacy and a portion of Gwen's ordained future, but her shouldering the blame was better than any other alternative. Her fingers undid the first button on Percy's collar. Percy's mouth moved. His churlish frown softened, turning ever slightly upward in the sign of a grin. Her fingers touched the second button. A flash of sudden quicksilver filled the room, followed by a second flash of Faith-fuelled gold a split-second later, slicing the chair and floor, striking with such force that the Walls of Force shielding the walls sparked and sizzled as the empty chair shattered. There was blood. A long line of blood, barely visible in the damage, traced upward onto the edge of Mathias' blade. Nonetheless, Percy Song was gone. "CHRIST!" Mathias swore. "How in the nine hells is this possible? We asked for both of his Contingency Rings to be disabled!" Elvia had no answers for Mathias. Her mind was writing blank checks she could not cash. Regret, horror, and guilt gushed into her head like the torrential flooding of a cyclone. Mathias, ever reliable, was upon the shell-shocked girl beside them like an Iron Golem against a wayward intruder. With one hand, he lifted the Lightning Mage and slammed her against the cracking panes of Wall of Force. "MEI YANG! WHERE DID HE GO?" "I don't know!" The girl trembled, her feet kicking in the air. "Percy, he—" Mathias caught the girl's hand with his gauntlets. His eyes flared with diagnostic magic. "—Where is your—JESUS, Elvia! They swapped Contingency Rings! She's wearing his ring!" "I don't know, I…" The girl was pale and flushed at once; her face contorted in agony. "Where does your ring lead?!" Mathias crushed the girl's hand, causing her to whimper. Crackling lightning erupted as the girl's mana shield kicked into place—but was instantly extinguished by the Conjugation of Light flaring from Mathias' protective Relic. " "T—Tianjin!" Percy's fiancee wailed. "We both have a pair… the Tianjin Tower gave us the rings when we were P-purging the Undead at Yantai! It takes you into the Triage Bay within the Tower!" TIANJIN! A quake erupted in Elvia's mind—but then the flow of the Yinglong's Essence rapidly pacified the panic that prevented her from thinking. "Give me your ring!" Mathias growled. "Unbind it now! Or you'll roast in the Fires of Faith!" Sobbing, the girl undid the binding magic surrounding the Contingency Ring. "Elvia?" Mathias held his prize. "I'll inform Pudong Tower now. We need to go and reinforce Master Jun and Regent Song. And hunt down this additional calamity." Elvia lifted her head. Her Knight was right. They had to go. The room was ruined, and explaining to the PLA underlings at Yu Gardens would only aid Percy, for Lord knew what Percy Song would do in Tianjin to revive her vision. Walking past the crumbled girl, she bestowed a Cure Moderate Wounds, immediately followed by a tendril from Kiki that impaled the squirming Lightning Mage in the neck, delivering enough euphoria for her to remain blissfully asleep for a day. Beside her, Mathias informed Sir Reginal and Sir Kass that they would attend to Tianjin's developing situation. As added insurance, Elvia added a Binding Ward used for Magic Creatures, one that made the victims bereft of sight, sound and smell, all the while inhibiting their mana conduits with the power of Faith. Once Percy met his fate, Elvia had no doubt the PLA would have plans for his oblivious accomplice at the prison Gwen had horridly narrated. The Song family, conversely, would remain unscathed but for their one wayward grandchild and continue to prosper. That would be her Patron's promise and the will of Ayxin, at least if the Party wanted its rice bowl intact. _Percy Song._ Elvia steeled herself. Her charity was spent. Even if Gwen had to watch, her next meeting with Gwen's brother would be the final nail fastening a man's palm against blood-soaked oak. Calmer now, she turned to Ayxin, who seemed oblivious to the going on in front of them. Deep in her dream of impossibility, Elvia suspected that her mistress was watching—though her physical manifestation was now helpless. Her heart felt glad. She had not failed here. Ayxin was safe. The child of impossibilities was safe. "Elvia," Mathias reported beside her. "Sir Reginal and Sir Kass have reported that we have received Pudong's authorisations. Our rings will activate in five seconds for Tianjin Tower. Their Magisters at the Yu Gardens take care of the PLA... and see to the young woman." Elvia knelt before the crimson mass that was Axyin's slumbering form. Did the daughter of the Yinglong place that much trust in her Father? Was Ayxin's Faith, like her belief in the ethos of the Nazarene, what sustained her through the agony of bringing forth an immaculate life? "Rest well, Lord Ayxin," she delivered the Message in Dragon Tongue so that the sentiment would linger long after she was gone. "Your child is now safe, and I shall do my utmost to ensure Lord Jun returns to you." The Dragon Princess's passivity was a reply in itself. The room flashed quicksilver, leaving only the gentle thrum of the Walls of Force. Mei Yang was in pain. She had been in pain the whole while since they boarded the carriage of the Dragon Princess, though she had borne her agony well. Now, she was bound by darkness, afraid and alone, with the unimaginable pain impaling her diaphragm. She was drugged and glamoured, but the pain in her body was worse than molten magma, disobeying the promised rest of the Floral Sprite's intoxicating poison. Though her body was healed, hers was a distress of the soul—one that extended from the Kirin Amulet pressed against her quivering flesh, boring into her Astral Body to sap up her life force. Percy had said she had to trust him. And Mei did, implicitly and without question. As they waited to board Ayxin's carriage, her husband had said that Gwen would desire his Kirin Amulet and that she was the only one he could trust. In secret, they had swapped rings, and he had pressed the most important thing in his life into the palm of her sweet little hand. And true to Percy's word, Mei had witnessed the tyranny of the Yinglong's Vessel. Percy's sister was kind—but she was also a Dragon—and Mei now knew their ruthlessness. For Percy's sake, she had to protect his heirloom. She had to hide it from the Dragons. She had to preserve the Kirin Amulet. It was Percy's future. Their future. And whatever agony she must endure, no matter for how long, none shall take it away from her. Slowly, a tendril of Essence, untouched by magic, untethered to the Material Plane, leaked from the unmoving silhouette of Mei Yang. Like it had done before for a prior mistress half a world away, the Kirin Amulet now sought the closest Essence of the Dragon kind to sustain its host. Many years ago, the wandering tendril had been unconscious, instinctual. Now, it moved with purpose, snaking along the floor for the protective barrier surrounding the sleeping princess. Though it possessed no means of scent, taste, sight, or hearing, it perceived the roar of life in the womb of the Dragon child like a sailor drawn to the howling gales of a frothing sea. With the spark of impossibility… _it would become whole again._ With the Yinglong's Essence usurped… _they would be together..._ _SCHWWWWWING—!!!_ The sudden protrusion of a vibrating blade cut short the tendril's progress, instantly breaking the tendril's reach, only ending when the opposing Walls of Force consumed the momentum of the jadeite slab twice the height of its conjurer and dozens of times her weight, too immense to be called a sword. Shouts of protest, horror, and the blasting of spells erupted outside, together with cries of "ASSASSIN!" And "PROTECT THE PRINCESS" filled the surrounding perimeter like fleeing crabs from an overturned bucket. The Kirin Amulet, its dire glow fading as its residue energies were spent, lay submerged in a pool of rapidly cooling offal, buried in a mess of shattered bones and rendered skin and muscle. Above the offending carcass, the Bodhisattva serenity of Ayxin continued her slumber, a mother at peace, blissfully nurturing a child of impossibility.

Tianjin Tower. Launch bay. Strands of shivering energy, barely visible to the mortal eye but bright as lumens to the trained Diviner, tethered the hovering mass of Tianjin's Tower to the city's two-dozen Shielding Stations. Shaped like a horse-hair calligraphic pen, the Tower was the final symbol of the cooperation between China and a yet-to-collapse USSR, a last harrumph before the gradual decay and loss of greater Russia to the Undead hordes. Shimmering with mana, the Tower now played its part as envisioned by its creators, an insurmountable barrier against the city's northern invaders. "Anyone seen Lulu?" Gwen asked while her war party underwent final preparations. Her immediate enterprise, aided by Petra, was drawing a Summoning Mandala that would bring Golos from Shalkar. "She'll be along shortly, I imagine," Richard spoke as he invoked the incantations to change the leather armour from loose to form-fitting. After six months of fighting the Undead daily, the Dwarven artisans of the Royal Raven had enchanted specific sets of equipment for its human crew, a dozen of which was kept by Gwen for private use. "After all, she's a student of Ryxi. Ayxin's safety is far more important to her than the folks here. I am more surprised she isn't fussing over _your_ safety for once." "Or maybe she's gone to find Kusu?" Petra shrugged. "He's the overseer of one of Shanghai's militia groups now, right? Here isn't Shalka. She's got family here." "Maybe. Either way, I am sure she'll be along shortly." Gwen then allowed her thoughts to slip from their Sword Mage companion. Below their privately walled changing station, her Uncle Jun had also finished donning the suits she provided, together with three Mage Flights of his old comrades who had been given the same rare equipment. With the Positive Energy conduits for self-healing, fortification, and innate shielding provided by Dwarven Runescript, even a regular Magus could fight toe-to-toe with the oceanic zombies. "You think the local militia can hold out?" Petra glanced over at the vista of the city below. Parts of supply had been restored to the city's nerve centres, and more were coming online every minute. "They're trained to fight zombies, but this is something else entirely." The problem, Gwen understood very well, was the same as Auckland's Militia. While Mermen and Undead were the most common foes, the combination of the two brought new challenges in the form of size and numbers, ranging from the un-killable humanoid Cephalopod-kin to cruiser-sized Krakens made fearless by a supernatural thirst for the living. Not to mention, the Mermen were merely a problem she would help to divert—the immediate, white-hot threat was the Fire Elementals, whose responsibility fell upon her uncle's matching elemental attribute. "If the shielding holds up," Richard reminded them. "There won't be that many to fight at once. We're focusing on keeping those that slip through at bay—not fighting the entire Shoal through head-hunting tactics. In a week or so, once the city is largely evacuated, maybe one of the PLA's Magi will conjure a Meteor Shower over the bay." "Agreed, it's only _now_ that the crisis is at its worst," Gwen concurred. "Once the capital cities can shore up their forces and return the citizens to their homes, we'll be golden." "Do you think this is aimed at you?" Petra's trained paranoia raised a point her cousin had previously intimated. "You're the one who cleansed Shenyang. And you took care of a Lich. That's halfway to having a Magi as KIA. If the Mageocracy had lost a Magi in a foreign campaign like Pyongyang, they would start a full-scale war." "I am not discounting the possibility." Gwen felt her head throb. "And if this is _Spectre_ , as Ollie said, they must hate my guts something serious, considering our involvement with Tryfan." "Or maybe it's a two-for-one?" Richard snickered. "Aunt Ayxin's wedding, Uncle Jun, and you. That's a good deal, no matter how you look at it. Keep your Contingency Rings primed, Gwen. No telling if Sobel is waiting out there, sharpening a Morden's Blade." Gwen looked at her cousin. Her cousin smiled back, revealing a set of perfectly pearly teeth. _Ding—_ "Gwen—" The Message was from her uncle below. "You ready?" "I'll be done in a dozen," She replied. "Where are you headed?" "Northward to Tangshan," her uncle replied. "You should reinforce Bohai Bay, where the Undead will slip through the Laochaowan desalination Reservoir. The Tower's main forces will focus on evacuation while we keep the leaders of the incursion distracted." "Understood—but don't stray too far, Uncle," she warned her saviour. "And don't push yourself. You're not in your thirties anymore." "Ha! I'll be in contact," her uncle replied, then stepped into the regional teleportation circles that would shoot them northward some thirty kilometres to the outer Districts. "Think he'll be alright?" Gwen worriedly asked her cousins, her hands working as fast as she could keep her mana conduits steady. "Why would he not be?" Petra finished an inscription without breaking concentration. "Uncle Jun is, by all measurements, a better Battle Mage than you, merely without the artillery capacity of Master Shultz. Besides, if you consider Lady Ayxin's blessings and the PLA's focus on keeping him alive, he's more liable to survive than any of us—" "That's… reassuring." Gwen soothed herself with Petra's comforting words, then turned her mind to her new duty. Despite the Shielding Station's shimmering efforts, Mermen were slipping through the barriers. In the instance of "living" Mermen, the disruption of their Core would imply a reduced threat. Comparatively, even with cracked Cores, the Undead would not relent in their mindless assault on living beings until their Negative Energies were drained or released. _BOOM—BOOM—BOOM—_ The roar of Golem artillery from the _Shen-Zhang_ MK III's man-made spell blades roared, though possessing only a fraction of the power offered by the genuine Dwarven article. In an organised defence, the infamous _mass_ brought to bear by the Chinese military would be a sight to behold. Unfortunately, what Golems could be brought out of storage and armed in an hour was wildly insufficient. Gwen stepped back, materialising crates of HDMs into the feeder Glyph of the enormous Mandala. For a creature like Golos to be attuned to the Tower's Divination, such a ritual and its cost in precious materials had to be repeated every time her Planar Ally was summoned. Momentarily, the platform flared a brilliant silver, drawing every eye from the launch deck as its cargo materialised into the majestic form of a western Thunder Dragon with overlapping cobalt scales and a scintillating crest of vibrant feathers from the base of its enormous skull. "O Dragon!" "Aid us, Lord Dragon!" "The Yinglong be praised!" Someone applauded, and then inexplicably, the rest of the crew joined in a communal display of praise for the descended Dragon amongst them. " _Calamity!_ " Golos, the scion of the Yinglong, shook off the excess mana cascading down his flank like snow dust. "How dare these blasphemous cultists to disrupt Ayxin's wedding! I was watching the show with Phalera and the kids!" "This isn't your regular cultists, it's _Spectre_ , or so I am told," Gwen transmitted what information she possessed through the Empathic Link. "I don't need you here, Golos—instead, I have a much more important job for you?" The Dragon craned his neck. "Protect Uncle Jun with every bone in your body, as much mana as you need to spend, spare no expense other than to stay alive. You know how important he is to Ayxin." The Dragon bobbed its enormous head. "I know. Ruxin told me of this long ago." "Ruxin?" Gwen looked the Dragon up and down as she searched her memories. "He predicted this?" "He said that it was Father's will." Her creature huffed. "He said that I would receive an opportunity if I served as your Planar Ally." The ex-Wyvern looked smug. "Wow, that was a long time ago—" Gwen patted the enormous chest of her Dragon, feeling the numbness in her fingers as electricity arced between them, linking her Astral Soul to her tyrannical, talking lizard. "And now's the time to put that boon to work. Can you find Uncle Jun?" "I can smell his Ash from here." "Good." Gwen gave the Dragon a push. "Hop along and keep Jun safe. We'll all share a Dwarven pint once this is over, eh? Gogo?" The Dragon lowered its majestic head until it was eye-level with her face. "It's _Uncle_ Golos…" "What?" Gwen reeled from the Dragon's rotten-meat breath. "I am Ayxin's brother. She's your Aunt…" Golos huffed in her face until her eyes watered. "I am now your _Uncle_ Golos, Calamity." Gwen stifled an urge to kick the slitted iris with her claw heel. Try as she might, her lips refused to make the necessary sound. Chuckling with the deep rumble of distant thunder, the Dragon slid from the platform, causing the metal to creak and spark before slipping into the air like liquid mercury. "Right—" Gwen allowed the tailwind to lift her crow-skinned self into the air. She waved to the audience below, hoping to lend them some of her optimism. "Richard, Petra, with me. Same as always, folks. Let's start with a nice long trench along the city's north where our fishy friends can all gather. Percy Song materialised in the Tianjin Tower, holding a gash deep enough in his sides to reveal a stick of rib. What he acutely felt, however, was not the sharp, stinging pain of sliced flesh burning with the Faith-fuelled aura of Sir Mathias' wrath—but the emptiness of that which had laid against his chest since the day his sister gave up her claim. "Magus Song!" the Tower's healers were upon him before he had struck the floor, their wands already expending the Healing Words used to stifle his bleeding. "Patch me up! Give me the maximum alchemical dosage." He coughed a mouthful of ruby blood as his lungs cleared of fluids. Seeing the other nurses and physicians approach, he waved them away. "Enough. I need to return to the fight." "Is it that bad out there?" One of the healers, a young woman, did not think twice before overruling her supervisor and materialising an upper-tier injector. Percy did not know the woman, but from her overt familiarity, he could tell she likely recognised him from the Lumen-caster. "There's far worse than just Undead and Mermen out there." Percy winced as the healing took place. The senior Healer glanced at the injector but said nothing. Percy nodded back. After all, he was the nephew of Jun Song and now the Dragon Princess Ayxin. Who were they to deny a mere upper-tier injector, especially when he was fighting on their behalf? "I am on a mission for Aunt Ayxin. Though I doubt anyone would enquire, please keep my presence discrete. And another thing. If Cadet Mei Yang should ask for me, inform them I have joined the fight outside." "Yessir!" The two healers saluted as he stood, then stumbled past the infirmary into the belly of Tianjin Tower's pocket-space interior. Having served almost six-months in the city, he knew the Tower's layout well enough to meander his way through the network of tunnels and corridors for the exterior exit. _Ding! Ding! Ding!_ Red hot Glyphs continued to ping for his attention. As he passed a communal corridor, he carefully removed the Message Band from his wrist and deposited it into a change room used by the crew, ensuring its broadcasts were still alive. Deeper, when he reached the lower belly of the Tower's tree trunk structure, he removed his spent Contingency Ring, depositing it into a garbage chute. His final destination was a breaching chamber used to escape the Tower in a catastrophic failure of its levitation systems. Here, the Mandala provided would wormhole back into the reality of space-time outside. Self-assured of his safety, Percy Song took a long, deep breath to calm his trembling fingers. _The FAITH WITCH._ He could not believe that she was after his amulet this entire time. To think that he had imagined himself acting in secrecy, only for the Dragon tribe to be watching him—watching his heirloom all along. But his Yeye had explicitly stated that their family had always had access to the amulet—that dozens of generations of Songs had pulled the family through every crisis through its boon. When Uncle Jun returned from investigating their ancestral home, he had also informed Percy that it was safe to use the amulet, though its other half, when his life ended, would go to Gwen. He had felt rather strongly about that. So why were the Dragons after the amulet now? Why were they after him, specifically? The answer—he knew, was beyond obvious. His sister was the Dragon's Vessel. She was the one who invited the Yinglong to sit among them, to introduce Ayxin to Jun, and to reveal the secrecy of the Kirin's revival. Naturally, Gwen had asked the Faith Witch to be the Yinglong's Vessel. It was all for his sister's ascension—and now he was again paying the consequence. Well, she must be happy now. His amulet was gone, gifted temporarily to Mei in the small chance that borrowing his unborn nephew's Essence may still be possible. Without the amulet, he felt wrong, like a man with a missing organ, haunted by the nagging doubt that his stolen kidney was more important than he was led to believe. _Vessel..._ The voice of the Kirin Amulet, now no longer against his chest, was like a fading echo. But he was the _Vessel_ now, just like his sister, and that blasted blonde Cleric, _Vessel_ to the Yinglong. "What is it?" Percy felt the chill from the Kirin Soul's necrotic presence like a sliver of ice buried in his spine. _Mei Yang is dead. My flesh is now inert._ Percy's hand halted on the activation-Glyph. "They…" his breath suddenly came in rags. "They did what?" _The Dragons murdered her in cold blood,_ the voice reported without emotion, as though he was talking about the unusually cold autumn. "Jesus alive… _Mei…_ ” Percy felt as though suddenly underwater. He had imagined they would arrest Mei, but to kill her outright? "She's _dead_?" Mei. His Mei. His dear Mei. His high school sweetheart. His future wife. He didn't know if he truly loved her—he was a young man and did not know what it meant to love a woman, at least not like in the novels. Mei was beautiful, resourceful, useful and obedient, but was that love? Percy could taste iron in his mouth. He wanted to teleport back. He desired to smash the Cleric's face and drain her vitality until she was an empty husk. __ _Stop._ The iron voice from the Kirin Soul commanded. _There is much more you must do._ "I know," Percy spoke to the shadows, his emotions rapidly cooling from boiling point to lukewarm alarm as Elemental Salt circulated through his conduits. Unlike Ash or Dust, he could not use the Negative Energy to tame his rioting emotions, but the exercise helped keep his mind collected while facing dire dangers. With an audible force that announced his frustration, he placed his hand against the security Glyph of the breaching chamber, feeding it the counter Glyphs only important individuals highly trusted by the Tower would know. Of course, he was such a trusted one. By his request, Tianjin's Tower Master had granted him an upper-rank privilege, believing that one day, the nephew of the Dragon Princess would do wonders for his late-life career in the Party's inner circles. He did not know how much the Kirin Soul had foreseen, but this was his _ordeal_ and opportunity to ascend. His plan had originally been to slowly work his way into the Party's circles of Mages in Tianjin so that he would one day come to govern the city as his Magister's assignment. Now, he must harness the Essence, or what's left of it, from the Kirin tribe's ancient devices before the Undead could dig in their claws, tentacles or flippers. As for the siege—it was a strange feeling—to relive Sydney so vividly, only this time, he was not a faceless, nameless being caught in the undertow, but one seeking his destiny in the throes of mortal danger. _Would saviour Gwen save the day again?_ He pondered the battle outside, now roaring with the sound of fire and water clashing in cataclysmic meetings. He could feel the presence of a Dragon named Golos, whose thunderous mana could be felt through the tremors of the Tower's spatial shielding. _How pleased she must feel._ Percy felt his mouth mutter the words. _How easy it must have been for the Dragon's Vessels to slay Mei even as she lay helpless._ The Glyph unlocked. Percy Song's upright figure shimmered silver—then he was out. By the time Elvia and her Knights arrived at Tianjin Tower's ISTC node, there was no longer enough fanfare present to lick the boot of the Yinglong's blonde-haired Vessel. In place of the usual Magister and Magus, or perhaps Tower Master Wong himself, Acolytes with freshly awed faces ushered Knight Protectors and their ward toward the launch bays where the Tower's forces oversaw the city's defence. At the bustling launch bay, she was greeted by the familiar sound of pure panic intermingled with bravado, chorused by the shouts of sergeants kicking men into line for the feeders. She needed to find Percy—but the chaos of the Tower's interior left little doubt that Percy was taking full advantage of the anarchy. In the direction of a higher platform, she sensed the lingering mana presence of Golos, whose Lightning motes permeated the walls like a stench. "I'll fetch someone useful," Mathias remarked at the organised chaos below the entry deck. Thankfully, despite the turmoil, a Magister at the rank of Major was there to question their presence in this time of the city's great need. "Lord Vessel." The impatient Magister's face noted he had somewhere else to be. "What is your desire?" "I am looking for Percy Song, nephew to Lord Jun." Elvia bowed her head slightly. "He may have snuck out against the Lord Regent and his grandfather's wishes to participate in the combat below. We're all worried for his safety." The lie stung like a swollen abscess. Unlike Elvia's Knight Protectors, the Companion was not sworn to the Oath of Truth, a peculiarity of their profession as medical practitioners, whose care for patients and families necessitated false hope and feigned empathy. "Oh…" The man appeared confused by their request. "I'll ask the Divination Tower. One moment." The gruelling seconds passed like the waiting anticipation of a needle resting against one's vein. "He's in the subbasement infirmary… oh no." The Magister raised both brows as he read the invisible Message. "He's… wounded? Received healing…, and he's now somewhere in the Tower's internal chambers. His Message Device reads subbasement G-12-44… although He is not answering the Message." Elvia and the Knights regarded one another. "Do we find him?" Sir Kass volunteered. "If he is in the Tower… we should not leave him unattended." "You and Mathias should observe from outside the Tower, over the city," Sir Reginal offered his sword pommel. "Kass and I will track down his signal here in the Tower, and if we find him..." "Umm…" the Magister raised a hand. "Is Magus Song in trouble?" "Not at all." Elvia forced a smile that she hoped was sweet enough to convince. "It's just that Mistress Ayxin is not very happy with his absence." "Ah—" The Magister gave her a bow. "My condolences." "We can only obey the Yinglong's will," Elvia assured the man. "Can you assign aides to my men?" The Magister summoned a few of the Acolytes, additionally gifting them a jade Glyph that would allow access to the Tower's lower levels. "Right, then we'll be off," her Knight Protectors delivered a half salute. "Take care, Companion Lindholm. Mathias, we leave her in your hands." "She'll be safe with me." Her Knight Protector clanged his gauntlet against his ceremonial breastplate; one ornate enough to impress a national Lumen broadcast. "On my life." With her two Protectors gone on their separate duties, Elvia invoked the Flight magic sewn into her Genymade's Winged Boots, a part of the preparations she had readied for this day. Together with Mathias, they dropped from the Tower's bay and fell half the length of its spire before allowing the wind to take them toward the well-lit bay, where spellfire intermittently revealed the progress of the battlefront. To the northeast, in the direction of Tangshan, the mountain was a flaming heap of smoke-choked rubble and soot. Above, with its lightning-charged body bright as a beacon, a Thunder Dragon patrolled the skies. At a distance of almost thirty kilometres away, Elvia could not see the participants engaged in the dance of destruction—yet the wind was hot with violence, textured with the unique stench of volcanic sulphur. "The smoke is thick with Elemental Fire," Mathias remarked. "What's over there?" "The Elemental Prince Zodiam, an old foe of our Order," she said to Mathias. "And Lord Jun is battling him, as in my visions." "The Worshippers of Juche has found an unfortunate confluence of unlikely allies." her Knight Protector gritted his teeth. "Perhaps, the Ordo should have done more to prevent this." "We've already done so much," Elvia smoothed her Knight's anxiety with an affirming gloved hand against his shoulder pauldron. "But not even the Ordo St George can fight the Mermen in their underwater homes, nor the Juche Cult in their Necropolis. To defend is the way of things, the balance Mother Superior spoke of— the Accord." "I should have..." Mathias sighed. "I am… very sorry, Companion Lindholm. I should have slain the boy where he sat." "I am the one to bear that blame, Mathias." Elvia shook her head. "I am beginning to wonder if blind faith, even if it lies in an entity like the Yinglong, would have uncomplicated our quest." "The Father of the Nazarene gave us faculty and capacity," her Protector reminded her, perhaps to ease her buzzing conscience. "It is a sin to neglect God's greatest gift." Elvia agreed with a murmur, her attention wandering from the flaming mountain toward the shimmering coast. There, a mere distance of a dozen kilometres away, her eyes bore witness to the impossible sight of an Afaa al-halak, the great Sand Worm of the Sawahi Sand Sea, busily interconnecting the city's canals and estuaries by creating an enormous zig-zag of waterlogged trenches. The Undead Mermen that had penetrated the Shielding Stations seemed naturally drawn to these enormous billabongs of churning dark water, only to be lit up by thundering spellfire from the Militia and the Golems hidden in the nooks of the city's avenues and boulevards. Before she could remark on Gwen's expertise, an enormous maelstrom almost a kilometre wide erupted over the salt marshes, drawing up the scattered minions of the Juche cult. "Uncle and niece, both fighting for the lives of the city," Elvia said to the turbulent air. "In another life, we would be there beside them, repealing the Undead." "I wish to be among the combatants as well," Mathias confessed. "Though we have a duty here. Is that not your purpose and mine?" Elvia observed the city once more. There was chaos, and there was horror. There were massacres to the north, homes and Districts on fire as the milling millions of China's populous port city fled for the inland shelters. Militiamen were swarming the dockside, both organised and disorganised, and multitudes of Mage Flights roared over the city, zipping from the humming Tower like frenzied hornets from a kicked nest. The battle, to Elvia's ambivalence, was holding steady. It was strange to say that she felt more worried for the city's success, for unlike her vision, Tianjin was not a brimming sea of fire and water, living and un-living, engaged in an existential toil. What was the missing catalyst? She knew the answer—but she dared to hope as well, for the saving of Ayxin's child should have prevented the worst. "Percy Song..." she asked the flickering city below, for there were no answers from her Patron. "Where are you now?" "Transmute Earth!" Percy Song, no longer the richly attired, handsome youth worshipped by his fiancee, slipped through the warped stratum of granite and sandstone to finally arrive as a mud-man into the crypt of what was once a grand temple to the Mythics of yore. His wedding clothes were torn and soiled, his face and hands layered with dust and dull motes of Transmutation, but he had done it. He was here, in the sanctum of the Kirin Tribe, the last depository of his Patron's people. When he had caught view of the baseplate of the Tianjin Tower, he had been dismayed but not surprised to see that the earthquake had indeed damaged its exterior—and that the PLA had stationed an entire Militia's worth of men and their attached Mage Flights to ensure the city remained supplied with power. This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Though the Tower was now in the air and drawing upon its reserve of HDMs, the Shielding Stations themselves would have exhausted their supplies during the initial hour of the assault and would need to be sustained by the city's network of ley-lines. Thankfully, he had long provisioned for the Tower's zealous protection of even an un-nested base plate. The Octogramic Mandala used by the Xia Dynasty was hidden by secret tunnels that made accessing the Jade Lode possible, acting as both conduit and maintenance. In a time of peace, however, with the Tower tapped into the lay node, entering the chamber of whatever the Kirin Kings of the Xia had left for its descendants would be suicide. Without a temporary shut-down of the Tower's mana engines, such as for maintenance, or the Tower being aloft, such as for military exercises, the concentration of mana drawn from the ley node would burst a Mage's Astral Soul like a Creature Core. Percy released a dozen floating lumen globes from his Storage Ring, each the size of a ping pong ball. Though his dark vision was sufficient, he did not trust the magically infused Divination more than his eyes of flesh and blood. Slowly, his vision adjusted, revealing the interior of the Xia's lost domain. The air, what's left, possessed insufficient oxygen to sustain a human visitor. Swiftly, he donned an enchanted mask intended for underwater adventures, then breathed deep as he took in the sight he had harkened after since the Kirin Soul's revelations. Above his head, he saw a plaque composed in the old languages of the Xia, each character more cryptic than the last. Around him, jade murals of Kirin-kin showed a prosperous city that spanned the horizon of each vista in the octagonal tomb chamber, with Stoney vector lines coalescing toward the middle. And in the epicentre of the chamber, the root of the Jade Lode sat, a glorious emerald trunk of some stone-forged tree. Since immemorial, it had been appropriated by the Han Dynasty, built upon by the Tang, destroyed by the Yuan, and rebuilt by the Ming—an edifice sandwiched between a thousand narratives of upheaval and destruction, reconstruction and repurpose. From his tour of Tianjin Tower, he knew that the PLA had never excavated beyond what they presumed to be the Lode's capstone, somewhere between the bedrock laid by the Han and the Tang Dynasties, for the ley grew less stable the deeper they dug. Gingerly, feeling the call of destiny tingling in his fingers, Percy approached the Jade Lode's trunk-like root. Closer, he could see that the base did not consist of rough and unpolished jade but scripts akin to Dwarven Runes, composed by the ancient Daoshi of the Xia, a lost system of Shamanism written in "Bone Script". In archaeology, such samples were usually found etched into the bones of slain Magical Creatures. Years ago, there had been immense interest in the script. However, to Percy's knowledge, no Party research had yet succeeded in replicating "China's" Dwarven Rune language. Slowly, with his heart pounding, Percy placed a hand upon the Jade Lode, first allowing his fingers to caress the runes, then imprinting his hand upon its sandpaper surface so that the odd shapes pulsed against his palm. The stone was warm. And it pulsed with… _life?_ "This…" he gulped, his state of being suddenly elevated as the realisation struck. "Is this an _egg_?" _It is the legacy of the Kirin Tribe._ The voice at the back of his skull echoed. _It is the quintessence of that which formed the Kirin, the only vestige of their existence that remains untainted by the lustful Dragon-kin._ Percy's mouth felt dry despite the Water Breathing mask. "What… what do I do with it?" He felt dizzy from the prospect. Hadn't his sister found such an _egg?_ Hadn't she become the Vessel of an Old One due to her contract with its parent? __ And this—this sole Kirin _egg._ What did it mean for him? For his ascension? "Mei…" The bitterness in his mouth tasted like old tobacco cud. The cost he had to pay to get to this point was surely greater than Gwen's. "What must I do?" Percy Song asked the darkness. _Do as I instruct_. The Kirin Soul's hollow echo reverberated in his mind, banishing all doubt. _This way, our rebirth lies._ Jun Song, Hero of the Northern Campaign, spat a mouthful of Ashen Mana at the smouldering mass howling in frustration below. With the nation's best Mage Flight still in Shanghai or Beijing, he knew that only he could overpower the "Named Beast" called Zodiam, a known Elemental Prince of the Brass Legion, the expeditionary force of the unknowable Mythics that made their home in the Elemental Plane of Fire. Zodiam was a formidable creature fortified by its possession of armaments. However, even without his weaponry, the Elemental noble was a Colossal Class monstrosity known as the Elder Fire Giant—a race who made their home in the molten mountains within the Para-Elemental Plane of Magma. The problem was that the four-meter Giant wasn't a footman but rode upon a Magma Ursine taller than the Fire Giant, possessing the girth and strength of a quadrupedal Dwarven Balefire. Furthermore, as the commander of his forces, Zodiam did not battle "alone". His cavalry was followed by its flaming, fervent supporters, the infamous _Brass Legion_ from the Mageocracy's Fire Sea, consisting of humanoid Salamander-kin equipped to the teeth with armaments and sorcery. From their enchanted pilums of brass, arrays of focused fire pounded the city's defenders, keeping Jun's Mage Flights from harassing them with sleet and hail, snow and ice. Without a doubt, the Fire Giant and its kin were the culprits behind the "volcanic" eruption at Tangshan, the emergence of which had induced the enormous quake prior. Hundreds of villages once existed in Tangshan, and two Districts lived beside its estuaries and gullies, all of which now fed the flames behind the Brass Legion's advance, perishing in flame or suffocating from the burnt-up oxygen as the flocks of Ember Imps and Flame Mephits ran amok. To prevent a greater tragedy, Jun knew he had to stop Zodiam before he could penetrate the Resonance Barriers and destroy the Shielding Stations' nodes. Therefore, he had recklessly descended, tapping not only into the Soul Well in his Kirin Amulet but the Essence gift of his father-in-law, the Yinglong. Unlike the first time he had risked his being in the north, he brought forth the full might of the _Ashbringer,_ tearing the Material Plane asunder as his Avatar of Ash glowed white-hot, calling forth shrieking fragments of necrotic phosphorus upon his foes below. For the large part, his adversaries had not anticipated such a retaliation, for they closely clumped even as the incendiary Blizzard descended on the length of the city's northern boundary. Mephits touched by the ashen assault instantly had withered and turned to soot. Salamanders who survived the attack grew insensible and dispassionate. Mighty Zodiam, his armour sizzling from the dissipating Ash corroding his skin and armour, had turned his enormous face upward to gaze at his attacker. And that was when Jun spat to clear his throat. "ZODIAM THE BUTCHER!" Jun's Clarion Call echoed across the firmament. "COME AND MEET YOUR END!" "MORTAL!" The creature spat back. "DARE YOU CHALLENGE A PRINCE OF—" _CLANNNNG—!_ Before the creature even realised, the sweet _gong_ of an unstoppable force striking an immovable object acknowledged the rumour that his niece never fought with honour, that her underhanded methods had permeated the thinking of her underlings, and that she was something akin to a devil's advocate, the whispering seductress of Capitalism. The Fire Giant grew suddenly airborne when a living line of lightning met Zodiam's open mouth, followed by an eye-wincing headshot from a morning star tail so swift as to race the lightning itself. Zodiam fell—or rather, _rotated_ from his saddle, only to be snagged by the enchanted leather, dragging his Magma Ursine with him as he rolled over his whimpering minions. Just as Jun planned out his next act, the Thunder Dragon returned. _Mao alive!_ He felt as impressed as he was horrified by the total lack of honour demonstrated by the lizard. _Is this how Dragons fought?_ Indeed, the Thunder Dragon rolled its Dragon Fear over the cowering, silenced crowd of confused Elementals, then laid down another line of lighting as wide and far as a boulevard in Fudan, spontaneously inducing the volatile Salamander battalions to erupt into explosions of molten Magma. "ROAARRRR—GURRK—!" Zodiam protested, but was again cut short. _CLANNNNG—!_ The Giant attempted to rise but was unsuccessful, for Golos' tail was leaving no quarter. Twice, the Fire Giant failed to untangle itself from the Ursine's harness, only to be clobbered senseless. Over and over, the Ursine and Giant were routed by a passing trail of cobalt lightning that sent chunks of brass armour flying in every direction, cratering the pair further into the charred, sooty earth of their making. "Captain Jun." Jun's Lieutenant drifted closer, his face clammy from the heat. "Do we attack as well? How about the Militia?" "Wait a bit.." Jun held off his men. Attired as they were in Gwen's gifts of rare battle suits, the flames radiating from the howling Giant was no joke. "If this continues until Zodiam gives up, we'll clean up. If not…" "GUAARRRRGHHH—!" A volcano, or the closest thing to a localised geothermal ruption, concaved the battlefront. Tianjin's long night turned briefly to day. First came the hysterical, retina-searing light, then the roaring _BOOM—_ a ring of total annihilation rang out with the shockwave, obliterating the urban landscape for kilometres in every direction. Jun and the men reeled from the blast, their Mage shields flaring into being as they fought the violent gale accompanying Zodiam's anger. A few of his men were blown away, but Gwen's armour reinforced their protective barriers, burning through its internal stores. Behind them, the shattering glass of the city's skyscrapers was interrupted only by the sirens of evacuation vehicles and the clamour of human misery. The Shielding Stations were, even for an important Frontier like Tianjin, resonance barriers to stop Magical Creatures, not localised Force Domes projected by the superstructural Towers. A three-storey tall, bipedal bear made of honey-gold Magma stood in place of the Elemental Prince's vanguard. Upon its back, finally freed of his constraints, was Zodiam, his brass armour now liquid and free-flowing, forming rune-imbued defences that levitated around his smouldering being. His only sign of injury was the broken ringlet around his head, made conspicuous by a line of yellow sulphur running down the side of his pitted, crag-cliff face. "INSOLENT WYRM!" The Giant roared from the back of his unshackled beast. "I'll use your hide for a _cushion_!" Jun felt the approach of Golo as he returned to their lines. In its battle form, the familiar Essence radiating from the electricity-dripping Dragon reminded him of Ayxin, marking their familial bond as siblings. "Sir." His Lieutenant rubbed a thoughtful hand against his chin stubble. "Perhaps you should ride Lord Golos. We shouldn't be outdone by a mere bear that's not even a panda." The rest of his soot-faced men murmured agreement. Ahead, the Fire Giant raised both hands to the heavens as if in violent protest. His hands descended, pulling in a dramatic move resembling the tearing of metaphysical curtains from the fabric of space and time. Enormous rents materialised above the city's northern quarter, followed by downward eruptions that spurt forth gouts of dark Magma and ruinous sulphur. His men groaned, their despair spreading like wildfire. As for the Militia below them—Jun doubted there were enough men or Golems left to make a difference. "I'll take the Giant." His eyes were twin beads of glowering coal. "Golos, can you handle the bear?" "It's Brother-in-law…" the Thunder Dragon grumbled. "And yes… I'll have the Ursine's Core for _siu yeh_." Tianjin. Bohai Bay. As night briefly turned to day, the crew from Shalkar allowed themselves a few seconds of distraction. "Jun's fine," Gwen reported to her cousins from her Empathic Link with Golos. "Gogo managed to trigger a transformation in the Fire Giant. I am glad it happened now rather than later, assuming we're fighting Zod in the CBD itself." "Do you think Uncle Jun will halt the Elemental Prince?" Richard remarked as he refreshed his array of Water Shields, negating the necrosis-inducing slime slick that would have bogged down a lesser Abjurer. "For a few days, but not beyond that," Gwen confirmed. "Remember, we're holding out to prolong the evacuation. Unless Shanghai and Beijing are willing to relent on their defences and come to our aid, it's unlikely we'll be able to repeal the Tide." "Will they come?" Richard asked. "I am expecting it." Gwen nodded as she repositioned her invisible Familiars for their tactic in the icy south. "The question, however, is when. How long would it take for the capital to organise a strike force capable of dealing with Zodiam? Or the Shoal? And will they overcome their paranoia?" "I hate it when we wait on others," Richard spat. "Why can't the PLA be punctual, like the Elves? My God, Sanari would end this Shoal before sunrise." "Gwen. _Necromancy Node_ , six O'clock, between the cluster of Crab-men and that Siege Breaker." Petra's voice cut through the chaos of Gwen and Richard's dodging of unmentionable projectiles. "Not _inside_ the Kraken?" Gwen asked for confirmation as her eyes scanned the dark mass of oily, ichor-slick fish below. "They're not that stupid, are they?" "The Tower reports the signature as reading Juche cultists," Petra's voice kissed her ears. "And yes, not a Lich if they're not hiding inside the Siege Beasts. I am anticipating the rank and file, albeit senior ones." "Fuck—" Richard offered one last distraction as they dived downward. "They're bombarding the city now that they can't push past the Shielding Barriers. How Soviet of them." Gwen's eyes were now focused on the space between the tentacles' boiling mass and the hooded Necromancers' Cabal between them. The months spent in the Antarctic had given her an insight into the operation of Necromantic Mermen hordes few possessed, particularly the regimented arrangement of control nodes and troop assignments, which were, as Richard remarked, almost _Soviet_ in their consistency. "Ariel!" She gave the command, her hands rapidly forming the chained Glyphs for an upper-tier crowd-pleaser. " _Barbanginy_!" "EE-EE!" Twin bolts of emerald Chain Lightning, wicked as heavenly serpents, were joined by a third that emanated from herself, striking the pustule shielding of the Necromancer's Cabal with such force that everything around it, including the coiled Kraken tentacle, was obliterated into atomic ash. Inside the shaded shielding, Gwen saw the Necromancers reel and fall like rag dolls, protected from instant vapourisation but not from the shock of tanking a rebuke from the Rainbow Serpent itself. "Caliban!" "SHAA—SHAA—!" Caliban descended, manipulating its internal stores of immense vitality to transform into an Afaa Al-Halak with its rotating circular maw. " _Consume_!" In one gulp, it wholesale swallowed the un-living platform of flesh the Necromancers used to make themselves near-invulnerable to external assaults. "Richard! We're heading back!" She informed her cousin. “Lea! Casading Barrier!” Richard's invocation manifested near-instantly, though the magic took several seconds to materialise. From rents into the Elemental Plane of Water, a vertical waterfall, warped by his Undine, created a barrier a dozen meters thick and half-a-kilometre across between them and the shrieking Kraken below, catching its fire-hose jet of necrotic ink. The tail end of the waterfall struck the Kraken's upper carapace, sending it sliding back into the sea. Gwen took a second to recollect herself as Caliban wrenched itself from the Kraken's body, transforming into its Big-bird likeness as it took to the air, each delicate claw hand clutching a fistful of mangled squid. She quickly calculated the spatial distance between their present assault on the Shoal's siege troops and the safety of their air space, then willed a Dimension Door into place. Flawlessly punctual, Richard arrived just in time to catch a ride on her coattails, borrowing her enormous mass of internal mana to teleport back with his cousin and employer. Without their controllers, the Undead began to disperse, their wills subject to their basest desires. "Alright, that's three groups down." She circulated Essence and Mana while commanding Caliban to withhold its cargo for eventual expulsion into the Void. "Petra, what's our next target?" "Eight kilometres, North-East, just off the shipping yard," Petra confirmed her readings from the Divination crew within the PLA's Tower. "This one looks like a control node. No confirmation of a Lich, but the concentration of Necromantic mana is more significant. I'd hazard it's one of those converted Sea Witches." Gwen nodded, circulating Almudj's Essence to rid herself of the invasion of Negative Energy that always accompanied the abuse of her many talented Caliban. Beside her, Ariel arrived, purring but exhausted from the repeated use of its talent. "EE-ee…" Her creature nuzzled her sides. "I am fine," Gwen assured her Familiar, scratching the tuft of beard-fur under its lion-like jaws. She'd been feeding her creature rare Cores, but acquiring a true Dragon Core remained elusive. After all, it wasn't as if Ruxin could ask his Dad if any up-and-coming bastards were as pure-blooded as expendable. "Rest up; it's going to be a long night." Their eyes swept past the city below, once a glimmering tide of Human civilisation, now a glowering wasteland of volcanic ash, buried under the smokey fog of the Elemental siege. The lights in the city flickered, and the hot winds of war threatened from the north and east. Above the smoke haze, the Tower shone like a lighthouse beacon, keeping the tides of darkness at bay and the hounds of flame baying at its sheltered sanctum. "Whoa..." Gwen couldn't help but remark as the sky lit up. From a distance almost too far to see, from uncertain rents in the sky, a meteor rain of Elemental Magma, each ore the size of a house, descended. "That's a big rock," Richard remarked while sipping an Elf-brewed anti-Fatigue Potion, a peach-flavoured luxury afforded by Gwen's connection to Tryfan. "The folks in the Divination Tower will feel that." The magma blast struck the corner of a projected Wall of Force, splitting in twain as its smaller breakages broke over the Tower's invisible exterior barrier, cascading down the Tower's flanks into the port below. The group collectively felt their hearts shudder as warehouses burst into flames, ships sunk from the impromptu rock fall, and priceless heavy equipment began to smoke and combust. From its place in the shadow of the Tower, Tianjin's prized deep water dock was now a blazing bonfire growing larger with every minute. "Too risky to send in a fire crew." Richard's brows twitched. "Petra, ask the Tower. Perhaps I could…" Her cousin's sentence never finished, for he was now staring at an adjacent grid, where one of the port's Shielding Station nodes sat upon its cylindrical concrete foundations. Gwen followed her cousin's eyes. Richard's spectacles were alive with micro-Runes of the Dwarven kind, an upgrade he had cashed through friendship with the foremen in the Bunker. "What's wrong?" "I could swear that thing just winked on and off." Her cousin adjusted his glasses. "I hope it's not too—" The city winked out. The crew stared, their brains struggling to process the nature of the unnatural darkness, lit only by the fires of destruction, winding back the ancient city to the days of the Horse Lord's long siege. The tide beyond the city's limits churned with Undead. Above, a hazy moon loomed, barely visible from the frothing bay, full of the turbid ebb and flow of roaring surf and wailing war, clouded by the moaning groan of hungry mouths clambering for human flesh. The oppressive thrum was gone. "The Shielding Stations…" Gwen gulped. _CALAMITY!_ The voice of Golos echoed inside her head. _COME NOW! SOMETHING IS HAPPENING TO JUN! His body is flooded with Negative Energy! We're abandoning the Front and returning to the Tower!_ In the temple that was her body, her heart rate blew through the ceiling, filling her vision with debris. _DING—! DING!_ _DING—! DING!_ Scarlet Blossoms announced a new emergency. The darkness below lasted only a few seconds, perhaps a dozen; it was impossible to tell. The confusion, alarm, struggle and flight that must have flooded every nook and cranny of the city's glass and steel interior dispelled as backup generators kicked in, birthing hotspots of light in a vast and shadowy inland sea. Richard pinched his brows. "Jesus Christ… here we go again." While Gwen insensibly tried to make sense of Golo's warning and map out the best way to reach her uncle, Richard's answer arrived in the form of shrieking thrums from the Shielding Stations nearest to the shore, suddenly made to compensate for the lost resonance of the past ten seconds: a pause that gave their gathered foes the necessary space to invade the regions in-between. The whining grew louder and louder as more and more Undead Mermen flooded inland, breaking through the bay, headed at the fore by Krakens, brutish and colossal, using their bodies as battle barges to soak up the struggling resonance waves seeking to disrupt their Creature Cores. In time, they would reach the Shielding Stations, heralding the city's end. "Now we know it's _Spectre_ for sure." Her cousin's voice cut through the cascading cacophony, affirming Gwen's worst fears. "This is just like Sydney. Did they buy someone in the Tower? Maybe they've got a Walken problem too." Their gazes wandered to the Tower. _Would it fall?_ Gwen felt her stomach lurch. But the Tower remained its stoic sentinel self. It did not titter nor falter, nor did the blackout impact its shielding as it continued to withstand the heavenly assault from the Fire Elemental legions to the north. "Do we…" Richard's shock was brief. Cool as a refrigerated cucumber, he gestured to the roving mass of bodies moving into the city's outer Districts like the dark water of an invading tsunami. "Should we defend the Shielding Stations?" Gwen forced herself to remain in control of her faculties. She had promised her uncle Jun that she would save the city with him. And she had promised Ayxin that she would bring back Uncle Jun no matter the cost. And then there was Evee. Where was she now? Had she come to help, and was she in the city? There was no better physician for Jun than the Yinglong's Vessel. "Pats." Her mind moved once it attained its affirmations. "Find out where Elvia and her Knights are and bring her to Uncle Jun. I'll also join her." "Uncle Jun is in trouble?" Petra's eyes widened. "I don't know—" Gwen left the rest of her conversation to the Message device. The Tower was twelve kilometres away. With her current Elemental Affinity, she could manage over four hundred meters at the extreme of her Dimension Door. Her eyes scanned the invading Mermen Tide, led foremost by the colossal, death-rolling sea-beasts, polluting their advance with a carpet of tenebrous water that stank to high heaven. There was no chance the dockland's Militia would survive without her aid. Her uncle or Tianjin? The answer couldn't be more obvious. Elvia Lindholm, Knight Companion, felt her world fall into purgatory the instant Tianjin's lights winked out. Her vision, against all her hopes, was coming true. Darkness, that terrifying edifice of nature, unfurled its great canvas and smothered the city from the dockland to the centre, stopping at the Districts with their independent generators, a dim barricade girdled around a darkling shore. Very soon, nearer to dawn, there would be fire and flood. Was the future immutable? She wondered. Was she an instrument of its creation? Is the will of the creator beyond Human knowledge? She waited for the depleted lights of the city to return—for in her vision, Tianjin still hung by a thread. The militias would throw themselves against the Undead horde, attempting to evacuate as many men and women as possible. Above them, an ashen Kirin would battle Gwen's Thunder Dragon, raining death and desolation. Sir Kass and Reginald had reported that they could not find the boy within the Tower—though from what Elvia could see and recall, the Tower itself had remained unimpacted. In her vision, it was from its bays that Gwen would call upon the Shoggoth to cleanse the city—and consign its survivors to sweet oblivion. And after that, her friend's mental decline would begin. Elvia counted ten breaths. The lights winked on. "THERE! AT THE BASE PLATE!" Mathias steered her eyes with a drawn sword. "Something's emerging!" Indeed, the already-fractured baseplate that once housed the Tianjin Tower was shuddering and groaning. With a supreme effort, a ripening body emerged, a broad-tipped spear covered with rich runes she could not discern. In a single thrust, it pierced through the steel-plated earth to appear on the surface like an obscene jadeite oyster mushroom. _Essence_ —not the Essence of life, as characterised by the Yinglong and her Dragon children, but the Essence of one who usurps, that of Elemental Ash, poured forth as a fount of un-life. "What in the name of the Nazarene…" Mathias paused in his Messaging of their fellow Protectors. "Is this Percy Song's doing?" Elvia did not know, for her mind was focused on the energy flow within the Ley-lines powering the city. This jade artefact—whatever it was, was creating a new locus, diverting the ebb and flow of what had been the baseplate unto itself, harnessing the land's energy to feed its ravenous interior. In rapid succession, its Glyphs pulsed thrice. A fourth pulse rang out, invisible to the mortal eye, felt only by those trained to recognise ancient Necromancy. A circular halo of visible entropy spread from the jade lode's centre, consuming everything in its path, wilting trees and grass, and when it passed over the confused soldiers still milling about the exterior of the base, they too were turned into powdery, ashen husks. Life—vitality— _Essence_ —all of it then fed back into the jade lode. Elvia baulked at the familiarity of the sensation—for she had seen this in the past. Gwen's Kirin Amulet. Her friend's amulet had performed the same thing: only it had passively drawn inward the Essence of the creatures Gwen had slain. In the past, she had thought the process wonderous and magical—now she knew its true purpose. Even though she was over a dozen kilometres away, Elvia felt the tug-of-war on her Astral Soul initiated by the obscene artefact's hunger—after which her Draconic Essence boiled like heated mercury. Realisation dawned like a fresh morning at Bondi. _An EGG!_ An epiphany—Elvia knew what she had to do. Everything that had happened so far. Gwen's amulet. Percy's escape. All of her choices were not misguided after all. Thanks to her premature intervention, the egg was not yet hatched! Its cargo of Ashen Kirin remained in its ancient womb—and she, the Yinglong's Vessel, would snuff the infant before it could breathe the air of the living! "Mathias! With me! Recall the Senior Knight Protectors!" She kicked her flying gear into maximum output. "We're going to destroy that—" _DING—!_ A Message spell bloomed, its gold-laced scarlet hue indicating the highest possible priority, with no option for silence. " _Evee! Come to me!"_ The voice of Gwen resounded in her ear. "Something's _happened to Uncle Jun! The amulet is draining his vitality! I don't have the means to remove it, and I can't sustain Jun for long! I am sending you the coordinates! Come immediately!"_ Elvia froze in her tracks. _ACCURSED PROPHECY!_ Her mind roared, her thoughts no less turbulent than the molten gale from the rampaging Elemental Prince in the north. _The Egg!_ Or Jun? Which was her duty? What would require her sacrifice? Or would a momentary indecision spell the failure of both choices? If only she could tear herself in twain! "Lady Lindholm?" Mathias drifted to a stop just ahead. "What's is your will?" Elvia regarded her Knight. An idea… a dire, terrible idea came to her mind. "Mathias, we must save Captain Jun…" She pointed toward Gwen's Message, where the Tower shuddered against the pounding of catapulted Magma. Holding up both hands, she materialised her Ginseng Spirit. "Matt. Take Sen-sen. Sen-sen will be able to sustain Lord Jun." "What about you?" Mathias’ brows knitted. "What are you intending to do?" "I shall stifle the egg." Elvia gave him a stiff smile. "Tell Sir Reginal and Kass to meet me as soon as possible." "Impossible!" Mathias protested, his hands moving to prevent her from flying forward. "I cannot allow that." "Mathias." Elvia's faith-laced garb glowed as the Yinglong's Dragon Fear radiated from every pore of her skin, freezing her Knight in place. Gently, she placed Sen-sen in his arms, draping the tendrils around his shoulders. "Take Sen-sen and deliver it to Gwen. I shall not ask again." Mathias' Icon of the Shield-Sun of St Michael grew suddenly bright. A brief halo appeared overhead as the Dragon Fear was broken. "Elvia! You can't!" "I shall." Elvia felt infused by what could either be the Yinglong's approval or the will of a higher power. Her blue irises glowed golden as her Faith-fuelled Relic filled her conduits with Humanity's original magic. "And I will. Go now, Mathias; if Jun perishes because Sen-sen did not arrive in time, I shall never forgive you." Her Knight Protector gritted his teeth, but Elvia knew the man could only obey. "Sen!" her Ginseng affirmed her will, evidently understanding its sacred duty. Elvia did not doubt Sen-sen's awareness, for it was through the Ginseng that the Yinglong had found her. Sen-sen, across distance and time, could expend her life force for her patients, aided by the boundless vitality stored within Sen-sen's bearded body. "I can't fly back in time," Mathias gave a final protest. "And our rings are attuned to Pudong Tower." Unperturbed, Elvia handed her Knight the ring they had recovered from the girl Mei—Percy's original Contingency Ring for Tianjin Tower. Though it was made null for Percy, any other user with the right clearance and mana signature could still activate its dumb-fire magic circuitry. "See?" She smiled at her Knight. "The Nazarene instructs us in mysterious ways. Have Faith, Mathias. It's all we have." Mathias took the ring from her hands, then slipped the hoop over his armoured gauntlet. "Evee… Take care." A blink later, the Knight was gone in a streak of sublime light, gone to the belly of the Tower with Sen-sen, ready to administer aid to Gwen's uncle. Ahead below, the Kirin Egg's ashen-Essence slowly gathered, ready for another pulse of life-stealing, Essence drinking conflagration. Senechal Ashburn's gifted Relic glowed warmly in her hand. _How nice it is_ , Elvia thought as her body plummeted toward the pulsing egg of the unborn Kirin. _To finally know one's destiny._ Across his two decades of life, Percy Song had never felt so close to death than in the moment of his literal ascension. When he had activated the jade egg with the ancient Necromancy taught to him by Guo Song from the family's hidden manuals, the Vessel of the Kirin's will suddenly began to expand, activating a mechanism he had not anticipated nor understood. Even as ashen Essence spilt out from the jade lode, numbing his senses and turning his body insensible, he saw the ceiling rapidly approach as the platform that housed the egg ascended, tearing upward with no heed for the two thousand years of construction that had occurred since it was laid. A hastened _Stone Shape_ , interwoven with his Mage shielding, was thankfully activated by the Kirin Soul housed in his Astral Body, giving Percy enough time to regain his footing. Once the initial chaos ended, Percy found himself in darkness, suddenly alone and inexplicably afraid. Slowly, carefully, he orientated himself in his tomb. He had done it. He had done everything the Kirin Soul asked. The problem was… he wasn't sure if he had gained anything. His Astral Body remained as it was before. There was no spark, no emerald mote of Essence. No changes to speak of, nothing akin to what he had heard from Gwen in speaking of her experiments with Magister Wen. Nothing. But that was impossible. It was impossible because he felt the un-life radiate from the jade egg's root, leaving him untouched. If the Kirin was insensible and indiscriminate, why would he have lived? It took him a few minutes, but finally, his Stone Shape moved by sheer memory into what remained of the access tunnel. The interior was full of choking dust, but the ancient walkway had yet to collapse, much to his relief. Carefully melting the rubble as he flew, he navigated by the dim lilac glow of his Transmutation. Cloistered on all sides by claustrophobia, he felt a new paranoia. What if the Yinglong's slaves were to find his Kirin egg? What would the PLA think of the suddenly emerging egg? Should he claim it? Or should he claim innocence? To leave the egg unattended was like slicing off a layer of his flesh. He was its discoverer. He was its _saviour_ and was owed a debt of its gratitude. Wasn't that why the Old One had founded an accord with his sister? He, Percy Song, had freed this creature from near-eternal slumber! His progress hastened. He could crawl on all fours now in the walkway. This far, the exit would take him away from the epicentre, As his upward traverse took him past the concrete and rebar of the man-made structure, a voice of reason intruded into his clouded mind, asking important questions like, w _hat am I going to do now? Will the Yinglong relent in its influence on the PLA's upper members? Even if the Kirin egg hatches, what good would it do for me?_ _"_ Mighty Kirin," he spoke to the darkness ahead. "What will become of the Egg?" _And what will become of me?_ He thought intently. _Peace, young one._ The voice answered, as distant as it was wise. _Escape, and I will show you what must be done._ Percy, his heart no more glad nor full of surety, stumbled forward into the darkness, his eyes scanning for the sliver of light that signalled the tunnels' exit into the industrial district of the city's western quarter. It was a terrible and empty feeling, he thought. To suddenly not know the destination of one's destiny. But trudge on he must, and he followed the tunnel doggedly until he arrived at the slightly ajar stone slab that would take him into a catacomb, above which was the lonesome temple, the sole reminder of the city's vibrant past in an industrial wasteland of factory yards and warehouses. With some effort, he moved the stone slab, then crawled on all fours through the narrow, muddy gap stinking of mildew and mould until he caught the heavy stone panel he had originally removed to access the tunnels. "Enhanced Strength." Percy heaved, moving the enormous block of stone against the slippery moss until he could squeeze through. Outside, the air stank of ozone and sulphur, making every breath laborious and unpleasant. He reached for his mask. _DODGE!_ The command from the Kirin soul came as sudden as the magic it activated. Risking permanent damage to his body, Percy Dimension Doored just as an ear-splitting _SCHWIIIIING—_ roared past his head, narrowly missing him by an inch. He reappeared above the temple and dodged another zinging _SCHWIIIIING—_ that almost split him in twain, finally landing on the roof. The implement that attacked him continued to fly, striking the factory wall behind him with such force that the galvanised iron wall imploded as though crunched by a displeased giant. " _Fortification of Salt—! Diamond Chitin! Crystalline Barrier!_ " His best defensive spells manifested one after another, one by himself and the others by the Kirin soul. His body turned milk-white as empowered, compressed salt grew into place, one against his skin, another as armour, and the other as a disposable shell around him. "Who goes there!" He shouted to the night, noting the female figure hovering mid-air. More acutely, he noted the six-other slabs of pale jade rotating around her, waiting to be launched. "Lu— _Lulan Li?!_ " His eyes widened. "What the hell are you doing here?" The girl did not answer. But her blades answered in _song_. _SCHWIIIIING—!_ _SCHWIIIIING—! SCHWIIIIING—! SCHWIIIIING—!_ "Blink!" Percy knew he had to open the distance and find cover, for the girl's close combat was her first and foremost profession. Rapidly dodging the crashing sword slabs, he zig-zagged across the factory yard, using the heavy machinery as crumpling shields to prolong his life. _Kirin Spirit!_ His mind furiously searched for an answer to his new crisis. "Do something!" "Dimension Door!" His body winked out of existence, sparing an eye blink for the kissing slabs. A split-second slower, only minced meat would have reappeared on the roof. Unbidden, he raised a hand toward the horizon. The Negative Energy inside his body raged and boiled; the Elemental Salt coursed through every conduit—then burst forth from his palm to strike at the heavens. A _flare_ flew out. "What the _hell_ are you doing?" Percy retracted his hand, his Divination senses flashing in response to the girl's newly manifested blades. Behind the silhouette of her rust-armoured combat suit, they hovered like the heads of serpents, forming the visage of an eight-headed Naga. Above him, his released mana exploded, forming a strange firework in an irregular Rune-like pattern he had never seen. _Did the Kirin Soul call for the Kirin?_ Percy wondered, a sudden hope alive in his chest. _It better have... How else am I going to survive Gwen's mad dog?_ "Did Gwen send you?" He shouted at the woman. "Tell her to see me! Grandfather will never stand for it!" Lulan Li twirled her blades. They began to vibrant and thrum. Percy understood that the girl had merely taken his question time to reapply penetration magic on her swords. "I don't HAVE the Amulet!" Percy shouted at the woman. "Why are you doing this?" _BANG!_ _SCHWIIIIING—!_ The sound of a launching sword and its passage past him was almost one sound. Percy dodged—or thought he did, for the eruption of Salt around him meant the Kirin Spirit had used its supernatural senses to command his armoured shell to expend itself. His world briefly erupted in powder. His chest felt like it was on fire. His mana conduits felt clogged. All seven remaining blades twirled. "LULAN!" Percy howled, begged, putting up both hands. "STOP—I SURRENDER! " The swords launched, the explosion propelling them so loud as to fill Percy's head with white noise. For a brief moment, Percy's life flashed before his eyes like a montage carousel reel. He thought of the Kirin Egg, his future, and the life he should have had under the PLA. He thought of his grandparents, his doting Yeye and his forever gentle Babulya. He thought of Mei, whom he would never meet again… and Hai… and Gwen. He had wanted _more_ from life. A heartbeat later, his vision cleared. He was not dead. His head was not split nor severed, nor was his body turned to burger meat. Instead, his eyes focused on a woman. A woman in black, wearing what might be a funeral dress, but elaborate beyond compare, a hugging gown that conformed to her flawless figure, exposing only her frail white face, set against a full head of dark hair that fell like an obsidian waterfall. She was tall like Gwen, and her aura reminded him of his sister. Ahead of the woman, he saw the opening of a dozen slits. From these rents in space, tentacles tipped with lamprey maws held onto or had caught in their rubbery flesh, the projectiles launched by Lulan Li. As for his assailant, only a sudden burst of Mythril-hued Conjuration mana remained to mark her last location. The woman, his sudden saviour, slowly turned, her head half-cocked to inspect her prize. Percy gulped, then gasped. The woman's immaculate complexion was as fair as mutton jade. Her eyes were twin pools of baby blues, so blue that they made his heartache. What was most alluring, however, were her lips, ruby red they were—and full and sensual and wet with what he hoped wasn't fresh blood. "How interesting," the woman spoke to herself as their eyes met. "You're not one of us, and yet, how did you know about the Mythic cache? How did you know how to activate our hidden Ace? Besides, you're a bit young… and far too feeble to factor into our _Accord_ … so who, or indeed, _what_ are you?" The familiarity of the woman's face was arresting enough to prevent Percy from speaking. His mind stuttered and shook, shuddered and scraped his frontal lobe for recollection until he finally found the most undesirable answer in the world. _"S—SOBEL!"_ The syllables burst from his lips like a gutful of sickness. The woman smiled, revealing pearly teeth that made her lips shine like polished hematite. "So you _do_ know me." She took a step forward. "I would hope so, for you had used my personal Sigil. Yet, we've never met in any of the organisation's meetings, _have we?_ " Percy wanted to flee. Knowing the purposelessness of such an act, he remained frozen in place. Elizabeth Sobel, the butcher of Sydney, the killer of Gwen's Master, leaned in until she was close enough to kiss. "There is something about you, _child_ ," her eyes were two pools of bottomless water. "Why are you so familiar to me? Why is your scent so… _endearing?_ " Before he could answer, the horizon grew bright with unnatural light. A tremendous shard of light the size of a multi-storey building and roughly sword-shaped had manifested in the direction of the Kirin Egg and was now descending toward its unseen target below. "Hmm…" Elizabeth Sobel straightened herself. "That is most definitely not Zodiam." Percy's eyes followed the woman's hands as they drew a strange Glyph in the air. In the next few seconds, smaller lampreys of the Void variety slithered from the aether to arrest his unmoving, uncomplaining limbs. Percy whimpered. He had seen what Gwen had made hers do to her foes. "Ah, I wondered why her mana was so familiar. I think I know the girl— _unlike you_ —my strange little curio. No matter. Let's visit our cute little Faith User," she gave him a gentle smile before willing a dark portal into being. "Such _busy little bees,_ these priests and nuns of the Ordo Bath." S-SPATIAL TRAVERSE! Percy recognised the spell. A tier eight personal movement spell noted to be extremely dangerous. Unlike Teleportation, it tore the space between the Prime Material and stitched a wormhole through the Mage's Plane of Affinity. As the shockwaves of his discovery wore off, his trained mind informed him in a far more objective manner than he preferred that _Elizabeth Sobel_ was now abducting him. _Kirin Soul! Where are you?!_ His inner voice called into the void. There was no answer from the darkness. "Don't fret, and don't look so confused," the woman's laughter was like tinkling bells. "Come, my dear. If you've gone so far as to unbox the Mythic's Egg, the least I could do is see it through, for _all our sakes..."_

Tianjin. The Tower. Gwen Song, Regent of Shalkar and preeminent guest of the city's defenders, sat in the lotus pose behind her uncle, channelling her immense cargo of vitality into Jun Song's rapidly depleting Astral Body. She dared not use Almudj's Essence, for the serpent would not know of Jun nor her feelings for the great man and would perceive her uncle as a " _stranger_ " to be rebuked. "Uncle, please wake up..." She spoke to the back of Jun's broad back. Her temple throbbed, her frontal lobe blissfully unburdened by the carnage in the city below. Her only desire now was to see her uncle healed, for which she was willing to pay any price. "Gwen." Her Babulya's voice was calm and soothing. "Keep your flow of vital energies consistent." Only Klavduya had the clearance to join the private recuperation chamber provided by the Tower. There was foremostly the matter of skill—and then there was the issue of the Song's family secret, which the Tower chose to respect. As for her Yeye, the Patriarch had confidently declared that he trusted them to pull Jun through and would remain firm in his service to the "people" in this dire time. Her grandfather's trust was welcome, but unlike her professionally trained Babulya, she felt ten thousand Fire Ants eating away at her innards, simultaneously invading her lungs and arteries. That Jun's Mother could be so calm was a testament to the enormity of her grit, for Gwen wanted nothing less than to scream and shout for her Clerical companion to arrive at this precise instant. Her Babulya's fingers wove another pattern in the air, forming incantation after incantation, each aided by the complex tools the machine nurses had set up to infuse Jun with as many injectors as his alchemical limits could sustain. On her uncle's chest, the usually benign Kirin Amulet was the colour of pale bone, its semi-opaque surface pulsing with what appeared to be tiny veins. From what she could see, the amulet's jade flesh had fused into Jun's skin, nesting violently and bloodily into the space between his collarbones. "He's not getting better…" Gwen mumbled. "No, he is not," her grandmother muttered, a sickening utterance as profane as her uncle's comatose body when Golos had arrived in the Tower as a winged fury. "Its Necromantic drain is not aimed at his body." "What is it, then?" Gwen asked, feeling her vitality being pulled into the Kirin Amulet, something like a reversal of when she had used the Core to absorb the Essence of her newly slain foes. "It's attempting to replenish…" Her Babulya mopped the sweat from Jun's brow with her fingers, evaporating the perspiration as she maintained the vitality of her son's mana organs. "The Soul Well, I assume. For reasons we all know, the Songs never did investigate their heirloom on an academic level." "Gogo says that the jade protrusion outside might have something to do with it." Gwen maintained the vitality flow, not even considering that she might eventually exhaust herself. "I saw something similar in Burma that was used by Ruxin. It's a node anchor concerning the city's ley lines. It likely has something to do with that power failure we saw." _And if the Jade Pillar was similar to Ruxin's device, then was the Yinglong involved?_ Her mind steered close to an unlikely conspiracy. But the paranoia was improbable, for the Yinglong would never harm Ayxin's husband, at least according to her new aunt. _DING—!_ A Message bloomed. The door to the circular operating chamber opened. "SEN—!" The sound of the Ginseng's incoherent speech was sweet music to Gwen's ears. "Evee—!" She called out, fully expecting to see her saviour, her blonde-haired goddess, appear and make everything alright. "Companion Lindholm is preoccupied." The face that answered her was not that of sweet Evee but the grim visage of Sir Mathias Rothwell. The Knight clunked into the sterile chamber in full battle armour, both arms cupping the fibrous Ginseng saviour. "Matty?" Gwen peeked behind the man just in case. "Why are you here? Where's Evee?" "She's dealing with the _Kirin Egg._ " Mathias dropped a bomb with a word. "But she hopes to join you soon." Her body threatened to jump up and holler, "A WHAT?" However, her present duty was to her uncle. From Mathias' arm, Sen-sen climbed from the Knight's armour, skirted around her entirely, and then arrived in the lap of her Babulya. "Are you here to help, little one?" Her grandmother was no stranger to Elvia's Flora Sprites. "Sen—!" The Ginseng nestled itself, then distended its arms until its root network invaded and entwined around Jun's torso. "Sen—Sen—SEN—!" It waved at the Knight. "With that, I shall be on my way back to Companion Lindholm." Having delivered his cargo, the Knight Protector excused himself for the door. "Is Elvia in danger?" Gwen felt her chest tighten. "Not when I left," the Knight replied. "And hopefully not when I return." Gwen nodded. Right now, she had to see that her uncle was safe. At the edge of her vision, the Knight paused at the chamber's threshold. "Magister Song?" "Yes, Matty?" "Even now, Elvia is thinking of you," Mathias said. "Please do not forget that." For some reason, the man's reassurance only served to rekindle her paranoia. Should she go and see Elvia? Was her uncle alright now, with the help from Sen-sen? "Gwen," her babulya interrupted her dithering. "Extricate yourself. Go to your friend if you have to. Sen-sen and I shall take it from here." Gwen waited until she could feel the flow of vitality from the root vegetable before she withdrew her arms. Suddenly, a wave of dizziness struck, one dispelled a breath later by the recirculation of her Almudj's Essence. On the operating bed, Sen-sen's tendrils began to crackle with a faint blue tint, signalling the channelling of the Yinglong's Essence into Jun's body. Almost immediately, Jun's deathly-pale face took on a healthier hue. The Yinglong's Essence was counteracting the parasitic invasion of the Kirin Amulet. "Thank Sen-sen for that." Gwen relaxed a little. "Mathias?" She searched for the Knight. Evee's Knight Protector was gone. "Don't tell me he just left…" "Rushing to your friend, as his oath dictates." Her grandmother's words were wise as always. "Elvia is fine, at least right now. She is on the other end of Sen-sen's healing, vigorously channelling the Yinglong's Essence." "Righto." Gwen felt a warm wave of relief wash over her. Tilting her head, she leaned in closer to the Ginseng. " _Evee, can you hear me?_ Where are you now?" "Sen!" The Ginseng recoiled from the butcher of its limbs. "Stop intimidating Sen-sen," her Babulya shooed her away with her eyes. "It's said that its mistress is busy or something like it." Making an internal promise to never de-limb Sen-sen again, Gwen's gaze landed on the amulet still adhered to her uncle's chest. Though still lodged within Jun's flesh, the horrible veins had somewhat retracted. "Babulya, when and how will you remove that?" "Let Jun stabilise first." Her grandmother also appeared haler after seeing Jun's markedly improved health. "I can feel the Yinglong's mana forming a barrier around it, nullifying… whatever the Song's shamanistic sorcery had failed to dislodge." Her Babulya mopped more sweat from her son's forehead. "I should have asked Jun to remove it long ago. We could have given it to you after the wedding if we just upset your grandfather a little. I doubt this could have happened with your blessing from Almuldj." "But Percy..." Gwen's recollection landed upon the promise her uncle had made in Huangshan. "Of course, there also exists the probability Percy would be wearing both pieces," her Babulya told her an unfortunate truth. "I see… wait…P-Percy!" Gwen jumped at the name. "Is he alright? What's happening with his piece?" "He should be too far away to be affected by whatever is occurring here," her grandmother assured her. "I hope he's doing his job of looking after Ayxin. If something happened, we'd know about it by now." Now that her uncle's health was improving, Gwen tasted a very unpleasant bitterness in her mouth, a foulness she recognised as guilt. She had withdrawn from the heat of the battle to ensure her uncle was alright, leaving the Undead free reign to frolic within the city's inner Districts. How many men and women who had initially cheered for her were still alive? And if so, were they still fighting? When she withdrew, so had Golos, leaving no Flight nor Mage capable of pushing back the Brass Legion. _SHIEEEEEEK—_ The theatre's doors opened without warning. A man with an entourage stood at the entryway. From his regal attire and rank slip, she recognised the Magister to be Tianjin's Tower Master. "Magister Song. Regent." "Tower Master." All slightly bowed their heads. Gwen bowed slightly, her palms sweaty as the suspicion of an admonishment for leaving the PLA's men grew. "How's Captain Jun?" the man asked her grandmother. "Recovering, though not out of danger yet," her grandmother replied. "What's the matter, Secretary Wong?" "Percy Song is your grandchild and the Regent's brother, correct?" The Tower Master, his face as guilty-looking as her own, did not correspond to her expectations. "If so, I fear I bring dire news." "About…?" Gwen did not need her Divination Sigil to know that shit was about to hit the fan. "There was a thwarted attack on Lord Ayxin's pavilion. The details are unclear, but mother and child are unharmed, and the CCDI is investigating." "WHAT—?!" Gwen had to fight her Australian instincts from unleashing a string of vibrant expletives. "Then, is Percy alright?" "About that. My men just told me about receiving Magus Percy Song an hour ago. He had arrived in the infirmary with a sword wound, received healing, then disappeared." "The little shithead! He came here?" Her babulya's fingers paused, though the old woman quickly regained focus. "Gwen, speak with the Secretary outside." Nodding, Gwen and the Tower Master stepped out and shut the glass barrier. "You don't know where he's gone?" she continued her inquiry on her wayward brother. "Worry not. Percy was fully healed before he left." The Tower Master waited on her before speaking again. "Magister Song. Not to dismiss your worries, but please listen. I've spoken to Secretary-General Miao Yang-Bò, and we have decided that we need your help and discretion with the developing events in Tianjin." "The Shoggoth?" Gwen guessed the man's thoughts at once. The Tower Master lowered his head. "It is best to cut our losses where possible. We're willing to forgo the northern port, the greater inlet, and the surrounding Districts. The members of the Inner Party have already delivered their consent, as has Central." _How typical. Old men talk, and young men die,_ Gwen mouthed silently to herself as she studied the stooped figure of the Tower Master, a man who usually bowed to no one. However, neither the Shoggoth nor the city was her concern right now. If Uncle Jun's Kirin Amulet had gone cannibalistic, what did that portend for her brother? "Can you find Percy now?" She asked. "Perhaps." The Tower Master opened both hands to communicate his lack of knowledge. "Mao knows why he left his devices in the Tower. We've since recovered them… but your brother was gone." _FUCK!_ Gwen felt her brain swell against her skull. _What the fuck was Percy thinking? Playing hero?_ Did the boy want to outshine their Uncle Jun or what? "Then find him." Her tone grew less accommodating and kind. "Pardon my frustration, Tower Master, but you want me to land a Shoggoth in the city's limits without finding my brother, who might be among them? Do you think I am willing to do that?" The Tower's highest authority nodded as if expecting her answer. "In an ongoing conflict zone, Regent Song, the resources required from our Diviners to use Clairvoyance and manually search for one wayward boy would be extremely ill-advised." Gwen placed both lands on her stubborn hips. "…That said," The Tower Master continued without missing a beat." I have given the order, and the team is now searching potential hotspots for Percy Song's whereabouts." Gwen forced her resting bitch-face to relax. "I apologise." She bowed her head at the Tower Master. "Shall we retreat to the control room then? Magus Kuznetsova shall draw the Mandala while we wait. As for the summoning location, I shall require an independent platform with Force Shielding and about fifty-thousand HDMs of raw minerals as consumables. Petra will have the rest of the materials on hand. An official request must also be sent to The Shard in London, though I'll authorise it now." "How long would it take to establish the Mandala?" The Mage followed up with an important question. "As long as it takes." Gwen's tone grew cold once more at the Tower Master's impatience. "To find my brother and retrieve him." Tianjin. The Base Plate. Elvia Lindholm, Knight Companion, Vessel to the Yinglong, was happy in the existential certainty that this was the junction in which her destinies entwined. In her right hand, her imbued Relic of the Ordo Bath, nourished by the Faith of a billion believers over a century, rapidly unravelled its psychic energy, bringing down a golden claymore of St George upon its sinful objective. In her left hand, with the throbbing of her vital energies pounding in tune with her palpitating heart, her store of Positive Energy fled into the aether, fuelling the healing prowess of her Ginseng Spirit. _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ The jackhammer claymore rose and fell again, driving itself into the risen monolith that was the Kirin's Egg. With each strike, she felt acutely the scattering of its collated energies, like dust falling from a tin roof assailed by hammering hailstones. On the surface of the egg, cracks and fissures as fine as spider webs could be seen with the naked eye, their interiors glowing golden with the invasive power of Faith, transforming the smooth, crystalline exterior into the likeness of a Kintsugi artefact. _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ Her complexion waned. The exhaustion of delivering destruction and repair was not something she had considered, for her flesh desired rebellion and her Astral Soul threatening wholeheartedly to sunder itself should the stress remain unabated. But none of that mattered to Elvia. Not the agony of her conduits nor the threat of losing her magical abilities. Right now, Jun Song was being saved. In a dozen minutes, the Kirin Egg would be sundered. To ask for more would be an arrogance worthy of a cardinal sin. "Companion Lindholm!" The voice accosting her arrived in the wake of two silvery meteors, each landing a fair distance apart to not disturb her multi-casting. Without delay, Sir Kass and Reginald took up defensive positions, invoking the Faith-fuelled protection of their armour to shield herself and her body from evil. "The Nazarene saves." Elvia gave them each her warmest smile as the men took their places, their Abjuration magic filling her unprotected body with confidence. "Thank you for arriving so soon." "When Mathias said he had to leave you," Sir Kass confessed behind his ceremonial Crusader's Visor. "I had feared the worst." "I was certain we would find you being assailed or worse by that snivelling Necromancer." Sir Reginald grinned before affirming their defences with a Greater Bless, turning them into golden beacons. "How long til the Kirin Egg is cooked?" _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ Sir Kass made a happy whistle as the ring of dust rang out. "The shell should fall within the quarter hour." Elvia read the damage of her spell to her party. "Assuming that's the end of it." "Whatever may come, we shall endure." Sir Reginald's voice sounded like ringing steel as he tapped into the Sigil by his right pauldron. "By his rod and staff, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we shall fear no evil— _Greater Heroism!_ " The upper-tier blessing rang out, its impact upon their bodies pealing like a church bell, removing the weakness of human doubt from the blessed few. Elvia felt bathed in holy water, her mind focusing easier now that her Knight Protectors had given their word. In truth, not even she had expected that aid would arrive before her circumstances turned dire. As Sir Reginald had joked, events usually took a turn for the worse at the worst possible time. If she were with Gwen, an Undead Abomination might fall out of the sky to ratchet upward the narrative tension of the moment. Now, even if the PLA were to accost her over Percy or Mei, she had someone who could spare the time and effort to explain. Likewise, if an agent of Spectre or an Elemental should find them, Sir Reginald and Kass should be able to fend them off for some time. _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ Her surroundings flared as forge fire sparks cascaded, casting shadows in every direction. "WHO GOES THERE—?" Sir Kass levelled his Spellblade, instantly illuminating the southern corner of their perimeter, revealing the silhouette of a young man. "Good Lord!" Sir Reginald's voice rose by several decibels, though his stance did not move a millimetre. "Percy Song! What sick miracle is this?" Elvia as well had to redouble her mind's focus. Why would Percy Song return to them of his own free will? Did Gwen's brother have a suicide wish? From what she knew of the boy's abilities, he could barely take on Mathias, much less a Senior Knight Protector like Reginald or Kass. "Hold your position," Kass spoke through his visor slit. "This has to be a trick." Elvia raised her right hand. The golden claymore lifted into the air. _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ "That's my egg!" The figure of Percy Song shouted at them, both arms raised in protest. Though soiled by mud and debris from hair to ankle, the boy seemed unscathed by Mathias' strike. "How dare you try to destroy what's mine!" "What a proud admission of guilt." Sir Kass's voice grew low and dangerous. "We'll wield that against you, boy. When we return your corpse to your disappointed family." "So the little Judas _is_ responsible for the city's fall." Sir Reginald's aura grew suddenly sharp. "Can you even fathom how many innocents died? Kass, cover me." Sir Kass' faith shield doubly enveloped all three of them as Sir Reginald's Flame of Wrath manifested, ready to deliver heaven's disdain. In the sacred texts, it is said that aeons ago, such a sword had punished the Israelites for King David's trespass of God's will. "May the Nazarene have mercy on your soul, _boy_!" The Knight swung his sword. Without the need for Elemental Spellcraft, tapping into no rents in the Axis Mundi, a flamberge almost six meters long and half a meter from edge to edge fell upon the figure of Percy Song. Where the blade landed, pure destruction followed, stronger than any mortal flame from the Element Plane of Fire. The earth shattered, the air thrummed with golden mana, and the shockwave made it seem like the sword had split the base plate's eastern edge. Elvia's heart constricted as the dust rolled out. Even Gwen would be seriously hurt if she took on such a strike without adequate preparations. For someone of Percy's level, he might as well be an NoM. If so, had Sir Reginald done it? Was her quest so easily resolved? The occurrence was too surreal, too convenient. "Kass!" Reginald's voice could barely be heard as the next _CRACK—BOOM—_ resounded, sending dust in every direction. "The kid's not alone! He—" Her Knight Protector's voice cut off in the next second, together with the Aura of Protection he had laid over them and vice versa. The attack was visible only at the edge of her vision. There, Elvia saw a blade only visible because it drank in all light, space and distance. With only a little effort, it had penetrated the Faith-fuelled aura of the Knight Protector, catching the man by surprise as it passed through his body. The mana boom that followed was a golden explosion from Reginald's Relic, now inexplicably untethered from his Astral Soul. _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ Her spell resounded. There was no fantastic spurt of arterial blood, for before Sir Reginald even fell, the ground beneath him opened up, revealing a lamprey fiend with a circular maw of teeth, swallowing the Knight wholesale. _GWEN?!_ Elvia's heart neared a potential arrest. _Had her friend come to defend her brother? Had Gwen finally discovered her lies and deceptions?_ A female figure slipped into view from behind the newly excavated trench dug by Sir Reginald, her sylphlike, sashaying figure emerging from the uprooted, skeletal trees like a snake slithering from the foliage of a gothic Eden. A porcelain complexion. Lips as carmine as oiled rubies. And an alluring mien that may have graced the temptress of Babylon herself. " _Elizabeth Sobel!_ " The Knight Companion's voice, mousy and meek it might be, was enough to pierce the thundering clamour of her claymore of light. The horror she felt almost managed to mangle the interplay of vitality and destruction flowing from her Mana conduits. _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ Elvia felt all the hope she had accumulated disintegrate. Somewhere behind the woman, a boy coughed, trying to expel the glowing Faith particles from his lungs. Percy Song! _Alive and well!_ Elizabeth Sobel, _in the flesh!_ And Sir Reginal, slaughtered like a mewling lamb, with not even a spec of blood to salt the soil. "Foul Void Witch!" Sir Kass stood between her and Sobel; his blade levelled at the woman's throat. Upon his breastplate, the Sigil of St Michael glowed resplendently. "You shall not best me so easily, woman!" Sobel ignored the Knight. "I remember you," the woman in black lace purred, her likeness so similar to Gwen that Elvia felt an optic whiplash whenever she tried to focus her mind. "You're the Healer from Sydney, the one who was with Henry's kitten, yes?" Elvia had no answers, for she was struggling to maintain her focus. Then, to their surprise, Sobel sauntered a little apart until she stood behind the slightly singed Salt Mage still facing Sir Kass. Slowly, with an eroticism that made her thoughts strange, Sobel wrapped a pale white hand around the neck of the immobile Percy until her fingers cupped his chin like an adoring owner holding the face of a disobedient pup. "Naughty, naughty…" Sobel chided the teen statue. "You never told me you were Percy Song… brother to our Henry's little pussy cat." Elvia felt her skin come alive as though invaded by Void worms. From the looks of it, Percy was as much a prisoner of Sobel's presence as they were. If so, did that mean they were not allies? Or at least they were not on the same side? If so, was Percy truly responsible for the Shielding Generators? Was all this a convergence of strange destinies… or was there a greater conspiracy afoot? And if there was a conspiracy, why isn't Sobel stopping her shattering of the Kirin Egg? Why isn't Sobel killing her outright to stop Jun's healing? What was known and what wasn't? What was planned, and what was a coincidence? Unfortunately, Sobel's chiding of Percy lasted only a second. Ruffling the boy's hair, she planted a hand on her hip, then gestured toward them. "The Knight can leave. The Cleric stays." The strange instruction crawled up Elvia's spine like a leech. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ The aura of Faith around Sir Kass flared, an aspect of the magic of Faith that made one's spell-casting a glorious affirmation of one's beliefs. Unfortunately, another aspect of large-scale Faith magic was the need to recite the litanies, even if performed in silence. In response, their midnight-clad assailant drew a few inconsequential marks in the air, each tearing apart the time-space of the Prime Material. From rents that looked like blackened wounds of the world itself, monstrous Void Fiends, each more strange and grotesque than the last but all armed with gibbering mouths hungry for vitality, shot forth toward Sir Kass. "IRON MAIDEN!" Kass' spell manifested just in time, turning his Faith shield outward in a sudden display of uncharacteristic aggression. A hundred shards of Faith-fuelled light shotgunned the approaching horde, skewering the first dozen on pale spikes of holy flame. "SHAA—SHAA—!" The strange Caliban things tore themselves from the spikes, not healing but unheeding what should be fatal wounds. "Shield of Faith!" Sir Kass stood his ground, overwhelmed but refusing to backstep. Shielded by the Knight's aura, Elvia's hair whipped around her face. Again, an indistinct crescent passed the corner of her eye. "SIR KASS!" She called out, damning her inability to help. "THE SWORD!" Kass caught the soundless sword with his Spellblade, resulting in a blue-white spellfire erupting across his left flank. The Knight immediately swung left, catching another unseen Void sliver that Elvia could not see. After that, however, the Knight's skill could only carry him so far. The Void Fiends dogpiled him, immobilising the Knight as their weight shifted the Shield of Faith. Kass fell to his knees as he dodged and parried another blow from what Elvia now recognised as the infamous Morden's Blades. _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ "SIR KASS! USE YOUR CONTINGENCY RING!" Elvia pleaded, knowing Kass was sworn to defend her to his last breath. The Knight unleashed a final burst of Faith Magic, setting a dozen Void Fiends alight. In the aftermath, their eyes met for a final time, his apologetic, hers full of desperation. Then the monsters piled on like boys scrummaging for a football, transforming the space around him into a living pool of twisting sinews and snapping mouths. The crescent blades returned, penetrating first the creatures keeping Kass in place, then the man within. A few seconds later, the light of Kass Faith Magic could no longer be seen, leaving only a sterile space of churning Void matter. "Oh God…" Elvia did not want to cry but lacked the training of Yue or the grit possessed by Gwen. These Senior Knight Proctors were Seneschal Ashburn's men, followers of the Faith that had served the headmaster since their days as Squires. Now, in this foreign place, by the hand of some cruel woman, they had met their inglorious ends, their lives lost for no purpose. “Oh God, O God, O God…” Her sole remaining hope was that Mathias would not arrive, that even the full exhaustion of his Flight would not give her Knight a chance to play protector. As for Gwen—the possibility of inviting her friend to rescue her from Sobel did not exist in Elvia's mind. Sobel laughed, a long and callous burst of sadism that made Elvia sick to her very being. " _God?_ There's someone up there, my dear. There are many of them, in fact, whole pantheons in the Planes between Planes, and yours isn't one of them." _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ Great chunks of jadeite fell from the Kirin Egg. In her Astral Soul, Elvia could feel the burden of Negative Energy finally falling from Jun Song's body. So close. She was so close. The laughter stopped. "Percy," Sobel suddenly called upon the young man standing stoic as a granite sentinel, one awed by the display of her unrivalled power. "I have a sudden fancy." Both Elvia and Percy could not help but regard the smiling Void Witch. "This girl tried to get you killed." Sobel gestured to the enormous rent in the ground made by Sir Reginald's attack. "I think it's only right that you have your revenge, don't you think?" Elvia's gaze shifted to Gwen's brother. The young man was staring straight at her, his eyes as unhinged as any asylum in-patient she had aided in the past. Was it fear? Elvia wondered, suddenly sympathetic. Or did he realise no blessing was at the end of his desolate pilgrimage for power? _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ Another chunk of the Kirin Egg fell. Percy's eyes grew suddenly focused, his body alive with vindictive malice. Raising both hands, the young man stepped into the air— then reappeared behind her. Every hair on Elvia's neck rose in protest. " _Did your Yinglong foresee this?"_ Percy's voice was like jagged salt crystals. " _Did my sister?"_ Skeletal digits, cold, clammy, and alive with Necrotic Energy, wrapped around her slender white neck, strangling her. "Don't you dare talk about your sister!" She managed to choke out even as her channels faltered. From the folds of her Cleric garb, her final defence revealed itself, erupting into a mass of tendrils to strike at the Salt Mage. Poisoned vines, tipped with needle-sharp spines that would deliver paralytic and fatal poisons, slid between their legs to incapacitate the Mage. At the same time, Elvia willed a final surge from both her spells, sending every mote of Faith into the Claymore of Light, simultaneously commanding Sen-sen to expend its all. _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ Her world grew dim. Elvia's limbs grew senseless even as Kiki connected with her target, overwhelmed by the voracious hunger of the Drain Life flooding her mana conduits. Near-instantly, her Flora Sprite wilted, meeting a natural enemy in the Salt Mage, doomed by its mistress' inability to pump it full of revitalising, counter-active Positive Energy. "Who will save you now?" Percy's voice was joined by bursts of delight from Sobel's obscure figure. "Where's your Dragon now? Vessel? Where is Gwen? Does _Gwen save_ , even now?" Innumerable tendrils of Negative Energy invaded the base of her skull. Feebly, Kiki stabbed at the young man's salt-encrusted exoskeleton armour. "Gwen…" Elvia felt no regret, only acceptance. She had seen this before in a vision, though the city had yet to fall this time, and there was no Dark Sun or Kirin to menace her surviving friends. She had done enough. Perhaps her Contingency Ring would catch her, and she would wake up in her Rectress' infirmary, ready to tell her tale. But hadn't she chosen this path? She was so tired… and having done all she could, didn't she deserve a _long_ rest? Tianjin Tower. The Control Room. "Sir," the weary voice of the Tower's Chief Diviner floated through the command comms. "We found Percy Song." "Good work." Besides Gwen, the irate Tower Master breathed a sigh of relief. "Engage the city-wide Clairvoyance. Let's show Regent Song that her brother is safe so we can salvage what's left of the city." "… Umm…" Tianjin's Chief Diviner's voice shook like the Tower's exterior shielding every time the magma struck. "I don't think…" Gwen's breathing grew slightly more audible. "Is Percy Song alive?" Tower Master Wong met her gaze with feigned calmness. "He is, Sir." "Then bring him up on the Lumen-Screen! Magister Hu!" To Gwen's displeasure, it took another agonising three seconds for the immense display unit to open the channel to the Divination Magister's Tower-empowered Clairvoyance. When the slightly blurry vision finally appeared, it was akin to the top-down view of an entry-level drone. Gwen stares at the lumen projection. Tower Master Wong stared as well, his mouth half-open with growing shock. The whole Control Room stared, their tasks suddenly forgotten. "Fuck." Richard swore beside her. Gwen knew what her eyes saw. But still, her brain struggled to process the mess of information being injected like hot lead into her ocular nerves. The foremost notable figure in the image was the unmistakable mana signature of her dear Elvia, glowing as a golden bonfire, one hand outstretched to empower some giant claymore of light. The figure at the centre of the vision, which would be almost dismissible were they not looking for him, was her brother. Around the two of them were innumerable Void Fiends, their presence so familiar to Gwen that she had to double-check the whereabouts of Caliban, now digesting its feast of Necromancers. And when she followed the direction of their lamprey bodies' vector lines, her eyes arrived at a presence she would recognise anywhere. Sobel. Elizabeth. _Fucking_. Sobel. "What in Mao's name…" The Tower Master muttered. "… Are those monsters yours? Regent Song?" "No." Gwen felt her mouth move. "That's _Elizabeth Sobel_." Then, her voice choked. "And that's my brother… and my Evee." Tower Master Wong touched a hand to his forehead. "Magister Hu, is this…?" "It is a live broadcast, Sir," the echo in the room returned with the worst possible news. "And… they're at the Base Plate, fourteen kilometres away…" "That's not good," Wong remarked in her direction, reading her mind before the intrusive thoughts could even arrive. "We… can't teleport the Tower, Regent. If we move, the battle group below us and Tianjin's inner Districts will be overwhelmed." Gwen was still processing the Tower Master's future-proof refusal when the figures in the Lumen-caster began to move. Sobel gestured. Percy moved forward. Then, before she could even react, her brother was behind Elvia. "Fuck'n oath." Richard banged the projector panel. "Jesus. Fuck." "Sir!" The voice of the panicking Magister Hu echoed in the control room. "I don't think we should keep watching. That's the Yinglong's Vessel and Secretary's Song's…" "T-take me to them," Gwen muttered before her faculties caught up. "Master Wong. I need to be there, NOW." The Tower Master's jaws clenched as his eyes grew cold. "Regent Song. I have been very accommodating thus far. However, we had a deal." "A… deal?" Gwen felt her hands reaching out to strangle the man before restraining herself. "I promised to find your Brother," the Tower Master said. "And you shall lease us the Shoggoth. Now, your brother is found. To deliver you to this… Elizabeth Sobel would not give me the Shoggoth the city needs." "I'll do it!" Gwen almost barked the words. "But FIRST, MY BROTHER! AND MY EVEE!" Beside her, Richard reached her side and took her by the arms. "Gwen, _deep_ breaths. Petra, come to the Control Room. We have a situation." "TOWER MASTER WONG!" Gwen's voice rang out, her Clarion Call activating on instinct. "THIS ISN'T A TIME FOR GAMES!" "A dead War Mage," Wong did not appear moved by the loudness of her demand. "Does not summon the Shoggoth we need. A dead Song without Dragon blood is better than losing a Regent of the Mageocracy." "That's my brother down there!" Gwen felt as though she was stuck on a one-loop track. "That's my Elvia!" "And who might save them?" Tower Master Wong remained infuriatingly professional, even stepping away to give her space. "Regent Song. I know they're your family, but who doesn't have family or loved ones here? My responsibility is not to you or your feelings. I am responsible for the citizens of his city—and for that reason, I must ask that you act professionally as befitting a Regent of your station. We need the Liberator of Shenyang, Gwen Song. If you are not that person, Lord Regent of the Mageocracy, please leave Tianjin to fend for itself." For several heartbeats, Gwen considered falling to all fours and begging the man with every promise she could muster. Her body, however, refused to bend the knee. Above them, the lumen screens suddenly flared. "TOWER MASTER!" The voice of the Diviner tolled across the open war room. "There's another mana signature! It's…" The Eye of Clairvoyance forcibly drew into focus, revealing a Base Plate no longer juxtaposed by a contest of light and dark but a newly sprouted sea of scarlet flames. But Gwen could not hear the complaints the Magister Diviner provided or the Tower Master's frustration. In one Dimension Door, she was already on the flight deck. In another, she was northward of the Tower, her Omni Orb pointing the way. The Lightning mana in her conduits boiled and burned. Her Flight Magic was Maximised and Empowered even as she readied herself for the exhaustion of a dozen consecutive Dimension Doors. Fuck the Tower. Fuck their Shoggoth. She would get her Evee and her brother back, for a world without them isn't worth having. _CRACK—BOOOM—!_ Elvia felt lifted from the floor, tugged by her neck and tossed through the air until she landed roughly on the ash-strewn ground, separating from Gwen's groaning brother. Her first concern was her link to Sen-sen, which was still maintained. Her second was for her Claymore of Light, which had unfortunately ended before its task was done. Earlier, inexplicably, her world had erupted into scarlet fire. Her first thought was of Yue, but her friend had not inherited the carmine flame of her mentor but rather possessed the black flames of an Ashen Nightmare. As such, who was it then that had disrupted Percy's attack? With the heat raging around her, she did her best to take in her new bearings. She was not burnt, meaning whoever launched the attack had excellent control. Percy, however, had been scalded thoroughly. After being tossed like a stir-fried cabbage, the Salt Mage landed with his suit charred and his hair singed, and what looked like third-degree burns on patches of his body. Nonetheless, the treacherous child was conscious, even if concussed and winded. What had launched them from the blast's epicentre was neither Sobel nor Faith Magic—but an invisible, supernatural heat that had consumed all the Void Beasts surrounding them. Again, the dark slivers of Sobel's blades flickered at the edge of her vision. _SPAK—!_ The echoing clang of a similar implement twice the size but just as agile and wreathed in scarlet flames parried both blades, sending them astray. _SPAK—! SPAK—! SPAK—!_ A dozen exchanges took place faster than Elvia's eyes could register. Elvia hoped to the high heavens that neither Mathias nor Lulan was her defender, for both would only sow the seeds of their demise. She heard a pained grunt, and then Elvia saw her saviour, a young man with dark red hair dressed in archaic Mage robes that looked a century out of date. _SPAK—! SPAK—!_ Another flurry of immovable objects meeting an unstoppable force occurred, the speed almost simultaneous in the perception of Elvia's mana-deprived mind. Try as she might, she could not lift her legs nor move her body beyond the meagre movement of lifting herself from the floor by her elbows. There remained a mass of Negative Energy in her body, and without healing from an external source, her life was still in danger. "And just _who is this?_ " Sobel's voice was not happy. As she spoke, more rents into the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void poured forth a new army of her eyeless minions. "Ah. I see you, Dragon-kin of the Ancient Reds. Why are you here?" Operating only on whispery fumes of Essence, vitality and mana, Elvia felt a wave of vertigo overwhelming her body, making her so dizzy as to near-empty the contents of her stomach. It was Dragon Fear, and in her current condition, all she could was try not to retch. "Me?" Came an enraged response that sounded more like the localised eruption from a small volcano. "You don't recognise me? Well, I know you, Void Witch! You're the cradle robber that took me from my nest!" Slylth McAllister Morden, the true scion of Sythinthimryr, the Red Queen of Carrauntoohil, was screaming internally. _Vobit! Vobit! Vobit!_ The train of his inner thoughts tooted in tune to the parrying of Elizabeth Sobel's blades. His spell, taught to him by the originator of Spellcraft, was far more efficient than the crude variant wielded by his foe. However, from the increasingly assertive ripostes from the twin blades wielded by the Void Witch, his loss was a matter of time. _Why had I intervened?_ Slylth groaned internally. _Wasn't I an audience member, not a cast?_ He had never planned to come to Tianjin. Having taken a friendly tour through the ISTC network to Seoul, he had initially intended to fly to Shanghai and announce himself at the border. There, he would crash the wedding, something he had always wanted to experience since hearing stories about the Yinglong's scion. And he was confident that the Yinglong, his Mother's _junior,_ would not refuse entry to a visiting nephew. And then, somewhere over the Yellow Sea, Slylth became distracted, as a young Dragon ought to be, by the Essence flow of a Great Shoal of Mermen on route to Tianjin. Even more interesting was that they were following a Great Shoal of Undead Mermen from a distance—while also harassing and fighting the foul tide. With a burning curiosity, he had flown closer to inspect the Shoal, whereupon he had found that they were worshipping an idol in the likeness of the female he had hoped to meet! Was this fate? Slylth, as a Red Dragon unfamiliar with Divination, did not usually believe in predestination. However, meeting the female's worshippers en route in an ocean so vast that even a Great Shoal was but a speck-upon-a-speck could only be fate. And so he followed the Shoal, at the end of which Slylth was given front-row seats to the assault of a Human city unaffiliated with the Mageocracy, meaning he could fully enjoy the spectacle without twitching a spell finger. And sure enough, as fate would have it, he soon saw the female that had eluded him for half a year. Having reached the end of his journey, Slylth now seriously pondered how he should introduce himself. Was he to make an impression? Perhaps a happy surprise? Sure, the girl was busy with an Undead invasion into a city. To show up while she was knee-deep in the Undead and say, "Hello, I got a spell for you," wasn't likely to win any favours. Just as well, if he simply intruded into the range of the Human Tower, wouldn't they consider him a threat? Though the Chinese Tower looked pitiful compared to the ancient construct that was his home, the shielding could still make him dizzy and disorientated, both terrible for meeting a haughty female. He, therefore, observed the battle for a while, noting that the female was as strong as the rumours. As a living Void Sorceress, she was, as the lumen-vids had prescribed, a premier War Mage with unparalleled capacity for carnage and destruction. Worse still, she did not appear to need his help at all with the Necromancer Cabals, a feat that would have given him pause. By Mother's beard! How strong was this woman? To Slylth, the answer to such a question was very important for a young Dragon on the prowl, even if the answers were grim. Still, the human calamity below was a splendid diversion from his boring aeons of learning Spellcraft. Despite being a Human, his mentor possessed only disdain and apathy for his kindred. Now, Slylth could see why. Witnessing the Humans flee for their lives, the Golems crushing the Undead to be destroyed in turn, and seeing the final bouts between survivors and invaders were all very interesting. With curiosity, therefore, Slylth's innate True Seeing eyes had wandered across the battlefront until it landed at a strange fount of highly repressive Essence. From the racial memory of his kindred, he recognised it as belonging to that of a far-removed cousin race, the Kirin Tribes of aeons ago—the losers of a long-ranging territorial conflict. Which, according to what he was seeing, was playing out even now. Tapped into a ley-node was a dormant Kirin Essence, long sealed inside a stasis vessel used for hibernation in epochs when the Axis Mundi grew too hostile and unstable even for Dragons. On the other end, inexplicably confusing, was a Vessel of the Yinglong, easily recognisable with its lightning-charged Essence, trying to break the stasis receptacle with Human Faith Magic. For what reason the Vessel would attempt to quash the sleeping Essence of the Kirin Tribe was completely unknown to Slylth. Still, the female performed a steady job breaching its defences, disrupting the healing slumber of whatever had sealed itself within. After a few more strikes from the golden claymore, Slylth realised he recognised the likeness of the small female with the haloed hair. The fact pleased him, for it meant the target of his travels would not be far and should soon join them. Next, two Knights of the Ordo Bath joined the girl. For an academic like Slylth, the development was far more interesting than the dying humans in their hundreds of thousands, for this was the type of Dragon-business that his Mother had spoken about, the type that used to rage all over Terra in the olden days when their kind toyed with the sorcery of Faith. To a young sovereign like himself, the lively diorama below was better than a first-time visit to the British Museum with its collated loot of the civilised world. Slylth was counting down the forty-odd strikes required to grind down the jade carapace of the egg when a portal opened a little distance from the trio. From a Quasi-Elemental Plane that made even Slylth shiver, out stepped a regal-figured female and a stooped young man. His draconic eyes focused upon their faces. Then, with genuine violence, twin jets of blue flame shot from Slylth's human-form nostrils, destroying his styled facial hair. He recognised them both! The chid-man was known to him from the dossiers given by London Imperial, being the brother of the female he desired to confront. As for the woman—Slylth's Mother had been adamant that this Human was the singular culprit responsible for his adventure in the mortal world. Without question, the woman was Elizabeth "Morden" Sobel—once partner to his mentor's heir. From Master Morden's retirement to the death of his descendent at her hand, this Sobel was involved in it all! Still, Slylth had not anticipated that his abductor would waltz in front of his face. What a fruitful journey his adventure had become! Surely, if he could subdue her and bring her back to Carrauntoohil, Mother would be infinitely pleased. Lowing his altitude, Slylth considered all the spells at his disposal. Should he shroud the area with a skin-searing Sirocco? Perhaps subject Sobel to a haphazard Forced Teleport? Or maybe, he could smite them all with a Mass Petrify and bring them back as trophies? While Slylth measured his options, the theatre continued, with each player entering the clearing to speak their lines. The Dragon was considering whether a Sonic Lure would be enough to eavesdrop when suddenly, the unimaginable happened. Out of nowhere, the Ordo Knights attacked Gwen Song's brother! _Mother's beard!_ Slylth felt his Dragon Heart jump start. What a turn of treachery! Should he help? Should he— _Mother above!_ Sobel just slew a Knight and is now conjuring Void creatures! Why isn't the Cleric retaliating? What are they talking about now? And— _Blessed Mother! The brother is performing a profane rite on the Yinglong's Vessel!_ In hindsight, Slylth McAllister Morden confessed that he had moved without understanding the consequences. He wasn't sure who to save, so his thought had been to prevent the death of both by repelling Sobel. Following his will, the mana in his magically endowed heart had rushed out to fill his conduits, tearing open the Elemental Plane of Fire so he could slip through its gap and reappear below. On exit, the Sirocco he had been entertaining erupted from his robed body, moulding itself around the girl but tearing the boy away to be tossed like a rag into the bushes. Without delay, he also conjured the most potent human magic in his arsenal, the new and improved Morden's Magnificent Blade as taught from the horse's mouth. _SPAK—!_ As luck would have it, his blade had manifested just in time parry a series of rapid blows from two inferior manifestations of the spell he had hoped would subdue the Void Witch. Now he knew why Mother had told him to " _hold your horses in a row._ " _SPAK—! SPAK—!_ It was extremely discerning for Slylth that Sobel's face remained amused and keen. Through the pressure placed upon his single blade, he could feel the ravenous Void mana eating away at the white-hot Elemental Fire imbued upon his implement. Sobel's mental prowess, signified by the velocity and rigidity of her blades and the fact that there were two of them, was also leagues above his mere two centuries of incubation. _SPAK—! SPAK—! SPAK—!_ Sparks and spellfire flew in every direction. If Sobel were to take her intervention seriously, Slylth was positive that he would soon become fertiliser for her Void Beasts. _SPAK—! SPAK—!_ If so, there was only one solution available to Slylth. "Hold!" He backed away with a graceful turn, landing away from his assailant. "Do you not know your crime?" Thankfully, Elizabeth Sobel did stop as Slylth had hoped. However, her blades hovered like a pair of poised scissors, ready to snip his short life shorter. "My crime? Ah… I am so steeped in sin, young Dragon, that sin puckers on sin…" The woman's smile made Slylth's heart palpate, a feat accomplished only by his Mother's wrath. "But you have surprised me. The last thing I had expected to see here was the _egg_ I had… handled once upon a time. So you came to find me? Why are you not attacking? Where did that hostility go?" Slylth tried to make sense of the woman's taunt, but his mind filled with blanks. Simply put, he had never been in such a position at any point in his life, except perhaps when he was egg-napped. But Mother had been there to retrieve him that time, and he was snugly sheltered in his egg, unlike now. The thrumming Void Blade drew closer, appearing like the horizontal jaws of some invisible Void Behemoth. Slylth thrust out his chest as a show of defiance. "You wouldn't dare!" "I wouldn't?" The Void Sorceress made a motion with her hand. While she waited on his answer, a Void Beast with the likeness of a giant salamander with no eyes dragged the moaning brother of Gwen Song back toward her heels. Another creature, something like a lamprey with far too many tentacles to be a terrestrial existence, arrested the blonde Vessel and dragged her to Sobel's side. The Cleric of the Ordo Bath was drained and delirious from Necromancy—comparatively, the brother remained winded and unable to speak from Slylth's ongoing Sirocco. To his dismay, the woman in black wove her fingers through the air, then dismantled the fever he had afflicted upon the sibling. The invocation, he noted with great unhappiness, was the very same form of mystic Spellcraft he had been taught, that of sorcery unique to House Morden. _Is she going to eat them later?_ Slylth couldn't help but allow his imagination to run wild with possibilities. _Wasn't she making one fight the other?_ _Humans were so confusing!_ Elizabeth's Sobel's soul-piercing gaze once more fell upon himself. "So. Why should I withhold my wrath, gosling? Our Accord had set fire to the great Illaelitharian himself. What do you possess that could even begin to threaten me?" "Because…" Slylth wanted a more profound retort, but the only answer he could give was already out. "… My Mother will soon be here! Then, you'll truly regret harming us!" Sobel's svelte figure paused for a fraction of a second. Unfortunately for Slylth, the woman's face was not afraid but amused and enlivened with mockery. "You mean to say that the Red Queen of Carrauntoohil would leave the Axis Mundi unguarded?" Sobel's swords drifted closer with every word. Slylth's Morden Blade thrummed, taking up the defence of its master. A dozen spells entered his mind, the foremost of which was his best teleportation spells. "You mean to tell me that an ancient Dragon would leave its sacred, existential duty and encroach into the land of another just to save a whelp?" The woman's eyes were twin pools of cool murder, so royal in their blueness that his mind likened them to his Mother's most cherished jewels. The blades drew closer, not enough to kiss his hide but enough to slice and dice. A few seconds more and Slylth knew he would have to put his life on the line. "Do your worst, witch!" Slylth wrapped his silent sorcery around himself, weaving three spells into one. "MOTHER WILL COME FOR YOU!" _CRACK—!_ The sky split asunder. A line of living, livid lightning tore through the space between elements, spewing an Essence older than Slylth's beloved Mother's Heart of Flames. The night briefly turned to morning, then back to the tepid, depressing darkness of the besieged city. Sobel, still unfazed, afforded herself the time to turn her gaze away from Slylth so that she may regard the new arrival. The hysterical phantasm of lightning faded, revealing the crow-black silhouette of a young woman with raven hair knotted into a ponytail. Her face was wet and desperate, lit by motes of Conjuration as they cascaded from her armour like dusted snow. Their new arrival was not a figure of death and destruction, as Slylth had hoped. She was tired and hagged, and the bloodshot whites of her emerald eyes displayed the aftereffects of one suffering from spell fatigue. "No… No… No…" groaned a soft voice behind Sobel, so full of despair that Slylth felt the emotion like an oily slick against his transformed scales. Sobel's eyes drifted from their new arrival to Slylth, then back to their latest addition. "That…" the Void Sorceress' face could barely suppress her delight. "That's your _mother_?" Gwen knew her actions were the most reckless, stupid, dangerous, lose-lose choice imaginable. But she had to do it. Her Evee was in danger. And Percy was insane or mind-controlled. And the Tower Master of Tianjin was threatening her with some bullshit, hoping to get her to put the lives of his city over that of the two people she most cherished in this world. And that was why she left the Tower, used up all of her mental faculties to make haste—and thankfully arrived in the nick of time. But now that she had arrived, Gwen admitted, as she had earlier predicted—that she had no solutions, plan, or hope of surviving this encounter, much less saving her brother and Evee. "That's _your mother?_ " Elizabeth Sobel's bedroom voice was exactly as she had recalled from their encounter in Sydney, though her words were as inexplicable to Gwen as the witch's deeper motives. Her stare met that of Sobel's, then moved onto the crumpled form of Percy under one of Sobel's Void Beasts. Her brother was badly wounded by fire and combat, Gwen could see that, but he was alive enough to stare at her intently with beckoning eyes. Worse still, to Sobel's right, she could see Elvia, not wounded but drained of vitality, crumbled in a heap like a broken doll. Her blood boiled—though now that she was here and in the presence of the villainess, Gwen's impulse for action was rightfully quelled. As for the strange young man with the Draconic Aura, the field of fucks she held for him was barren of all life. Nonetheless, the young man stared at her. She stared at her Evee. Her brother stared back at her. Sobel's eyes meandered between them. The Void Beasts announced their oppressive "Shaa–." On a distant horizon, a low rumble of thunder announced the arrival of her Thunder Dragon backup. Breaking the tension, her brother expelled a mouthful of dark blood from his seared lungs. "The Tower…" Gwen managed her threat with such calm that she surprised herself. "… is coming for you, Sobel." Sobel did not move to mock her nor reply but instead looked in the direction of the Tianjin Tower. Sensing the woman's thoughts, Gwen mentally willed her Thunder Dragon to take an overwatch position to intercept the Void Sorceress like a poised rifle chambered with a four-ton living bullet. "I would normally doubt anyone who would speak those words…" Sobel spoke in her general direction, her overtly feminine vocals filling Gwen's ears as a careless whisper. "But you're a rather special existence, kitten, so I must give you the benefit of the doubt." Gwen noted that the two Morden Blades she had spotted earlier were turning on their axis toward herself. This was good—for they were no longer so close to Evee— but also bad—for her command of Walls of Force was sub-par and not nearly instant enough to save her from Sobel's imminent displeasure. Some distance away, Golos looped once more into range. "Such a _special_ existence…" Sobel purred, making Gwen's stomach queasy. "What a curious ascension, little one. To think you're allied not only with that Old One but Tyfanevius, the Yinglong, Illaelitharian, and now, even the scion of Sythinthimryr calls you Mother. Just how many Mythics are you in bed with, dear? Did Henry plan this for you as he had planned for me?" "You worry too much about what might transpire tomorrow," Gwen decided she would ride the woman's thought train rather than contest them, her mind catching and rearranging words as they flowed past her frontal lobe. "I would worry about the next few minutes. Before my arrival, I told my Brother and Sister-in-Craft that you were here. You remember Gunther, don't you? He'll tan your delicate hide, and we'll mount it in the entrance lobby of Sydney Tower for all to see." To Gwen's amazement, the Void blades retreated a few inches. _Was my bluff working?_ Gwen prayed to Gods she did not recognise or know for support, for neither the Tower nor Gunther was coming. "Gwen." Sobel's hostility evaporated as a smile blossomed on her peerless, ivory face. "I understand what you are trying to do. I also share your belief that nipping a weed in the bud is best before it seeds..." Gwen forced Almudj's Essence to circulate. The splitting headache lessened with every passing second—but not nearly enough to fight one as experienced as Sobel. "... But do understand that neither you, the gosling, your nun, nor your brother are a part of my plans here in Tianjin. We all have our duties, kitten, and there's nothing worse than complicating a planned operation." Gwen lowered herself until she was only a few inches from the ground. "Am I to trust your mercy now? We both know the answer to that, Elizabeth Sobel. My Master will have his peace. You have my word on that." "Oh, my pretty puss…" Sobel made a tsk sound between her teeth, as one might make to tease a cat. _"We both know that's not true."_ "Try me." Gwen could only go all in with her worthless poker hand. "I know we can't defeat you, Sobel. But keeping you here until the Tower shifts in with my Brother-in-Craft is a matter of time you can't afford. When that Planar Disjunction hits, where are you going to go?" Sobel's demeanour, Gwen noted with her rapidly rising heart rate, was growing very dangerous indeed. "EE-EE!" Ariel materialised in the sky above. "SHAA—SHAA—!" Caliban slithered into being, immediately challenged by a chorus of " _Shaa—_ " from Sobel's legion of creatures. Their eyes met. To Gwen's dismay, the woman's smile returned. "Well played, kitten," Sobel spoke so nonchalantly that Gwen felt her Divination senses clang like the cascading pell of church bells. "I find myself both in disbelief and yet fear that your lies have enough truth in them to be a threat. Therefore, I shall give you this victory." To her horror, Sobel stepped back just enough to land between Evee and her brother. _SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!_ Gwen's head felt like a jubilee in July. "Therefore, I shall have myself an insurance." Sobel gestured first to her precious Evee, then to her one and only brother. "Our… goal here in Tianjin is accomplished. Between the Cult of Juche and Zodiam's Brass Legion, this blight of a city will fall whether you aid them or otherwise. Believe it or not, I am a busy woman, and I've tarried here too long…" Gwen tried to think of something significant to say, but all she could see was Evee's half-conscious face begging her to flee—and Percy's impotent shame as he begged her with his eyes. "Anyway." Sobel studied her with the air of Magister Wen during their first foray into Void Mana. "I will take one of these two with me, and keep them safe, watered, well-fed, fattened… until they're more useful than they are now…" "DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE—" Gwen heard her voice blurt out. Somewhere close enough, Golos circled into range. "I shall let you choose." Sobel's ruby-red lips split into a wide, capricious smile of grotesque innocence. "That's right. You chose who I shall take; the other will be freed without condition. Isn't free will wonderful, Gwen? Dearest Henry never gave me a choice like that. I was only expected to obey." "YOU SICK BITCH…" Gwen could hardly hear the woman over the pounding blood in her head. Sobel cooly drew an incantation in the air. At her behest, a Void-slit opened into the lightless yonder. _FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK._ Gwen couldn't hear herself think. _Calamity!_ The voice of Golos intruded. _Do I strike now?_ "Choose." Sobel gestured left, then right. "Or I choose." Her eyes swung from her brother on the right to her lover on the left. _Must she choose?_ Of course. But how could she choose? She loved them both. Not equally, but differently, both with a fierceness that rivalled her own life. “G…Gwen…” Her brother's voice eked from the charred heap that made up his silhouette. "Don't let her take me…" Percy! Her poor Percy! How could she abandon him? She wanted to do good by Percy in this life. They could have a wonderful sibling relationship! He could be someone, and she would be there to support him. He would have his children with Mei; she would be an aunt, and everything would be wonderful, super, sweet, and… "Gwen…" Elvia's voice, sweet as nightingales, joined by a choir of angels, made its audible self known. Her Evee had been assaulted by Percy, with the Necromantic Magic taught by their grandfather no less. Gwen knew that this was what she saw. However, she refused to believe the horror was unrelated to Sobel's doing. "Evee…" she couldn't help but moan the name of the girl whose name was imprinted like a tattoo on her heart. The girl who was her saviour, her singular rock in this insane world of might, magic and monsters. "Ah…" Sobel's voice pierced the daydream of her indecision like a red-hot scalpel. "So, you've chosen." " _Sis—!_ " Percy's hoarse voice barked from the retreating tide of Void flesh. "How… how could you?—NO! TELL HER NO!" "It's a good choice," Sobel tittered sardonically. "I, too, would pick a lover who is a Vessel and a noted user of Faith Magic over a deluded, mewling sibling. You know this is true. Our mutual Master didn't even acknowledge the boy's existence. He was _that_ useless." The command to change her choice choked in Gwen's throat. Try as she might, it would not escape her lock-jawed lips. Like a petulant adolescent tossing an un-loved rag-doll, Sobel's creature expelled Elvia's body toward her, allowing it to flail and fall. On automatic, Gwen reached out, her body manifesting a Dimension Door subconsciously to catch her dearest Evee mid-air, heedless of the strain it placed upon her exhausted mind. At the same time, a violent rush of air announced the passage of Golos as it sought the disappearing Sobel and her bitter cargo of brotherly love, only to be met with the criss-crossing arrival of a pair of Void-fuelled Morden's Blades. "Dodge!" the young man in red howled something in Draconic, parrying the attacks with his sword as Golos pulled a hard left, narrowly avoiding losing one of his wings and two limbs. "Long ago…" Sobel's trailing voice lingered like perfume in Gwen's mind as the Void-slit drew close, swallowing their Master's murderess wholesale. "I chose as you did. I hope the decision serves you well, kitten. When we next meet, let us have tea…" The final close of the soundless slit was punctuated by the roar of Golo's crash landing carving a canal in the landscape. As for Gwen, she felt only the softness of Elvia's body in her arms, the lulling weight of her head against her forearms, and the stench of Necrotic Energy that permeated the sweet body of her dearest Cleric. _Percy…_ Alarmingly, she found that she could not think of Percy. Her brother's pleading face was no longer in the forefront of her mind. What she wanted now was to see Elvia alive and well, sweet and smiling, hail and golden and criticising her for making such a selfish, fucked up choice. "Evee!" She carefully lowered her friend against the feathers on her thighs. "Are you alright? Are you…" Tearing off her gauntlets, she placed a finger against her friend's nostrils. Warm. Her friend lived still. Frantically, her mind fumbled through her Storage Rings until she found the Spellcube Petra had acquired for the occasion. Placing the milk-white cube with its stowed spell from their Babulya against her friend's chest, Gwen activated the releasing Glyph. Like an injection of sanctified holy water, the Greater Restoration flooded into her friend's body, dispelling the Negative Energy and reaffirming her friend's vitals. Though undirected by a professional, the sheer force of the Positive Energy was enough to kick start Elvia's Astral Body so that her rejuvenating Positive Energy could initiate self-repair. Elvia coughed, her lungs drawing inward greedy gasps of precious air. Gwen felt so glad that she could cry. Or perhaps, she was already crying, for her vision was too blurry to see Elvia's face. "Umm…" A voice sounded behind her. "Sorry to interrupt. My name is Slylth McAllister…" "FUCK OFF!" She barked at the source of the voice. "FUCK OFF NOW!" "Alright… alright…" the dejected voice backed away. “I’ll er… here… when you’re done…” "Evee." She leaned in close to Elvia's hagged face. "Are you alright now? Can you hear me?" A pair of white-gloved hands, soiled by blood and dirt, touched her wet cheeks. "Gwen…" "I am here, Evee," she could hardly choke out the words. "You're safe now." "Is…" Elvia's voice grew stronger with every syllable. "Is Jun safe…" "He was pretty much stabilised when I left…" Gwen said. "Evee, you did your best." "Is Ayxin…" "Everyone is well," Golos's voice rumbled behind them, stumbling into view in his Human form. "As is their child. If Brother-in-law had perished, Ayxin would know… and trust me, we would all know if Ayxin was that upset. Our father thanks you, Vessel. You have done your duty splendidly." "Percy…" Elvia's tone grew painful. "Is he…" Golos snorted. "I'll find him." Gwen felt the guilt in her heart like a Morden's Blade skewering both atriums. "Don't you worry about that, Evee? It's not your fault." "But it is my fault." Elvia's face was against her neck. “I am so sorry, Gwennie… I am so sorry..." "Don't be." Gwen held the girl close, feeling every sob and choke that quaked between their bodies. "Maybe Sobel will let him go… maybe…" "Umm…regarding your brother," the voice of the Draconic youth once more resounded. "I think it's a bit more complicated than that—" "FUCK OFF!" Gwen suddenly wanted to turn around and tear the Dragon-man in half. She knew she had just forsaken her brother, but as Sobel said, this was a choice she had made. Beyond that, the city was still under siege, and there still existed a possibility of tracking down Sobel and recovering her brother through the Tower—though the bridge she had burnt with Master Wong didn't help. And she had to tell babulya and Yeye that she fucking lost Percy. "Gwennie—" Elvia's hand pulled her face back toward the two of them. "Slylth saved my life." Gwen took a deep breath; Elvia's kindness was akin to plunging her superheated brain into an icy bucket of well water. She stood, helping Elvia to her feet as they turned. From the earlier conversation and her Detect Magic, she knew the young man was not a human but a Golos-like existence. "Please allow me to apologise." Gwen bowed her head. "I am Regent Gwen Song, and this is Companion Elvia Lindholm. Over there is Golos, a scion of the Yinglong. Thank you for saving Elvia. Who might you be?" The young man looked on the verge of tears. “I am Slylth McAllister Morden…” The Dragon-kin's expression possessed such relief that Gwen almost forgot to process the name he had just announced. "Magus… Morden?" She felt her brain bloat. "From the Scottish Isles? From the line of _Magi Morden_? What… what are you doing here?" "Ah…" the young Morden, related to her Master by six degrees of separation, put both hands on his haughty hips. "I am… OH MY MOTHER'S BEARD." Except for Morden, whose eyes were already wide, all three turned their heads northward. On a murky horizon, hovering like a giant maw, a swallowing sun rose to the city's north, engulfing the pale light of the long night's war-wary march toward dawn. "Gwen…" Elvia's plea came across like a kitten's soft whimper. "I know… I know…" Gwen could read her friend's mind like a book. "I want to help as well, Evee, but the bitch has Percy." "No… not Percy." Elvia's breath blew against her crow-skin armour, tickling the rows of arrayed feathers. "There's still one more complication to care for, Gwennie. One more _calamity_ to resolve. By the Yinglong's reckoning, this Kirin obelisk is responsible for Jun's condition. It is impervious to Spellcraft. Only Faith Magic that alters the nature of causality or the usurpation from a higher order of Dragon-kin may stop it." Following her finger, the threesome redirected their simmering frustrations toward the enormous jadeite lode jutting from the baseplate of the Tianjin Tower. As one, the scion of the Scarlet Summer Flame, the Vessel to the Yinglong of the Answering Thunder, and the kin of a cheeky, multi-hued snake studied the protruding Jade Lode with absolute prejudice. On cue, seared by the gaze of the foursome, the protruding jade began to shrivel and shrink.

Tianjin. The Baseplate. To the Liberator of Kachin, the similarity between the Jade Pillar at Nagaland and Elvia's jadeite phallus was self-evident. As one well-versed in Draconic protrusions, Gwen innately sensed the strands of mana flowing into its base from every angle, a synaesthesia akin to the vortex of an emptying bathtub. Nonetheless, what truly caught her eye was the mass of scripts covering the shell of the Kirin Egg. These scripts, far older than Spellcraft, she had already seen half a decade ago, in another continent, another epoch of her reborn life. As a learned Magister, she recognised the scripts as having foundations in Elven Arcanistry, the same used in her Ilias Leaf's living tissue. However, the Glyphs on this particular protrusion were written in a strange Chinese pictogram, defying her attempts at decrypting its true meaning. The baseplate groaned. The "Egg" was afraid because it understood her and her companion's intentions, indicating rudimentary consciousness and therefore accountability. Given another time, under more academic circumstances, she would have liked to know more, study its origins and purpose, and perhaps find a better solution than the one she was about to perform. "Evee," She allowed the fair Cleric to affirm her conjecture. "So, this thing is responsible for Uncle Jun?" "It is." Elvia nodded, erasing all doubt from her mind. "If it gathers enough vitality and mana, the Essence within shall re-birth an ancient being—A Kirin." "Where have I heard that before…" Gwen murmured as her mana gathered. On the horizon, the Dark Sun continued to manifest. Whatever happens now, she needed to sever the threads before throwing herself into the tangled mess on the city's coast. "Ruxin says it's the Drought Goddess, a spectre of our Kin's past," Golos compounded Elvia's accusations. "He says it is karmically tied to your Clan, and the only way to cure its curse is to cut that tie—permanently." "Ruxin, eh?" The sudden candour from her Planar Ally did not escape Gwen's notice, a concern subverted by her present urgency. As if sensing her growing hostility, a gut-churning swell of Ashen mana began to build in the recess of the Jade Lode's shadow, transforming the jadeite into translucent lamb's fat. The Necromancy was familiar—for it was a facsimile of Jun's Drain Life. Besides her, Golos opened his mouth for a breath attack. The invocations for a maximised Chain Lightning had barely passed Gwen's lips before another spell, one with a complexity far beyond what she was accustomed to, manifested as three concentric carmine coils upon the Jade Lode's circumference. "Astral Binding—!" came the declarative announcement just as her tier six Evocation crackled in the air. "—BARBANGINY!" Her spell manifested almost a full second later, momentarily bringing a flash of retina-searing light into their local vicinity before the thunderous, sky-splitting roar of Almudj's admonishment joined Golos' bad breath. Her hex was filled with prejudice, for as far as she was concerned, this "Kirin Egg" was responsible for her Uncle, for taking her away from the battlefield, and for what happened to Percy. Therefore, within Gwen's reciprocating Evocation was the full weight of her pent-up frustrations, intermingled with the guilt of allowing Sobel to depart with her brother. _CRACK—!_ The earth jumped, less violently than when the Elemental Prince of Fire had made his entrance but imposing enough to send shudders through the watchers' bodies. Gwen shielded Elvia from the debris. The protrusion, already cracked by the Knight Companion's hammer blows of Faith, became obliterated by the Essence-fuelled lightning, shattered so singularly that only a charred stump remained. "It's not dead yet," Slylth Morden's advice echoed beside her. "The true Lode lies deeper, buried within the ley lines." "Caliban!" Gwen wasted no time, for the Dark Sun was already beginning its terrible work, sending incalculable, ethereal tendrils toward the coastal city below. Between itself and the unabated assault of Zodiam to the north. there would be little chance of the Tower holding out for long. Her Void serpent manifested in the form she desired, tearing a gash in time-space as tall as a three-storey building as it slipped through the rent of reality. As an obsidian Afaa al-Halak, it landed with its tri-petal maws wide open, using the weight of its body to push it downward onto the charred stump. The ground convulsed, unleashing an insane scream of horror as the stones shifted and the pavements cracked, rending the baseplate of the departed Tower. Like diving into liquid, Caliban descended, making its maddening "Shaa—Shaa—"as its gargantuan body sunk into the rich loam of the coastal city. "Impressive." The red-haired Dragon-kin gave her an affirming nod. "A magnificent Familiar." This time, Gwen nodded back. She had many questions for the man with "Morden" in his name once the fight ended. Questions like why was he here? What had happened to Elvia? Who had drawn Sobel to this place? And where would the witch have taken her brother… "SHAA—SHAA—!" Her Caliban happily informed her that it had discovered the source of the enriched Essence, an unsurprisingly egg-shaped womb of jade nestled deep within what appeared to be an underground network of Mandalas. Gwen noted without surprise that its nest was also heavily inundated with necrotic Ash, so thick and potent that even Ariel would turn senseless and become fodder. Of course, Caliban cared neither for the traps, the Negative Energy, nor the usual rewards and treasures that might have populated such a chamber of secrets. " _Consume_!" She gave the remorseless command. "Leave nothing. We've got ordeals elsewhere." Her Void worm obliged, surging earthward with a twist of its sinuous torso. The final moment of whatever lay below took not even a minute as magical conduits failed, ancient scripts flared, and the connections between the Mandalas and the ley-line beneath ceased to be. "Caliban!" Gwen knew better than to allow the swallowed Ash-strewn, dynasty-era Kirin Egg a chance at reversing its fortunes. "Return!" Soundlessly, her Void Worm slipped back into its pocket dimension, costing her a hefty chunk of her depleted mana pool. She staggered sideways. This time, it was Elvia who held her upright. With the Kirin matter foreseeably resolved, the group regarded the giant hole made by Caliban. "Is it…" Elvia's trembling voice was full of disbelief and doubt. "Is it over?" "I don't see why it isn't." Gwen touched a hand to her diaphragm, ensuring nothing would spill out. Her Familiar appeared perfectly snug within her Astral Soul, nursing its cargo of precious Kirin Jade. “…Umm…” Slylth raised a hand like a good student. "I don't think this is over." Gwen made a tired gesture toward the Dark Sun. "Any ideas?" "No, I am not talking about that…" Slylth directed her gaze back toward the hole with an illumination invocation. "That Kirin was the custodian of this particular node, the guardian for this part of the Axis Mundi." Gwen slowly wetted her drying lips. "So this is THE node? Evee, did you know this?" Her Elvia nodded. "I see." Gwen regarded her partner in a new light. She had done her due diligence regarding the Astral Theory of the Axis Mundi and understood very well what it meant for an occupant to vacate a ley node. "Is this why Sobel was here? Does this have to do with Percy? We all saw the Shielding Stations fail." Before the girl could answer, Golo stepped protectively between them and what looked to be an incoming streak of light. "ELVIA—! OH THANK THE NAZARENE—!" the voice of Mathias blasted across the blighted baseplate before he landed heavily, stumbling as he ran forward. "You're alive! What happened to Sir Kass and Reginald?" _Kass? Reginald?_ Gwen did recall that she had seen them both during the wedding. Looking around the battlefield, however, she had found no trace of them, not even their Faith-fuelled mana. Elvia's response was to let loose a choking sob. _Fuck…_ Gwen did not need corpses to guess that Sobel had done away with them before doing something to her brother. If both Knight Protectors were alive, there was no way Sobel could have the time to enjoy the fruits of Mind Magic. Mathias walked a few steps forwards; then his whole frame seemed to droop. “I am sorry, Mathias…” Gwen spoke for Evee's sake. "Sobel was here. She took Percy as well." "Percy Song!" The Knight Protector's eyes lit up with uncharacteristic rage. The hostility therein was so vivid that Gwen felt goosebumps on her arms. "That little—" "MATHIAS!" Elvia shouted past her ear. "Not now… We'll explain everything to Gwen soon enough." The Knight Protector took a long, deep breath. Their eyes met briefly. Unhappily, Gwen could see that man's grief was genuine. Before she could question Elvia, the ground shook once more. The street lights near the area of their cataclysmic combat flared on and off like Christmas decorations, growing brighter with every pulse. A surge of violent mana, newly returned to the conduits buried underneath the base plate, then coursed through the arterial highways surrounding the Tower's base. Gwen, Elvia, Slylth, Mathias and a grinning Golos readied their bodies for the worst. The streetscape erupted, blowing transformers and power boxes throughout the military district, rippling outward from the epicentre as a ring of expanding blue fire. Nearer to the horizon, a Shielding Station erupted, transforming into a nova of electricity as the Core contained unleashed its caged energies. The damage was catastrophic, though only for the Undead swarming between the deserted neighbourhoods. By the time the rolling expansion of electricity ceased, Gwen and her companions were already far in the air, wary of the blue-green jet of raw mana spewing from the orifice made by Caliban. "I guess that's shielding… not restored for the foreseeable future." Gwen wondered what could have been done with the Kirin Egg if they had time. "Does anyone know why there's pure electricity pouring out from the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lightning down there? Isn't ley nodes meant to contain unfiltered, mixed mana?" "Hee hee hee..." Golo snicked beside her ear as the roar from the mana hole grew louder than thunder. "I told you, Calamity, _He who Heeds_ planned for everything!" "Who? The Yinglong?" Gwen felt her world unravel a little more, a seemingly impossible prospect, considering Sobel just took her little brother for a stroll into the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void. "Evee, was this your objective as a Vessel?" In the next moment, the hole made by Caliban let loose a stream of Elemental Lightning so pure that even Gwen had to shield her face with a semi-sphere barrier. Like the focusing blast from the engine of a supersonic jet, the stream grew in heat and intensity until the Prime Material itself began to wobble and tear. From within the tunnel, a ripple of Dragon Fear poured forth, followed by the emergence of a titanic body akin to the Tower itself. The Yinglong, long named by its worshippers as he who heeded the Jade Emperor, tore through the Prime Material in all its glory, rising upward like a blue-green eruption, brushing past the shields of the staggered Mages. For a split-second, Gwen drew face to eye with an enormous, slitted iris so imposing that she felt her innards shriek. Caught in a meniscus of time, she stared into that great cobalt eye, trying to discern its intent—finding only an alien and unreadable intelligence. As an expanding pine of lightning, the Yinglong rose into the heavens, making for the Dark Sun. It would not swallow the extra-dimensional summon like her Almudj—but Gwen possessed no doubt a hungry Planar Ally from the Void was no match for a long-slumbering Dragon of the Prime Material. _So that's how it is…_ Gwen felt both troubled and relieved by her freshly sprouted suspicions. How much of this had to do with saving Jun and Ayxin? And was Tianjin the cost of such an outcome? And most importantly, _what about Percy?_ How did Sobel figure in this scenario? What of Spectre? Now that the Yinglong has intervened, would she drain Percy to spite the Dragon's riposte? Or was the Yinglong a factor that no one had foreseen, free from their verbal agreement? In the seconds it took Gwen to run her thoughts through the wringer, the Yinglong had reached the Dark Sun. In a singular move, its body pierced the blackened haze, disintegrating every strand of darkness that made up the core of its central mass. The outcome was expected—after all, Positive Lightning was the bane of Void, capable of nulling its existence in the Prime Material. The indifferent Dark Sun then reformed, appearing almost like an enormous maw as it tried to close in on the Yinglong's slender body. The Dragon twirled like a New Year's dance display. As it passed, its wings sliced the Dark Sun apart, isolating its particles in the likeness of magnetic ink repelled by an unseen force. Again and again, the two forces entwined, with the Dark Sun diminishing with every passing assault, seemingly unable to banish the Dragon in its midst. _A technicolour piece of history in the making,_ Gwen pondered the spectacle, wordless at the sudden development of events beyond her wildest imagination. When Almudj had battled Sobel the first time around, she had been almost insensible from the infusion of its Essence. This time, as a third party, she was truly beginning to appreciate the beauty and terror involved in the collision of two primal forces, each a representative of their Elemental Planes, seeking to browbeat the other into existential extinction. _DING!_ A crimson Message spell blossomed beside her ear. "Gwen!" Richard's calm but imploring voice bled through the Divination Glyphs. "Are you… still _good_?" Her cousin's Aussie accent was enough to stir her from the spectacle to the east and return her to the stark reality of her failures. "I am _good_ , and so is Evee… Sir Reginald and Kass are dead. And Sobel took Percy." "I know." Richard's placidity made her strangely unhappy. "We watched it live over here in the Tower. We're watching you now." Gwen had to stop herself from voicing her anger. In truth, there was nothing the Tower could do, and the people controlling it were not in a position to perform what was needed, even if they possessed the capacity. "I see." Gwen sighed, understanding there would be longer and more emphatic sighs in the future. "Have we been exorcised from the city? Are we no longer welcome?" "Ha!" Richard's tone did not seem at all worried. "On the contrary, Petra readied the Mandala in your absence." "They still want the Shoggoth performed?" "Gwen, if you fly a bit higher, you'll be able to see that the city's north is still burning, and there is no Yinglong there to quell… anything." Signalling the others, she surged upward until the city's still-standing skyscrapers were no longer blocking the view of the southern slopes of Tangshan. Once, a green vista encroached into the saddle of a mountain. In its place, a smouldering sea of magma and ash was swallowing the city in greedy gulps. From her vantage of twenty kilometres, she could spy the burning mote of ember in the form of Zodiam and his bear dancing through the blackened sea of destruction, igniting the dawning city like summer-dried eucalyptus. A Dark Sun to the east and a wildfire to the north. The Bohai District, the food bowl of China's northern cities, was shattered beyond repair. The security of Beijing, so assured in its post-Shenyang arrogance, would be similarly broken, together with the nation's hope and spirit for the future. Yet, the worse to come was the aftermath. After Tianjin, what would become of the Eurasian continent's northern reaches? If China shrank its ambitions behind the Great Wall, which nation would keep the Black Zones of Siberia and Greater Russia in check? What if Pyongyang unleashes its hordes once more? Who will stop them? "But wait, there's more!" Richard chirpily communicated the ongoing crisis. "Beyond the Undead Shoal, there's ANOTHER Shoal, a living one circling the city's shipping lanes. Therefore, I've negotiated with Tower Master Wong on your behalf, and… he understands the necessity of your choices, and there are no hard feelings. As you can imagine, the Communist Party is uncomfortable allowing matters to be entirely solved by divine intervention." "I see. So the Mandala is ready?" "To the utmost degree possible, without your input," Richard replied. "Have I been presumptuous, Magister? Shall I inform the Tower Master of our immediate departure for Shalkar?" Gwen sighed long and hard. Before she could think about how to relocate her brother, Zodiam had to be dealt with. The Tower was her best bet in tracking Sobel, meaning she should make amends for her earlier outburst. "Tell Tower Master Wong I am on my way," she said at last, turning once more to look at her Evee, the prize for her undisguised weighing of two lives she had imagined to be equally important. The angel hovering in a halo of her own making did not return her smile but regarded her with the haunted air of a feather-stressed cockatoo. "Dick, send the platform northward under guard. I'll meet you at the Second Orbital ring road, where we'll deploy the Shoggoth." "That's a relief to hear." Richard breathed out. "We'll see you soon, Magister. I am sorry about what happened to Percy and the others. I am sure Sobel won't grill him over the coals for _merely_ banishing Zodiam." Gwen could not feel any sincerity in her cousin's hopeful conjecture. Still, it was good to have a voice of affirmation. As her Master's pupil, a very confident part of her understood that Sobel knew Percy's worth as a bargaining chip, which should not be discarded or abused without significant concessions. After all, strategically at least, Spectre's goal was arguably accomplished with the city half-destroyed and salted with Negative Energy. Therein, the value of Percy would be directly related to herself, her Siblings-in-craft, and the advent of Almudj's intervention in their family drama. "Evee, Matty, Gogo," she announced to the survivors, including the red-haired Dragon-kin hovering beside Golos. "We're headed to Tangshan to introduce Zodiam to the Shoggoth. Master Morden, if you wish to come, do as you please. If not, please return to your home." "I'll come." The young Dragon drifted closer. "I have an… academic interest in these things." Gwen did not contest the Dragon's curiosity. "How will you fare against the Tower's Shielding Array? Golos is attuned to me, but one may assume your noble self has no authority to be here." "I am well prepared." Slylth's eyes twinkled. "The Shielding will be restrictive but not a deterrent." Across the arc of the long horizon, a tempest-dripping fire roared, rending the Dark Sun with ten thousand lightning bolts. These then struck the inlets of Bohai Bay, forming the innumerable branches of an electric mangrove, animating the waters with cobalt arches of hysterical lightning. From the uptick in intensity, Gwen guessed that the Yinglong's storm would soon fade like a monsoonal shower. Together with its intrusion, the Dark Sun would also fade into oblivion, returning the Prime Material to its fragile, paper-screen self. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it What was left, thereby, was mere, mortal matters for earthly beings to resolve themselves. Lei-bup, Arch Priest of the Old Murmurings in the Depthless Dark, heard the resonance of the universe in his churning guts. His appendage, a gift from the great Shoggoth's last visitation, writhed and squirmed, wracking his body with such pleasing agony that he could not remain seated upon the throne. The reason was simple—their Goddess was nigh. He had heard the Pale Priestess calling for them. Over the docklands, within the Human city, she had designated their foes as the hated fiends of fire, the Elemental enemies of the Merman's ancestors. "Praise be to the Pale Priestess!" Lei-bup's command rippled through the Great Shoal. "Praise!" ten thousand faithful answered. Even within the belly of the young Leviathan, he felt acutely the answering of the Shoggoth to its Master. As the Many-Eyed avatar tore the veil between dream and reality, every faithful felt the fluctuation of their conviction grow to new heights. "Praise be to the Shoggoth!" Lei-bup informed the assembly. "Lamb of the Old One who is GATE and KEY! The PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE!" "Praise!" a hundred thousand voices echoed from within the Leviathan. Outside, a million and more voices echoed his call to arms. "Praise be to the Elder ones, who art Mother and Father!" Lei-bup tore open his robes, revealing the tentacles embedded in his guts. As one, the rotund, cancerous bulges upon their slime-slicked surface began to sweat. Lei-bup's dormant flesh grew suddenly into unnatural life, first bulging, then forming into an enormous tendril, upon the surface of which were bulges in the likeness of eyes. "WE HEED! PALE PRIESTESS—!" Lei-bup announced to the Mermen Tide. "WE COME TO AIDE THEE! UAAH! UAAH!" His fellow priests, each with their own harnessed growths, exposed their extra-bodily tendrils to the court, drawing unfathomable envy from those Mermen whose bodies were still whole and untouched by their unwavering Faith. This time, however, many more would gain the blessing. More would enter the inner circle. All the faithful needed was to find a fragment of the Old One, then endure the baptism of fishy flesh that was the ultimate test. "WEEE— WEEE— WEEE—" A million howling beings of the deep swirled around the cooing Leviathan, their collected volume turning the sea into a living orchestra a dozen kilometres across. “Weee—Weeee—“ “Gweee—Gweeee— Gweeee—“ “GWEEE—GWEEEN— GWEEENGH— GWEEENGH—“ Lei-bup felt his spine grow suddenly soft as his vitality flew skyward. Twin Sea Witches, their unparalleled appearances as beautiful as he was faithful, caught him by each arm to prevent the Arch Priest from becoming a spectacle. Upon his distended tendrils, newly sprouted eyeballs opened to survey the masses before them— Beautiful, amber-green eyes that only the Pale Priestess could possess. "SHE SEES US! HER EYES ARE UPON THE FAITHFUL—!" Lei-bup howled as a flailing lionfish speared through the gut, spraying the Sea Witches with molasses of grey spittle. The Shoal had come for the SPAM wrapped in her likeness. Now, they would meet their Priestess in the flesh. Tianjing. The Tower. Richard Huang stood next to the Tower Master, ascertaining his future. In a few years, he would be standing in a similar position beside his cousin, the Tower Master of Shalkar. Of course, Gwen's Tower would not be a relic. It would be a state-of-the-art creation crafted by Dwarves, ensorceled by Elves, and inhabited by Dragons, possibly two purebloods, joined by a fleet of lesser Draconids. Like the Griffin Knights, their Mage Flights would ride upon these majestic mounts and wear unrivalled equipment from wands to armour that repelled low-level Spellcraft. His Tower—when Gwen's away on business—would be a superstructural one, possibly tied to Sufina, drawing from the Axis Mundi's boundless energies to fuel its mana engines. In an invasion, Regent Song would give a command from her lofty heights, and hundreds of Dwarven-engineered Spellsword batteries would emerge from the Tower's base like hornets from a stirred nest. For their future foes, a barrage of spellfire a kilometre across would lay down a river of lightning and destruction so total that entire landscapes would terraform in the wake of their passing. Such certainties were why he felt sympathetic and sorry for Tower Master Wong, a god in his domain but a man whose mind was too narrow to capture the arrival of a truly magnificent future. A future that was now unfolding upon the lumen-caster. Toward the North of the Tower, now lost to war for the next decade, the survivors of Tianjin bore witness to the maddening vision of two Elemental Titans at war. Serving as an envoy of Humanity was Shoggy, a being bearing no resemblance to anything that may be conjured by human imagination, a living slice of the depraved darkness that exists only in the nightmares of the insane. Below, a monstrous Flame Giant, fat upon the burning destruction it had wrought upon the city, called meteors and volcanic eruptions as easily as a fishmonger hawking a bountiful catch. Tendrils, some thick as the cables that once held the destroyed bay bridge, fell from the heavens, studded with judgemental eyes and hungry lamprey maws that sought out the burning effigies below. Javelins of fire, together with supernatural spells large and small, answered the threat, forming tightly-packed phalanxes that concentrated their collective heat to repel the invading Void. _What a painting,_ Richard regarded the projections. _You could sell that._ "Mao…" the Tower Master beside Richard was in disbelief. "To think they could fight the Shoggoth. To think anything could repel the Shoggoth…" Just as the man's lament passed, a mass of tendrils broke past a hazy net of fire to strike at the Salamanders below. The square phalanx was cut in twain in a single strike, sending the serpentine humanoids scattering in every direction. Then, from almost a hundred meters away, Zodiam swung his enormous crescent blade of fire, sending an arching moon of pure heat to sever the tendril, encountering no more resistance than glowing iron through a stick of butter. "The Shoggoth does not know of fear or retreat…" The Tower Master continued. "But there is not enough feed to sustain its aggression. Sooner or later, your Regent will not have enough vitality to maintain her creature." Richard wasn't about to inform the man that Gwen never supplied the Shoggoth with anything other than a spark of creation—but he did share the man's diminishing confidence. That Zodiam, after fighting Jun and Golos, the Tower itself, half the city's militia, and more than half the Mage Flights available in Tianjin, could still repel the Shoggoth was not within any of their expectations. "Tower Master!" Magister Hu interrupted their lip-biting with a bark from the Divination Station. "Sir! The living Shoal has made its move. We have... nothing to slow them." Wong's jaw clenched. Richard counted the veins popping on the man's face before he finally relaxed his stance. "Then I am sorry, comrades," he spoke to the command room. "Your Tower Master has been lax in his duty." "Secretary…" Magister Hu's voice grew choked. "You did your best." "The city is wholly lost," Wong said to the crew, his eyes meeting Richard's for the briefest moments. "Hu. Ready the Tower for evacuation. Collect as many of our Flights as you can, including important members of the Party. Once Tianjin Tower is safe, I will contact Central and face the tribunal's judgement." Richard felt his loftiness turn to sympathy. _Wong's the right sort_ —even if he wasn't the man needed to save his beloved city. After all, he was the fool who had given Percy access to the Tower's secure levels and God knows what else. If he knew his Communists, there would be nothing left of the man on a physical and metaphysical level once the CCDI was done with him. On the enormous, multi-storey displays, the sombre members of the Tower watched the Mermen Tide rush headlong into the dissipating lightning of the bay. A few minutes ago, the tempest had swallowed the Dark Sun—after which the storm had let loose a final, tempestuous discharge before it dissipated. The assumption was that the Yinglong had done all it was willing to do to defend its domain. Any other conjecture was a moot point, for no one could contact or negotiate with the land God nor dared to question its motives. There were its children, of course, but no one had the gall to call Ayxin at this critical juncture or ask Golos to give his father a whine. While the Tower's command centre pondered the best way out, Richard's eyes followed the sweeping Mermen Tide. As foretold by doctrine, first came the siege-breakers, most notably the Leviathan. Thanks to growths of chitin aged by the immense pressure of the Elemental Plane of Water, these creatures were impervious except to strategic-class magic used by Humanity's greatest Mages. With no sign of significant impediments, the Leviathan crushed the bay's infrastructure, tearing through the bridges and the shattered Shielding Stations to arrive at the deep-sea dockland, wedging itself onto half of the dock's once prosperous expanse. Slowly, its maw opened a smidgen, a mere height of three storeys with a width that spanned a hundred parking lots. From within the darkness of its hive-like gullet, coral-wreathed crustacean Mermen emerged, each as heavily set as Golems but possessing an impossible agility. In schools, they scampered across the ruins with their cargos of fish or prawn-headed infantry. "… They're attacking the Undead?" Tower Master Wong was the only one with the authority to remark upon the improbable visions floating between the projector and the audience. Richard inspected the images as well. For some unexplainable reason, the Mermen calvary would pause to skewer a surviving Undead fish or crush those still moving under claw and pincer. The Sea Witches, famed for their mastery over Elemental Water, were gathering up moaning corpses by the hundreds to be swallowed into floating vortexes. With unparalleled efficiency, the Mermen Tide advanced as a blue-green shoal riding the high tide onto a shallow beach. "They're not coming inland? They're headed north?" The Tower Master's commentary reflected the question floating above the audience's minds. Richard's eyes wandered from screen to screen until he saw a robust, multi-storey crustacean walk into the scene, evidently the leader of the encroaching horde of clambering chitin. Upon the Fabricator-sized lobster was a temple made of coral fused into the crown. As it passed, the Tower's Diviner was curious enough to send his consciousness within, unveiling the spectacle of a fishy conspiracy centred around a table with a sand map. For a brief second, the Diviner caught the silhouette of a Mermen priest, fat and corpulent and dressed in shimmering sea silks, held aloft by familiar-looking tendrils dotted with blinking eyes. Before Richard could ask the man to focus his vision, a Sea Witch extended an elegant hand near the point of view. Like crushing a bug, she pinched the air. Abruptly, the voyeuristic Clairvoyance ceased— No doubt, somewhere in the Divination Tower, a Diviner was screaming in agony, blood pouring from every orifice on his face as he howled for healing. But Richard had seen what he needed to see. On the necks of those priests surrounding the table… every member carried a relic of Faith upon their bullish necks. A relic in the form of a can. A can with an image that paid handsome dividends to his cousin for her likeness. "Jesus Christ!" Richard blasphemed aloud, though he doubted the Communists cared. "… I told you the SPAM sponsorship would damage your brand…" Tianjin. The Summoning Platform was a detached section of the Tower usually used for establishing forward operating posts for Mage Flights. Now, it was guarded by what remained of the Tower's best Battle Mages, two Knights from the Ordo, a red-headed Elementalist of considerable abilities, and the Yinglong's youngest. Situated a safe distance from the battle between their conjured Shoggoth and the Elemental Prince's Brass Legion, those not currently occupied with managing the Mandala took the chance to converse by the platform's edge. "The Master's presence grows faint," Elvia Lindholm, Vessel to the Yinglong, remarked upon the aftermath of her roughshod encounter with destiny. "Have we finally outlived our uses, Golos? What else has the great patriarch envisioned for us?" The Thunder Dragon studied the warring creatures below, his jaws clenching and unclenching with every clash. "Who can know his mind? After tonight, Father will be slumbering for a long while. With Ayxin safe and the child growing well, no more sentimentalities tether him to our world." "Would the Master leave for the Unformed Land?" Elvia felt the emptiness inside her like a missing organ. "Ruxin says he has been leaving for centuries now… if that makes sense." The Thunder Dragon leaned closer to the edge. "Though that may be beyond the understanding of the mortal races." "If you don't mind me asking," Slylth Morden tactlessly interjected beside them. "What would happen to Lord Yinglong's domain if he's no longer interested in its welfare? Will the eldest—Lord Ruxin—return to inherit?" Golos grunted. "Ruxin has his land now. As was Father's intent, I suspect Ayxin will be the new custodian." "Ayxin?" Elvia thought of the fact, then nodded. "Yes, I do suppose that's a necessity. The child of impossibilities will need its grandfather's resources for a long while before it can anchor in our reality." "And with the Humans cowed, Ryxi can finally awaken his mother," Golos concurred. "He contributed significantly to the cause. I am sure Father will humour him." Elvia recalled the Dragon's earlier explanation. "Was this through Lulan?" The Dragon nodded. "The young Daoshi has done well, whatever she's doing." "This is all so vague," Slylth questioned the brutish face as if trying to decipher a Mandala. "Are you and your siblings unaware of Lord Yinglong's designs?" "I doubt any of us knew what the others had planned." the Thunder Dragon raised both clawed hands. "But we did our dues, and so did this Vessel here. Now, we are all rewarded." Acutely, Elvia felt a terrifying tremor run through her body until her fingers trembled in tune with the titanic clash below. "We all…" she found the validation of her suspicions hard to swallow. Besides her, she noticed Mathias gritting his teeth. "We were _all_ rewarded?" "Are you not?" Golos studied her with interest. Elvia wracked her brain for the clues—but she couldn't turn away from the carnage of millions below, Sir Reginald and Kass's deaths, and the billions that would now suffer. "Not following?" The Thunder Dragon appeared keen to express its newfound intellect, a significant upgrade from his past as a Wyvern. "Fine, let me enlighten your small human head. If you recall, the Calamity came to Huangshan with her Uncle, correct? Of their own free will." Elvia nodded slightly. "Gwen needed Essence…" "Essence they stole from the Yinglong. From my Father! Two mortals! Stealing from a God of the land itself! Why would anyone gamble that the Yinglong is blissfully asleep and unaware? Who could have told the wisened Ash Bringer of such a fact?" Elvia's eyes grew wide. "The Master?" "I don't know," the Dragon snickered. "But imagine my surprise when we were commanded to bring a pair of thieves to Father. Of course, things got complicated, and Gwen and Jun ended up besting both myself and Ayxin, and that's how the Calamity and my _luyos_ became entwined." "Karmic threads…" Elvia mouthed the Draconic word. In the mortal tongue, the word held immeasurably less meaning. "After that, Ruxin was brought into the fold," Golos recounted a few recollections he did not fully understand. "The Calamity and I met again in Nagaland and fought to establish Ruxin's new home, which further affirmed our _luyos_ —a necessary condition for that gadget Ruxin gave to the Calamity and to keep Ruxin off Father's throne." "The Omni-Orb?" Elvia recalled the device Gwen trusted with her life as a guidance system. "She has an Omni-orb?" Slylth whistled. "Master Morden was the first to create one. Did you know that?" "How did you think the Calamity could find you without delay? How did she show up every time, on time?" The Blue Dragon ignored the young Red. "Besides, the Omni-orb isn't the first gift from us. From Father's garden, the Calamity had received a herbal supplement…" "Sen-sen!" Elvia had yet to retrieve her dancing herb. From her empathic link, however, she knew it was asleep in the same room as Jun, aiding the man's recovery. "Which the Calamity gifted to you as a Familiar…" Golos gloated. "… and I took as the conduit to the Master…" "Which allowed you to be his Vessel and be Ayxin's maid at the wedding… which allowed you to heal Jun when needed." "Wow..." Slylth's gaze grew worshipful as Golos explained the finer points. Beside the human-shaped lizards, Elvia felt the stars spin, and the universe align. Gwen had ventured into Huangshan before the IIUC! No one had even imagined their seemingly innocuous adventures had any significant entwinement with the Yinglong, much less the knots within knots of a transforming cat's cradle. "How does Lulan fit into this?" Elvia asked, still in disbelief at Golos' gloat. "Well, clearly, you don't know what Lulu's been up to." Golo's smugness continued. "After Gwen saved her, she swore to be useful. But how could a damaged mortal like her be useful to a Calamity? Well... it just so happens that Ryxi was tasked with taking her in as a pupil. I was there when he taught her, you should know. She has become very useful after Ryxi's tutorship, especially since the Naga Spirit sustaining her Sword Forms was handpicked by Ruxin. Who knows how brother managed the patience to strip that Naga Core undamaged from its living body, but he did it for a _mortal_." "The Nazarene above…" Elvia felt goosebumps all over. "This is _unbelievable_." "From what I heard, Lulan was responsible for a Kirin fragment." "A Kirin Amulet?" For some reason, Elvia recalled the agonised face of Mei Yang. "What do you mean?" "You should ask her yourself." The Dragon shrugged. "I wasn't there for her mission. I was readying myself for the Calamity's summoning at Ruxin's." "Where's Lulan now?" "Somewhere, probably suffering from what's to come." Golos' spirit appeared to dampen. "It's not going to be easy." Elvia felt an unpleasant tingling in her limbs. The Dragon regarded her strangely. " _Vessel_ , our roles are performed. I did my part and saved the Calamity's life at least three times at great expense to myself—and I was rewarded with the pure blood of a Thunder Dragon. Ayxin attained the spouse she desired, and as his favourite, Father gifted her a child coalesced from Essence and causality. Ryxi, in a few months, will awaken his mother in an epoch with no Daoshi to subdue her. Ruxin has his new home and fortunes and is now unchallenged in that part of the world. The Calamity herself has not lost her Uncle and gone insane, nor has she swallowed half of the humans here in Tianjin. Her brother, _presumably_ , is alive—but he did not awaken the Kirin nor cause Jun's death. Lulan has attained the ancient arts, gained new life, and repaid her debt in part. You're still breathing, against _everything_ Father originally foretold, and you now have an opportunity to make amends with the Calamity… Is not our Father the most benevolent being on Terra?" "This is _insane_ …" Elvia could not stop herself from her unstable mutterings. Were she not trained expensively by the Ordo, she felt her mind would have shattered. "This is… this is how Dragons work?" "Yes, that's about right." Slylth was taking notes. "This is very interesting, Brother Golos. Much more intricate than my Mother's stories." "Hahaha— _bow_ before my Father's wisdom!" Golos' horse laugh was an iron grater pressed against the soft swells of Elvia's bruised soul. "So, Vessel. Will you go your own way now? Or _would_ your _luyos_ remain entwined with the Calamity?" "You said… I should make amends?" Elvia's lips felt parched. After all this talk of foresight and prophesy, her mind firmly rested on the Draconic word for "thread". "Don't look at me like a beaten pet. Sympathy makes me hungry." The Dragon shooed her away. " _Someone's_ got to tell Gwen that brother of hers is a real and not metaphorical Calamity in the making. _One of us_ has to explain to her that Father was the one who put her terrible life in order and she should be eternally grateful and live only in service to the Yinglong… but it sure as hell ain't going to be me…" Before Elvia could protest, the Thunder Dragon stopped talking, as did the muttering Red. Elvia followed Golos' gaze as his voice trailed off, landing at the city's eastern coast. “… er… I don't think Father's responsible for THAT…" Golos looked at Slylth. "Any ideas?" "Nothing to do with me." Slylth shook his head. "Mother's beard, there is a lot of them." "You?" Golo asked the Knightly pair. The Knight Protector looked at Elvia. Elvia concentrated what little Essence she had left into her eyes, drawing her vision into sharp focus. Below, the battle had taken yet another turn. Mermen—living ones—were pouring en-mass into the basin north of the city, skating across the charred landscape via a roving tsunami conjured by the infamous Sea Witches. As the landslide flooded into the shattered urban landscape, they set upon the Brass Legion with tooth and claw, mandible and coral, smashing into the sizzling phalanxes as a dark blue sea, swallowing the living motes of magma in an ultraviolent confluence of steam and burning. Like folded origami placed in seawater, the Brass Legion's shocked troops collapsed, unable to deal with the sudden swell of Elemental Water, not to mention the Golem-sized King Crab Mermen swatting aside their serpentine bodies like swinging scythes harvesting red kelp. "Wow..." Slylth Morden clapped happily. "I am so glad I left home." _Was the Elemental Alliance turning upon itself?_ Elvia wondered. There had been no betrayal in the Arctic nor the Antarctic, yet here, against mortal foes, their enemies would turn upon each other? But her conjecture didn't make sense either, not in the context of what happened next. From the rolling ink cloud housing Gwen's hovering Shoggoth, all-seeing tendrils descended, indiscriminately picking at the incoming Mermen. At first, Elvia thought the Mermen might be deterred, but after a few minutes of ceaseless slaughter, it was evident that the Mermen's goal wasn't the Brass Legion or Zodiam—but the Shoggoth. "They're not… attacking the Shoggoth… are they?" Golos looked like he wanted to fly down for a closer look. "They look like carp pushing toward a Dragon Gate." Of all of Gwen's companions, Elvia knew best the likeness of a scene where the mindless faithful meet their idol. She had seen the spectacle at the Isle of Dog's charity concerts, at the gatherings organised by the Ordo, and in the faces of those men and women she had saved on islands inundated by flood and fire. Now, she was seeing it in the movement of these Mermen. Be it large or small, gargantuan or otherwise, numberless sea-born masses rode toward the Shoggoth, clambering over one another to reach the epicentre. Zodiam's troops were Elemental elites—but they were still an expeditionary force sent into an unwelcoming world. Comparatively, these fish-out-of-water were superior in their native existence upon the Prime Material and in the sheer scale of their numbers. As a maddened, ravening crush of whirling destruction, the tidal wave of bodies bull-rushed the Fire Elementals, lapping at their sulphur-ridden hides, extinguishing the flaming earth beneath their feet. Zodiam himself was helpless, for the Shoggoth's interest was still keenly focused upon the enormous beacon of vitality that was the Fire Giant's core. His Magma Ursine carried its rider faithfully, leaping to avoid the thicker tendrils, landing deliberately into collated pools of howling Mermen like a meteor. Elvia forced herself to refocus. This time, she drew from her Relic what little Faith was left unexpended by her use of the Claymore of Light. Her pupils turned golden. And the blue-black Mermen Tide… transformed into a sea of swaying autumn wheat. _Fanatics!_ Her heart grew uncomfortably ill. Below was a Great Shoal of mind-wiped, thoughtless zealots! A million and more Mermen, a numberless multitude of the Faithful, all clamouring for the acknowledgement of their many-eyed God. "Do you hear that?" Golos cupped his ear to the wind. They were many kilometres away, but a Thunder Dragon could pick up even minute vibrations in the air. "They're calling for her." "Calling for the Shoggoth?" Elvia realised she was wrong before she even completed the sentence. "You mean they're calling for Gwen? How do you know that?" "Might I help?" Slylth interjected with a wave of his hand, moving something invisible through the air until it blossomed as a Divination Glyph. "The Glyph scripts used here are fairly rudimentary, so I caught a bit of it…" The spell flower blossomed, releasing the sound taken by the Diviners for their Regent upstairs. _“Weee—Weeee—“ _ _“Gweee—Gweeee— Gweeee—“ _ _“GWEEE—GWEEEN— GWEEENGH— GWEEENGH—“_ "Maybe they're making a _GWEEEE_ —sound by coincidence." Elvia implored her companions, receiving mocking stares in return. "The Rat-kin, maybe, but why would fish worship Gwen?" _"GWEEE—GWEEEN— GWEEENGH— GWEEENGH—"_ The unholy chant continued until Slylth willed it away. "Why else?" Golos dismissed her mortal insight. "For our kind, it is natural for the powerful to be worshipped by the powerless." "I think this should be the end unless we're fighting the Shoal next." Slylth pointed a finger at the Mermen. By now, the motes of fire were only a small island of magma. "Zodiam is toast. He will soon return to his domain. He cannot sustain his full power without the Elemental overflow from the disrupted Axis Mundi." Elvia regarded the young Dragon, amazed that the word "toast" could somehow be seamlessly worked into Draconic. As if heeding the Red Dragon's prediction, the final flames winked out, punctuated by an enormous eruption of magma and sulphur that sent back the Shoal several hundred meters, sundering a thousand clambering assailants around the Elemental Prince. Then... sodden darkness. Only the Merman Shoal remained, gathering in a whirlpool beneath the Shoggoth, sending the aerial titan into a feeding frenzy. Gwen's command to cease the Mandala was heard above and over the railings. The hovering platform shook and shivered as the HDM modules were cut, depriving the Shoggoth of the means required to sustain its trans-planar existence. "Now it's done?" Mathias asked the wise-seeming Dragon-kin behind her, the question foremost to Elvia's thoughts. "The long night of Tianjin is over?" On cue, as if the cosmos was answering Mathias' metaphor, the sickly rays of a new dawn pierced through the hazy city's silhouette, bringing dimension to the Shoggoth's maddening visage. "There's your answer." Golo shrugged his massive shoulders. "It's done. And those left should be happy. They're survivors now, whereas they could have been either kindle for Zodiam's fire, feed for the Kirin's resurgence, or food for the blasphemous Mermen." "And now, they're merely homeless and without a future," Elvia voiced sadly, understanding that survival was a hard and bitter fruit. "We must pray for the untold million that's dead and gone and aid the lingering millions with nowhere to go." "Not nowhere." Golos patted her on the back, one violent enough to almost send her over the rail. "After all, if the Calamity hasn't consumed us all by the time we've confessed to everything we've done for her, there's always room in Shalkar."

Tianjin. Bohai bay. It took until the sickly sun's slow meander over the city's zenith for the Shoggoth's ink cloud of Void-sown malice to be digested by the _Spiritus Mundi_. By then, China's sole northern trade hub had been burning for almost eighteen hours, and there was yet more guerrilla warfare being fought in the un-demolished sectors of the central business districts by the surviving Militia. However, clean-ups were no longer the concern of the Regent of Shalkar. Her promised Shoggoth had come and gone—and her remaining worry was for the surviving Mermen standing knee-deep in muck and mire, chanting her name. _ GWEN! GWEN! GWEN!_ They were doubtlessly repeating her namesake, for she could feel the reverberation of their psychic energies in her Astral Body, sending little quakes of resonance through her toes and fingers to fizzle as golden sparks at the tips of her hair. Though bizarre, it was the same phenomenon she had witnessed at the Charity concerts on the Isle of Dog and in Elvia's sermons for the poor and ailing, only... different. Hers did not feel like the calculated arithmetic of the Nazarene's organised religion. The Mermen's "faith" was alive— a primal belief as old as worlds and words. With Tianjin Tower's scrying eyes still trained upon her, she commanded the borrowed platform to stop at the boundary of the spontaneous swampland salting the north of the steaming city. The stench was unimaginable, for it was an admixture of the organic and synthetic, of magic-wrought plastics and rubber together with fish and human carcasses, both grilled and parboiled by the clash of water and fire. "Richard, Pats, stay on the platform with Evee. I'll go and see what this is all about," she gave the command. "Slylth... you can remain here or meet me back in Shalkar. What do you want to do?" "I'll observe for a little longer," the Dragon-kin appeared invested in seeing her encounter with the Shoal. "But yes, all things considered, it might be best to reconvene in Shalkar." Gwen nodded. Out of both respect and exhaustion, none of her other companions protested or disagreed. Like a dark bird, the Regent stepped off the platform to sail through the air, descending alone into the hazy stench of the Mermen survivors. At the centre of the Shoggoth's feeding—dead for the fact—was an enormous lobster as large as four construction Golems stacked back to back, with pincers so massive each could rival a double-storey building. For such a creature to exist out of the water was taxing to the extreme—and it had made it here only to be hollowed out by the Shoggoth. Scattered around the lobster temple were the remnants of the Shoal strong enough to venture inland on the Witch-wrought Tsunami. Gwen recognised many of the Mermen subtypes, for she had fought them all in Auckland. She spotted the muscular Wave Riders with their tuna-like heads, legions of crustacean shock troops propelled by their multi-use limbs, and here and there, she saw the floating breath-bubbles of Sea Witches, Mermaid and mer-dudes both, armed with their priceless coral implements. Strangely, the ones here did not possess the homogenous colours of a well-bred army but were more like mercenaries. As she descended, a gust of fresh wind tore apart the stench, unfurling the cloak extensions of her crow-skin armour as a pair of tenebrous wings. The Mermen closest to her lowered their weapons, heads, and knees if they had them. " _Pale Priestess_!" A cry rang out, both one voice and many, followed by an expanding ring of supplication from the epicentre of her intended landing. Gwen's eyes scanned the scene, awed and alarmed by the spectacle, her Lightning-fuelled pride purring like a well-groomed cat. The uncanny, she acknowledged, lied not in the manner of their supplication but its implication, that of lower beings to a greater existence. "WHO LEADS THIS SHOAL?" Her Clarion Call echoed across the horizon. "COME FORTH!" The coral palace atop the Lobster opened like a flower, willed into an outward transformation by its Sea Witch overseers: within, appearing like the yellow innards of an enormous sea urchin, a dozen Mermen offered their worship. Gwen's Divination-fed irises traced the details of the palace's origami folds, noting the Transmutation magic of these Demi-humans. Curiously, of the numerous Witches, the Turtle-men Shaman and the five warriors of various species present, a Mermen with almost no magical aura stood at the head of the Shoal's inner council. The corpulent Merman raised its head, its fishy face full of expectation. She did not recognise the Merman. For one, it was enormously obese, possessing a distended belly hidden by rich robes of human-make. It was also indescribably ugly. _A deep-sea bureaucrat of the Seven Kingdoms?_ Gwen wondered as she came closer. The Merman looked common, but his attire was as rich as the deference the others displayed. "I am Gwen Song, Regent of Shalkar, Magister of the Mageocracy." She allowed her titles to roll over the Mermen crew. "You have aided us in vanquishing Zodiam, Prince of Fire—but still, I must inquire—why has the Great Shoal of the Mermen risen from the ocean for this occasion?" Noting her hesitation, the fat one stepped forward. "OH PALE PRIESTESS OF THE COMMUNAL ONE!" He cried out, his voice deep and booming. "YOUR SERVANTS WELCOME YOU HOME!" With a swift, uninterrupted gesture, the Mermen tore open its robe. For a second, Gwen was positive the Mermen was either committing a sex crime, launching a chemical attack, or both. As her Shield sprang into being, what assailed the Pale Priestess of the Old Ones wasn't offending fluids from the nether Planes but a psychological shock worthy of Carpenter's filmography. Tendrils, tentacles, eyes and maws opened like the fingers of an opening hand to greet her, unfurling like a prehistoric fern. Were it not for the Mermen attached at the base, Gwen would have fully expected the purple-pink appendages to cry out "Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!" in a mindless facsimile of communication. Terrifyingly, her next thought was that these tendrils were pregnant with intent. As monstrous infants baying for motherly attention, the eye-studded fingers harkened for her and reached out for her embrace, their gazes wanton and full of anticipation. "WE WELCOME THE PALE PRIESTESS!" The rest of the council also shed various parts of their clothing. While Gwen's sanity quotient adjusted its scales, her mind drank in the Lovecraftian accessories that had taken root in these Mermen's flesh. Without a doubt, these were her _Shoggoth_ —or at least, what was left of the Shoggoth's summoning. That the "bits" could continue to exist meant that their hosts supplied the appendages with fuel, be it mana, Faith or vitality. Still, try as she might, she couldn't find a magical theory to support her present evidence. Doubtlessly, Magister Brown and Gracie would be very busy in the aftermath of this phenomenon. There would be a new dissertation founded on these Mermen, one to make careers, assuming she suffered the subjects to live. "You are their leader?" Gwen kept up her imperial arrogance. "I am your _whip_ , the humble Lei-bup," the Mer-priest bowed, moving forward using smaller, subtler crawlers. "Since the South China Sea, I have been your most faithful servant." Gwen's brain took several seconds to dredge the meaning of that familiar-sounding name from the depth of recollection. _Lei-bup!_ The Mermen chieftain? Or, more accurately—the "Village Secretary" of Chicken Shit Island? That's where they had performed a test Shoggoth summoning! The High Priest of this cult was THAT specific Lei-bup? Just how poor were the Chinese at purging the environment? Full of scepticism, her eyes drew lower until she saw the item hanging below Lei-bup's neck. "Oh dear..." Gwen's tone grew kinder once her suspicion took in the scope of what she now recognised. "You still have that?" With reverence, Lei-bup held up a can of unopened SPAM brimming with energy. "I have it still, Mistress. It was your first gift to Lei-bup. Despite the use by date, it shall remain eternal, so long as the Shoal persists." As one, the others also produced their SPAM cans. A few, she could see, still had the preserved prints of her likeness from the IIUC. "Iä! Iä! Iä!" A chant suddenly broke out. "For she who lurks at the threshold!" "For the All-in-one!" "For the One-in-ALL!" "Comrade Priestess!" _One of those titles is not like the others_. Gwen registered as her boots touched the slimy coral tiles, noting that the lubrication was for the betterment of its inhabitant's habit of gliding. "Why are you here, Lei-bup?" She approached within tentacle distance to show her familiarity. With a mind of their own, the appendages reached out for her. _"Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!"_ They seemed to murmur in silence, their mouths forming the sound without utterance. Feeling the pressure of several hundred pairs of eyes judge her next move, she ungloved a white hand, drawing gasps from the Mermen. Then, first with a finger and then with the whole of her hand, she took hold of the slimy bundle making her acquaintance. "Hello, Shoggy…" she called out the creature's name. The tentacles were warm, its lubricant rough and a little gritty. Like a multi-eyed pup, the orbs of hazel green regarded her with a sense of wonder. Gwen knew what she had to do. Circulating the Essence within herself, she condensed several droplets of pure, Almudj-blessed Essence upon her palm. As a blossom of dog-tongues, the Shoggoth greedily lapped up her blessing. "Oh, Great Mistress…" Lei-bup shuddered in ecstasy, an act that appeared utterly fanatical when enacted upon his Dace-headed face. Gwen withdrew her hand. For a War Mage whose head count of Mermen was in the hundreds of thousands, these particular Mermen made her feel—strangely welcome. With a quick cleaning chant, the slime came off like a second skin, allowing her to re-don her gauntlets. A connection had been made between herself and Lei-bup, one not easily dismissed. Again, the Mermen bowed. Lei-bup collected himself, then made another attempt at prostration. "We survive to serve, O Priestess. What is your pleasure?" "I would like to know more of the Shoal's reason for aiding me, Lei-bup," Gwen confessed her immediate desire. "Though your methods were unorthodox, I appreciate your role in taming Zodiam. However, since the battle is over, please retreat into Bohai Bay. For your efforts, I will see your Shoal rewarded accordingly in the coming days." "Speaker of the Old Ones." Lei-bup's expression was an avatar of fishy magnanimity. "We are already rewarded—look there! Gaze upon your Faithful and how they celebrate!" Gwen could not look past the coral wall of the portable palace, but her eyes did register distant visions of the surviving Merman desperately scouring the landscape for… Before Lei-bup, she would have guessed they were searching for _food_. Now, she knew the Mermen were looking for fragments of the Shoggoth, little bits of tentacle and tendril, a wayward eye or perhaps some left-over manifestations of tooth and maw. As for what happened once a piece was discovered—Lei-bup was already modelling the answer. "The chosen Faithful will survive the Baptism." Following her eyes, Lei-bup proudly pointed to his enormous collection of tentacled flesh. "Those lacking the necessary fervency will be consumed in turn." Gwen did not doubt Lei-bup's words. Now that she had accepted the condition of her unfounded role, her interest was only in managing its outcomes. Certainly, she had not intended this to happen, as it was the Chinese who were responsible for clean-ups on Chicken Shit Island, not the then-student self of Gwen Song. As for the cult—so long as they did not raid Human settlements, their business in the sea would be a problem, or a solution, for another day. "Once the battlefield is looted, Lei-bup..." Gwen patted the slimy Merman. As a many-fingered hand, his upper tentacles caressed her armoured bodice as if the act would lend them a more stable existence in the Prime Material. "Return to the sea. Where do you normally gather?" "Not here," Lei-bup confirmed, much to her relief. "The Yellow Sea is our home. Even if it is currently been invaded by the blasphemers." "By blasphemers?" Gwen noted the Mermen's expression of loathing. "Do you mean the Undead?" Lei-bup nodded. "We know not where they come from," the Priest-like Dace glowered, his whisker tentacles writhing with displeasure. "But whole Shoals have emerged from the Deep, where the Kingdoms make their home." "The Seven Kingdoms of the Elemental Plane of Water…" Gwen chewed her lower lip in contemplation. "I shall take that into account. Do you have any contact with them?" "No. But within the Shoal, we have countless refugees from different regions," Lei-bup caught her interest with a twinkle in his lidless eye. "Shall I summon a few? They come from all over as Comrades to our cause." "Comrades?" Gwen considered the term. "Yes." Lei-bup nodded eagerly. "Within the One Great Shoal, we are equal. The only requirement is to have faith in the Great Old One. However, to become a member of the inner Party, one must undergo the baptism of the Old One." "The Old One, who is the Key and the Gate?" Gwen reflexively made a jest, pondering how much of her bullshit Lei-bup and appropriated. "The Opener of the way?" "One moment…" Lei-bup produced a notebook, then furiously took down her words. "Er…" Gwen battered away the enthusiastic tendrils. She wanted more information from the Mermen, but the city was on fire, and Sobel had taken her brother. "Lei-bup, I still have matters to attend to on land. Please withdraw your… people. I shall join you once the matters of the land are resolved. Here is a Glyph for my Message Device. Do you have a suitable Magitech operator?" "We will loot what we need, Priestess..." Lei-bup promised. "As you wish, Pale Priestess." "The all-in-ONE!" "The One-in-ALL!" "We obey the Comrade secretary!" The answers were good enough for Gwen. She lifted into the air, shelving the adoration of the Mermen for another day. A part of her fancied the prospect of asking those strong-looking monstrosities to help clean up the city—but she somehow doubted the preservation of human life mattered to beings tethered to the oceanic food chain. If, mid-rescue, a King Crab got hungry and decided to munch on the carrion of children—she could not imagine the response from the CCP's stressed government. Until she had time, she must gamble that Lei-bup's design was benign. For in the future… The Deep. The Seven Kingdoms. The Undead Mermen, Spectre and Sobel... Undoubtedly, the Pale Priestess would one day require the aid of her High Priest Lei-bup. Tianjin. The Tower. Once the Saviour of Shenyang returned with the news of benign Mermen willing to retreat in exchange for all of the city's SPAM, the Mages that remained collectively understood the battle was well and truly over. As the platform pulled into the dock, Gwen and her compatriots were greeted by continuous applause from the upper deck to the Tower's interior, including the Tower Master, who made no show of their earlier conflict. Hands were shaken. Elvia blessed the crew as both Ordo Cleric and the Yinglong's spokesperson. Endless platitudes and thanks were given, so much that Gwen wondered if the city below them was still a smouldering hole of water and fire, charcoal and brine. It took an hour of propaganda—an absolute necessity in these trying times, for Gwen to part from the Tower's leadership to finally arrive at the most dreaded moment of her present life. In the atrium to the VIP chambers awaited her Yeye and her Babulya. "Yeye…" She felt her throat contract, her words barely escaping her confounded lips. "Percy, he…" Guo's eyes were distraught and dull. Rather than the keen viciousness of a bloodhound on the prowl, he looked like an old, tired Basset with no more energy to expend. "Secretary General Miao told us to come here—after he delivered the news that Sobel took your brother," Gwen's grandfather said. "After seeing Jun, Tower Master Wang showed me what Percy had done. I know not why this had happened, Gwen. But I hope that you will know more." Guo." Her grandmother touched her grandfather's mandarin jacket. "What is there to ask? Gwen isn't responsible for any of what happened to Percy." The thorn of guilt hidden in her heart pierced Gwen at once. "Yeye… I am so..." " _Patriarch Song—_ " Gwen looked to her right. Elvia was the interlocutor who had spoken up, but the Cleric's tone offered neither condolences nor appeasement. Instead, the healer's expression resembled one standing on the precipice of some enormous cliff. "—Regarding Brother Percy, there are many things you must know, most of which you may not believe. However, where Gwen has been ignorant of Percy Song's actions, the Ordo and the Yinglong are both well-versed in his _crimes_." Gwen's attention was now fully focused on her sanctified Cleric. " _Crimes?_ Lord Vessel?" Guo's voice took on a harder edge. "Might I inquire of what you know? And what do you mean? If you know so much, might you know where this Sobel might have taken our grandchild?" To Gwen's great unease, her friend and partner bowed deeply, then turned her flaxen head toward herself. "I am so sorry, Gwen, for what you will soon know." "What…" Once soothed by Lei-bup's obedience, Gwen's nerves again flared red hot with uncertainty. "What are you saying, Evee?" "Gwen. Please request a private chamber with an LRM Device." Elvia's tone hinted at what Gwen knew to be her friend's masochistic longing for martyrdom. Considering that the Knight Companion had survived an ancient Kirin and then Sobel, she had no idea why her friend would possess such a staunch air of self-loathing, and it made her insides not unlike Lei-bup's bulging belly. "Is a private room necessary?" Gwen could taste the unwelcome tension. "What is it about Percy that we don't know about?" "Gwennie. Please." Elvia's pleading was beyond her ability to refuse. "We need a room. We will also need Lord Golos and Lulan." "Lulu?" Gwen tried to make sense of the request, but all she felt was puzzling alarm, that and the distinct feeling she would rather live in ignorance. "What does Lulu…" Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. "I'll arrange it," Richard stepped in. "Gwen, I also spoke to Petra about this after the Percy situation at the Tower. We need to clear the air before proceeding with our rescue plans." Gwen studied her cousins. Richard was firm, and Petra was her professional self, though the eye-bags and the fatigue of the last eighteen hours were etched harshly on their faces. "I see," Gwen felt a little alone but not nearly as helpless as her confused and agitated grandparents. "Very well, Richard. Make it so…" Richard left to deal with a stary-eyed aide. While they waited, Gwen couldn't help but overhear Elvia's prayer of repentance. Mathias, her Knight Protector, had also taken up a position between Evee and herself, making her premonitions all the more ominous and, for some reason, a little sad. As per its design, Tianjin Tower possessed many such rooms for insulated conferences and meetings of the Inner Party's members. With confidentiality guaranteed by the presence of the Yinglong's Vessel and the Thunder Dragon's threat of destruction, Tower Master Wang loaned the Regent of Shalkar and her crew a secure briefing room warded from all outside interference, including the Tower itself. Gwen sat at the head of the oval table, as insisted by her Cleric. The Yinglong's Vessel and Knight Protector were seated to the right, joined by an impatient Golos. To the left, her agitated grandparents sat on ants' nests, awaiting the secret that the Cleric promised to reveal. Besides them sat Richard, who played with his communication device, while Petra meditated to will away the awkward waiting. _SHEEEEEEIK!_ The gas-powered iron door slid open, revealing the figure of a doll-like girl in a mangled battle garb. "Lulan!" Gwen stood, sending her office chair rolling backwards. The Swordswoman was injured—or more accurately, she appeared recently recovered from a significant injury. Her suit, hand-made by Dwarves for her unique talents, had a clean, seamless rent across the lower waist that reached her groin and thigh. There was a rusty taint on the tear—one Gwen recognised as dried blood. "What's happened to you? Were you in Tianjin as well?" "Nothing significant." Lulan allowed her to inspect the gash but did not address her question with any more details. "Elvia. Ayxin asked me to bring this…" The girl reached into her chest pocket and produced a length of familiar red string that made her grandparents leave their chairs. With a c _lunk_ —the heavy trinket in her hand landed on the mahogany table. It was one-half of a Kirin Pendant, the half her brother possessed. "Lulu!" Gwen's imagination grew wild. "How did you get this?" "Did you track down Sobel?" Guo barked from across the table. "Lulan, where is Percy?" Her grandmother's voice rose as well. "Is he safe?" Gwen's mind swirled with possibilities. The pendant looked clean on the surface, but she could see traces of dried blood in its complex groves. In the nook, there was even a little speck of flesh. Her heart sank downward into the Seven Kingdoms. "Is Percy…" Lulan looked toward Elvia. The latter looked at the amulet. Gwen looked from one to the other. "This is not from Percy Song." Lulan's answer confounded the left side of the table, filling Gwen with mixed relief and confusion. "This belonged to Mei Yang, whom I slew to protect Lord Ayxin." "Mei?" Gwen frowned for several seconds before the words dawned upon her. "… You… _slew_ her?" "Lulan." Kladiya put both hands against her lips. "You...You're the one who killed Mei? You were the _assassin_ in Shanghai?" "I am not an assassin but a guard," Lulan clarified without guilt. "Afterwards, I pursued the true culprit, Percy Song, hoping to stop him before he could activate the Kirin Tomb. I lost him, but I did locate him after following the stench of Kirin Necromancy. However, due to my ineptitude, I failed." The girl touched a finger to her torn armour. "After that, Sobel arrived, and she intervened." Gwen's grandparents stared at Lulan. "You killed Mei?" Gwen still could not believe her lying ears. "You tried to stop Percy? What does that even mean?" Lulan, her dear, innocent, martial-obsessed Lulu, dropped to both knees before Gwen could catch her. "The hell is this?" Gwen could barely keep the flame of unreasonable rage in her belly from combusting. "Were you under Mind Magic?" Lulan violently shook her head. "It was a duty performed for you, for Master Ayxin and Jun," Lulan replied without a hint of remorse or deceit. "And for the debt I owe you." The Sword Mage extended a hand and, watched by all, manifested a jadeite blade with its handle turned toward Gwen. "I failed to stop your brother, benefactor. I shall take any punishment, even if it is my life. You saved me and gave me a second one. Yet, I couldn't even prevent this tragedy, even with all the knowledge and power gifted to me by Master Ryxi." The sudden escalation from waiting for Lulu to the requested execution of Lulu was beyond Gwen's current scope of mental preparedness. Staring at the sword, all she could think about was catching Guo before he did the unthinkable. And from the looks of Golos' readiness, she might need to block the Dragon-kin before he punched the table and sent the Song's side of the family flying outside the Tower. Like the melody of Lulan's vibrating steel, the tension held until finally, Gwen took the sword and swept it from the table, sending it to clatter against the floor. Bowing deeply, Lulan moved to the left of Elvia, then gingerly placed the retrieved sword against the table's edge like a waitress offering a rather fancy steak knife. Her grandmother was the first to break the silence. "Sit, all of you." The old Healer forcibly withheld the pounding emotions in her voice. "Guo, you sit as well. Let's hear what these children have to say. They saved Jun. There's no denying that. They must have good reasons to… be unkind to Percy." As a man in a trance, her grandfather sat. The gathered sunk into silence once more. "Gwen." Elvia gestured to the LRM Device in the middle of the table. "Can you summon Lady Ayxin now?" Golos grunted. "Ayxin should be nursing." Gwen frowned. "Is she even awake?" "She's awake," Golo replied. "After what Father's done, there is no way she would be able to sleep." "Fine, I'll call her residence." From memory, Gwen dialled in the Glyph codes on the console set for the head of the table. A few flickers later, the LRM Device connected with a shriek, clearly anticipating its inclusion in the conference. Ayxin's angular face, now less aggressive and more motherly, swept its peerless gaze over the gathered humans and Dragons seated in Tianjin. The mother of the Song's future looked tired, but so were they all. "Ayxin." Gwen nodded slightly at the impeccable appearance of their Draconic royalty. "Are you well?" "Jun is asleep and recovering." The Dragon-kin was without her usual haughty arrogance. "Thanks to our Vessel, I am resting, and so is the child. Gwen nodded, then turned to the increasingly wooden Elvia. Her Cleric was studying the groves in the mahogany table as if some godly answer rested within the folds. She couldn't help but also note that her grandparents' demeanour had changed when the health of Jun's scion, a true Dragon-child, was duly noted by its royal mother. "That is good to hear, Ayxin. We're all glad that Jun shall soon be by your side." Gwen fought down the butterflies in her stomach. "But what's this about Percy? And why are we not doing everything possible to get him back?" Of the Yinglong's family members, Ayxin's pregnancy presumably spoke for her innocence. Lulan, Gwen assumed, was taking a position related to Ryxi, her instructor. Golos had done nothing untoward, so she wasn't sure why he looked like he just ate a den of diseased Rat-kin. Mathias was decor. And as for Elvia… Gwen sensed the girl's silence was the onset of a terrific storm that would blow away all sensibility. "Gwennie." Elvia finally looked up, her expression the most serious she had ever seen her friend compose. "It pains me to have hidden the truth, but Percy Song, your brother, is _evil_." The unintended assonance between Percy and "evil" squeezed the air from Gwen's lungs. She had expected many things, such as bullying Percy. Necromancer Percy, or sexual predator Percy, considering his pedigree. But she had not expected her closest friend to outright accuse her brother of dastardly villainy. Her grandparents look on blankly. Petra frowned. For some reason, Richard's body language was of immense relief, like a man who had finally passed a bladder stone. "Can this _evil_ be… clarified?" Gwen asked carefully, as one might tread while traversing cracking ice. "What sins did our Percy perform, prey tell." Elvia, her sweet, nice, guileless Elvia, looked her dead in the eyes. Her friend seemed unshackled as she spoke. With an accusatory finger pointed in reprimand, she gestured at the Kirin Amulet. "He attempted to usurp the Essence of Ayxin's unborn child with the Song's Kirin Necromancy." As a group, their eyes converged upon the Percy half of the Kirin Amulet, its likeness akin to a half-moon tadpole. Guo rose to protest. Her Babulya arrested her husband, then produced another Kirin amulet from her jacket, depositing the dark green block of jadeite against its twin. For the first time, Gwen saw the two halves together; one pale green and the other a dark emerald. As a whole, they looked like tadpoles chasing one another from tail to head. "That is a heavy accusation, Evee," Gwen said, her fingers no longer dexterous as she considered the implications. Lulan raised her hand. "I observed that Percy had left the Kirin Amulet with Mei Yang. Once Elvia left in pursuit, it activated. From what I could see, the amulet used Mei's spirit to manifest a necromantic Essence Drain. As Ryxi had tasked me to attend to his sister, I stopped Percy Song's assistant, disrupting the spell's cycle. Afterwards, I utilised a Naga tendril to pilfer the amulet." "I see," Gwen spoke for herself and her grandparents. "So you acted in defence of Ayxin?" "I did it for my benefactor," Lulan nodded. "And, by extension, my Master." Gwen wanted to say Lulan's actions were reasonable, but that wouldn't bring back her brother for a much-needed interrogation. She turned to the Chief Prosecutor. "Lulu, we thank you for saving my future cousin. Elvia, you inferred this was merely ONE of his crimes?" "Yes," Elvia's reading of her brother's rap sheet continued. "Do you remember when the Tower experienced a surge of mana? The result cut out the Shielding Arrays and allowed the Undead to push inland." " _And Percy did that?_ " Gwen felt her voice grow hoarse. She hadn't even shouted at her Evee, and her voice was already gone. "We cannot confirm if he intended it." Her friend did not relent on rending her heart in twain. "But I can confirm he was the one who meddled with the Jade Lode. He confessed as much, stating that the Kirin was his birthright, his creature to raise. Gwen, I can swear upon my Ordo and Faith that I speak of what I know to be true. If Sir Rothwell and Kass were still here, they would support me. Unfortunately, they were consumed by Elizabeth Sobel, which led to Percy's attack on me." Her grandfather's face changed from pink to a deep scarlet, then to white. For any grandparent, the normal reaction would be a frustrated demand for evidence. However, Elvia was a Cleric of the Ordo Bath and the Vessel of the Yinglong. To accuse her of outright lying was so absurd that not even Gwen, in all her arrogance, could accept. Besides her grandfather, her Babulya helped him circulate his Elemental Salt in case the man suffered a mana seizure. "Can you tell me…" Gwen felt she would rather fall face-first into Lei-bup's nest of writhing eyes than listen to Elvia dismantle her brother's innocence. "… why he choked you?" "He did so at Sobel's goading, but he did it willingly." Elvia's eyes were large, luminous and melting. "He did it spitefully, and I had expected to die. If successful, the act would have prevented Jun's healing." Gwen almost bit her tongue. "Percy is responsible for Uncle Jun as well? Elvia… I don't know what else to say. I believe you—but I can't accept it. I don't understand why all of this happened. If you knew or suspected, why didn't you tell me earlier? We couldn't have prevented this?" "I acted upon a vision from the Yinglong…" Elvia's voice lowered to a whisper. "I couldn't afford to change the future into one I could not intervene." "So you kept all of this." Gwen felt her heart sink, then sink again. Try as she might, she couldn't muster the sympathy necessary to forgive her Cleric. "To yourself? Was your faith in me so... insignificant?" "I know how much you love your family," Elvia averted her eyes. "I dared not risk invalidating the vision." "Who else knew about this?" Gwen gnashed her teeth. "Which one of you knew?" "We knew parts and pieces," Golos came to the cowed Cleric's aid. "None of us knew everything." "You knew?" Gwen glared at her Dragon, then at Lulan and Ayxin. "You and you? All of you?" "Ruxin gave us hints," Golos said. "RUXIN!" Gwen growled. "So it's a whole damned Yinglong conspiracy!" "Gwen Song!" Ayxin's displeasure shot over the LRM Device. "Don't be an ingrate!" "WHO ELSE KNEW?" Gwen felt the heat on her face like a fire. "I also told the Ordo's Master, who aided me," Elvia's confession continued, barely holding back the rolling droplets in the well of her well-loved eyes. "For my selfishness, Sir Kass and Reginald lost their life." "Why didn't you come to me? What can you do _without me_? Is this why you told me that crock story back in London? The one about _Sovereignty_?" Gwen heard herself demand, her voice taking on a mind of its own. Her grandmother's hand firmly took hold of her wrist. "Gwen, don't lose your temper." "I…" Elvia was shaking now. "I didn't think…" "You didn't _think_." Gwen tore her hand from her babulya's grasp. "Of course you didn't! Elvia! _What the fuck?_ " " _You had to see Percy's evil for yourself!_ " The words escaped Elvia's lips. "I told you, Gwennie, you should have let Sobel take me! But I don't remember you listening! If you made a habit of listening, then maybe I would have told you! Percy would be here, answering for his crimes! And I would be dead and at peace! I could be HAPPY!" "YOU... you little..." Gwen could barely see from her Draconic-enhanced eyes as motes of Void and Lightning surged around her conduits, cruising on the high of her turbulent emotions. "Are you serious, Evee? _Are you fucking serious?_ " "Magister Song—" Mathias' protest rose in a clang of armour, rising to shield Elvia from her wrath. "Calm yourself." "Shut the fuck up!" Gwen snapped back before she even realised she had spoken. "Sit down, Matty!" The Knight sat, pushed down by Elvia. "I _trusted_ you!" Gwen pointed at the amulets on the table. "We could have done something earlier! You're the Vessel of the Yinglong! Grandfather would have obeyed you, proof or otherwise!" Her Evee shook her head, unable to answer but refusing to concede. "The Kirin in that Jade Lode is tied to the amulets—" Elvia pointed toward the pair of silent jade shards on the table. "In my vision, the Ashen Kirin had risen, and your uncle would have perished. If I had acted earlier, I would not have known the precise moment to snatch Master Jun from his ordained fate." Thinking of Jun sleeping upstairs in the infirmary, Gwen's anger grew stifled. "Child," Gwen's babulya spoke softly and calmly. "What your friend says makes sense. That's precisely what Jun's amulet was doing, draining his Ashen Mana and trying to claw at the vitality and Essence in his Soul Well. It took both you and Sen-sen to satiate it enough to unlatch its bond from your uncle's flesh. Outside of this moment, who knows what could have happened?" Guo's throat bobbed like a man swallowing his teeth. "These amulets are from our ancestors… The Kirin is long buried… long dead... how..." "The Amulet, Guo," Klavdiya reminded him. "Were once whole. I don't know if that mattered then. I know if it matters now. If Elvia's accusations of Percy hold…" Gwen shared her grandfather's woe. If Elvia told the truth—then Percy was a kin slayer, an infanticide, a treasonous scoundrel, and an accessory to mass murder. She didn't know how they had inexplicably arrived at this stage—but she implicitly understood that Elvia could not be lying. But how should she treat Elvia, who took her to this point? Was she even the Evee she knew? Or was she merely an extension of the Yinglong's will? Looking at Elvia, the four chambers of her heart filled with the hellish paradoxes of love, loathing, pity and hate, rapidly coalescing into a bittersweet and poisoned cocktail. She had to forgive. But a part of her wanted violence. Dark, dire violence that would see her slender fingers upon Evee's neck to choke out that smug fucking sacrosanct expression of selfish suffering. "Gwen, before you _murder_ everyone. A quick question." Richard raised his hand. "Elvia, will you be telling any of this to the Communists? They did, after all, lose a city." The Cleric appeared confused by Richard's abrupt interruption. Gwen glared at her cousin. "Hear me out, Gwen. Percy's bullshit isn't a wound that should be left to rot." Richard did not back down. "Your brother's turn isn't good for the Songs or our Shalkar's future establishment. I know it's a difficult decision, but let's clear the air and cut off the gangrene, shall we?" "RICHARD!" Gwen felt the charm bubble of her rage burst a little. "How could…" "REGENT!" Richard's explosive voice, something Gwen had never experienced from her smiling cousin, slapped her like a backhand. "THAT LITTLE SHIT tried to kill an unborn Dragon cousin just to feed a maybe Kirin! If that child had died, all of China would be fucked. How do you even begin to defend that?" "Percy was misled!" Gwen grasped at straws. "We could have prevented…" "Gwen, for FUCK's sake!" Richard slammed a fist onto the table. "That's not TEN THOUSAND DEAD out there, which might just be a snack for Cali or some shit. Tianjin, before last night, had MULTIPLE MILLIONS of people! How many died because the Shielding Stations failed? How many died because of that Kirin Lode in Cali's belly? COUNT THE FUCKING ZEROS! Don't these people have brothers? Sisters? Mothers and fathers? _PERCY did that!_ Misled? Who gives a shit? You were asking if Elvia was serious. Are you _fucking_ serious?" The aural assault of Richard's candid string of _fucks_ made Gwen swallow her words. "I ought to order Lea to give you a cold shower," Richard's voice lowered. "But you might just SOUL FUCK all of us because that's the power you wield now, Regent. When you make a shit call—like, _how about we NOT tell anyone about your pet dickhead?_ That's how we all get FUCKED, like the city below and millions that just got fucked by Percy's fuckery." Gwen distinctly felt as though she had fallen off a horse. "He tried to kill her. Drain her! And that would have killed Uncle Jun." Richard reminded her. "Did you forget we all watched it live on the Lumen-caster? I didn't know Elvia meant so little to you. But you know what? I like Evee. I won't let her go like that. Anyone who tries to fuck with her, I'll clap them back twice as hard." Under such a barrage, Gwen had to put up her hands in self-defence from Richard's spittle. "Look at Evee," Richard commanded. Gwen looked at her friend. "Are you going to give up Elvia just to shield Percy from consequences?" Richard demanded. "Elvia spent a year in the dark, eaten up by guilt, expecting she would die to preserve your sanity. Look at that adorable face. Is this the face of betrayal?" Gwen had to consciously not roll her eyes at Richard's transparency. But her cousin's interjection had soothed her rage, and despite her redirected desire to perform violence on Richard, the Water Mage was right. _Was it fair_ to blame Percy's insane turn on Elvia's lack of interference? Elvia was not the Oracle of Delphi, and Gwen Song was not an arbitrator of celestial justice. No businesswoman would be. Her morals, if any, were now so steeped in blood that sin stuck to her skin like gory gauze. Yet, for everything she had done—all the Demi-humans she had consumed, all the Necromancers' maybe minions Gwen murdered, she had not even touched the coattails of "depravity" Percy had allegedly committed. A kin-slayer! To have designs upon Ayxin's child—the fruit of her uncle's barren loins—was a step so far from the boundaries of acceptance that it may as well be the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void. And who was she? She was no longer a fifteen-year-old adolescent who had fainted in Hyde Park after blowing her brains out over Helena. Nor was she a shallow consultant with eyes only for larger margins in the annual report. Her foundations now, after her baptisms of blood, sorcery, lightning and Void, were no less than the mighty tendrils of Sulfina's one-day World Tree. Finally grounded, Gwen studied the bloody mess on both sides. Her grandfather appeared to have aged a decade, but his eyes were notably fixated on Ayxin, within whom a God-child germinated. Her babulya kept Guo from toppling, but the old woman's concern was reserved only for her husband. _Did her grandmother suspect?_ Gwen wondered unpleasantly, or was Percy's turn not surprising to anyone but herself and Guo? Petra, as per her training, appeared utterly unfazed. She had never liked Percy and had never spoken kindly of her brother. Even during the family dinners, she never sat next to him, leaving Percy to the likes of Tao and Mina. As for Richard… Their eyes met once more. Gwen's cousin smiled sheepishly. In truth, she had only thought of Richard's hate for Percy to be sardonicism and mockery for a sibling who dared to compete with his favourite cousin. In hindsight, his dickish utterances of "little shit" likely possessed more insight than insult. But Percy was still her brother. Her only brother. A murdering, treasonous brother. She had thought the boy was in good hands—and by every indication of the "school reports" she received from China, the boy was well on his way to becoming a Party favourite. And now, he was Elizabeth Sobel's plaything, assuming he was alive—for the alternative was not something she wished to entertain. How did this come to pass? As Gwen Song, Percy's hapless sister, she possessed no answers. However, as the Regent of Shalkar, her experiences spoke for itself. "Evee," she replied as flatly and calmly as she could manage. She tried not to loom, but the Da-peng armour was effortless menacing. "Tell me, what did the Yinglong gain from all this?" Elvia's haunted silence made Gwen feel like she was kicking the biggest Golden Retriever in the Spiritus Mundi. "Alright, little one, I'll take it from here." A thunderous drone in the hulking presence of Golos stood to make his disapproval known. "Calamity, you're unhappy with our Vessel, but don't make a habit of bullying clueless mortals. You and me. We know each other more than anyone here can know, so I'll speak. Before you accuse our Father of anything, let me remind you that everything you've accomplished today with me, with Ruxin, with your Uncle Jun up there is part of our heavenly Patriarch's benevolence. If you want to know how we benefited, listen—" And then, the Thunder Dragon rolled out her life like a tapestry. Jun's invitation for her to attend Essence-hunting in Huangshan. Their first meeting with Ayxin and Golos. Ayxin's search for Jun. Lulan's apprenticeship. Golos becoming her Planar Ally. Ruxin’s usurpation of Nagaland. Sen-sen's appearance. And Elvia's anointment. Gwen felt her heart petrify. Was there a single turn by which she, Gwen Song, did not benefit? Like a fool, she had been so happy to receive every gift! With each article, Gwen felt the shackles of gratitude wrap around her ankles, tethering her anger so that her berserker rage became a baited bear roaring in frustration. Without Golos, she would have died in Nagaland. Without Ruxin, she might have struggled in her merchant craft. Without Ayxin, she may not have even left China. With each flap of the Yinglong's wings, everything for her family got better, easier, and more attainable. Worst still, the more she digested the Yinglong's gifts, the less she understood why Percy had fallen so low when the family had risen to such lofty heights. His position was one that almost no one else in China enjoyed, and given time, he would have become a powerhouse no less than herself, especially in the thunderous wake of his new cousin's birth. Was it true, then, that it was Percy's free will? Or was it the Kirin Amulet? That hypothesis, to Gwen at least, was unlikely. She had fed the amulet Alumdj's Essence. In her experience, there was no living being inside, much less a consciousness. If there was, the Rainbow Snake would have sundered the stranger. Of course, Percy would know. And only by taking the boy and slapping some sense into the "little shit" would she have the answers she sought— "... And that's all I have to say about that..." Golos sat heavily, sending the gasket of the chair downward. "Are we good? Or do you want to fight?" Gwen sighed long and hard, too tired to disguise her disappointment, not only in Elvia and her allies but also in herself. "We thank you, Lord Golos, for the honesty," her Babulya, who had been listening to the whole while, spoke over Gwen's contemplative lethargy. "The Yinglong has given us far more heart than we mortals deserve from one so wise." Guo stood, then bowed toward the Dragons. "We all owe _He Who Heeds_ more than we can ever repay, Gwen included." "Well." Golo had the gall to look abashed. "We did get what we needed as well—win-win, as the Calamity likes to say." _Only Percy lost..._ Gwen wanted to reach out and pluck one of Golo's smug feathers. _DING!_ The familiar blossom of a first-tier emergency announcement erupted beside their ears. Gwen wanted to ignore the Message, but when the others stopped to digest their Divinations, she felt pressured by curiosity to open her own. "PRIVATE MESSAGE FOR REGENT SONG: YAKATERINBURG TOWER HAS FALLEN. CITY RAZED BY NECROMANTIC FORCES. URAL MOUNTAINS LOST. MAGI IGOR SAKHAROV MISSING IN ACTION. PAN-EUROPEAN EMERGENCY FOR EASTERN STATES NOW IN EFFECT. RETURN TO SHALKAR AT ONCE FOR DEFENCE DEBRIEFING. NO MORE FREE SHOGGOTHS. — OLLY." Before Ayxin's wedding, her mind would have imploded. After Tianjin, she could only give one silent _fuck._ Petra, who had remained seated this whole while, slowly rose until her impressive height matched Gwen's. "Gwen..." Her cousin's eyes were the largest she had ever seen. "Y-Yekaterinburg has fallen." "Another tragedy," Gwen nodded. "One that's not far enough from Shaklar for my liking." "No, not that." Petra licked her lips, her expression no longer the unperturbed, cold Russian Gwen had come to expect. "My parents are there." "Your parents? They are not in Moscow?" "After my... abscondment," Petra's face rapidly filled with blood. "They were assigned to a fortress frontier." Gwen reached out a hand to comfort her cousin, but Richard was faster and more comforting than her distracted self. "Don't worry, Pats," Richard spoke the words she wanted to say. "If there's anything we can do, we'll do it. Won't we, Gwen?" "Yes," Gwen concurred. "We will help Yekaterinburg." "You mean the refugees from Yekaterinburg. But to do that, we'll need to return to Shalkar," Richard announced, more to the table than to herself. "No doubt, this is the work of Spectre. It's all linked—these calamities that befall us—but we'll have to manage our time as best we can." Gwen could not help but agree. Of the Mageocracy's furthermost eastern posts, the one most abundant in manpower and resources was none other than her Shalkar. With the Ural Mountains lost, the Moscow line was the last remaining barrier between them and the banished Undead Tides of the Great War. There would be generous offers from the West for its defence, for the eastern bulwark must not fall at all costs. "Evee..." Gwen took hold of her doubts and boxed them for another day. "We will... _need_ the Ordo's aid in the coming months. Will you come to Shalkar?" "If you command it," Elvia replied neither happily nor sadly but dutifully. "Wherever the Regent of Shakar needs me, I'll follow." Their mutual distance, she knew, would exist for some time. Gwen turned to her grandparents. "Yeye, Babulya, in regards to Percy..." "We'll discuss matters with the Secretary-General," her grandmother spoke where her grandfather could not. "At this time, even if Percy returned, there is no place but Tianlanqiao for him. We will investigate the Yinglong's claims, Gwen, and search for Percy however we may. You have a duty now, child, far more important than one boy. I would not keep you from it, no matter what." Gwen sighed again. Poor Percy... Poor, villainous, dastardly, Kin-slaying Percy... Not appreciated enough and now not even a priority. "Well then! Lord Regent of Shalkar," Richard tapped his Message Device, halting her distracted thoughts. "You should speak to the Tower Master and announce our departure. I'll settle things here and brief you at the ISTC. As you can see, Axyin's already gone. Lulan, are you coming?" "I'll follow my benefactor anywhere," the repentant Sword Mage looked longingly at her. Gwen nodded at Lulan to acknowledge her pledge. With Lulu, at least, it was easy to forgive. "Golos?" Her eyes fell onto her Dragon. The Thunder Dragon grunted. With a final hug from her grandparents, Gwen left her place at the head of the table, signalling the end of their family meeting. Whatever unhappiness she might still possess, that would be for another day. Now, there was only duty. With Gwen and the others finally gone, Elvia felt cold sweat breaking across her back like a tide. Her part was played—only she had not planned for a life beyond the moment she perished. Now, she felt like a hospice patient who had awakened one day to find all her fatal illnesses inexplicably cured. Once she could breathe again, her attention turned to Richard, who stood at the door waiting, appearing more like a man amused by the daily columns than someone who had just talked down the Regent of Shalkar. "Magus Huang…" Elvia mentally commanded Mathias to stand apart while she approached and bowed. "I don't know why you did that, but thank you." "There's no need to thank me," Richard hand-waved away her gratitude. "If what you say is true, Evee, your deep understanding of Gwen's flaws had just saved me and my entire career. Also, don't expect me to pull that stunt again. One day, our Gwen isn't going to forgive…" While Richard spoke, a watery hand belonging to Lea emerged and patted her head. "Evee, don't be sad," the Water Sprite wrapped an appendage around her like a scarf. "I would have drowned Percy myself!" "Thank you." Elvia cupped the watery digits with her own. Richard coughed. "Anyway. Things will be more difficult from here, Knight Companion. Knowing Gwen, our Mistress will finally look toward the creation of her own Tower, hunt for Sobel and Percy..." Elvia nodded solemnly. "Only, on the brotherly front... _capiche_?" Elvia stared at the Water Mage. Richard's face came closer. " _Capiche_?" Elvia looked at Richard, then at Mathias. The upright Knight Companion also look confused. Turning back to Gwen's cousin, Elvia saw a little of the future in the twinkling glint from the Water Mage's eyes. "OH..." Elvia's lips form an O, suddenly understanding. "We'll be so busy," Richard sighed. "And Gwen, too. I guess the rescue will be delayed... Your Ordo as well—so busy." "Yes, very busy." Elvia didn't know what else to say. "So get busy, return to the Ordo, and find capable men and women." Richard's purpose, Elvia knew, was not for her nor himself. Perhaps, out of all of them from Sydney, only Richard understood Gwen and was fit to be Gwen's most capable partner. "For the coming tide of refugees, Companion Lindholm, I hope that our forces be supplied with an infirmary to rival the best anywhere in the world. Remind Gwen often that someone almost took that away from her. Someone important—but not that important... _capiche_?" "... is that Italian?" Elvia couldn't help her curiosity. "Why are you speaking Italian?" "Who knows?" Richard laughed, which was inappropriate considering his suggestion, but Elvia wasn't complaining. "It's a Gwenism, so who can tell the mysteries of its origins? So, do you... _capiche?_ " "I _capiche..."_ Elvia __ felt absolutely terrible that she understood—but simultaneously, she couldn't help but feel thrilled... and free of the spectre of Percy Song.

Tianjin Tower. The ISTC. On the second evening of the third day of the invasion, the Regent of Shalkar finally found time for a cat nap. In a private chamber reserved for VIPs, she took up the lotus pose, circulated what was left of her Essence, and began the deep meditation that high-tier Mages substituted for sleep. Soundlessly, a jet-black shield of Elemental Void descended around her person, delivering total serenity for the two hours her Party waited to make the jump through space and time. Richard and Petra, together with Lulan, had proceeded immediately to Shalkar and oversee the preparations for a potential northern expedition into the Black Zones eastward of the Ural Mountains, where Yekaterinburg once stood. Elvia had also left, taking an excursion to London to take responsibility for Sir Kass and Reginald's death and report on the tragic success of her quest to Senechal Ashburn. Her uncle Jun was still sleeping, and she did not want to disturb the man over a guilt-ridden hug. Besides, once his health was restored, he would be the epicentre of a political hurricane, and Gwen had no desire to be the one to explain to her defender-of-the-people uncle the actions of his abducted nephew. Equally occupied were her guilt-ridden grandparents, who needed to answer to the higher powers of the Party. She also didn't wish to face Secretary General Miao, whose career may be tottering after the revelation of Percy Song's involvement in the city's misfortunes. Her only solace was that no one would dare question the Secretary General's actions until after a supply chain was established for Beijing, whose many millions were starved of the largest grain route in the Greater Asian-Pacific region and for whom the shadow of an Undead invasion just became real. As for Lei-bup—Gwen could only count on the Mermen to keep their word. However, as she had stated to the Tower Master of Tianjin, she had immense "faith" that the self-made Mermen High Priest would not renege on his word. Finally, she would not be returning to Shalkar immediately. With Percy gone and Elizabeth Sobel now once more invested in the world's affairs, she must make an excursion to Sydney and speak to her siblings-in-craft, for she dared not proceed with her next course of action without the stakeholds of the wisened Gunther and the unshakable Alesia. Slowly, within the third eye of her Astral consciousness, midnight descended. In the liminal space of her Void Egg, her lucid Mage Dream unfolded like an origami diorama, for such was the fatigue plaguing her mind, both from the exhaustion of her mana and the weariness of her thrumming emotions. One by one, visions of the past few hours flashed through the chambers of her brain, burning themselves into the synaptic networks of her frontal lobe. Elvia… Percy... Elvia... Percy... Against a montage of Sobel's sensual, sickly presence looming over her wide-eyed brother, she saw Evee's pleading eyes begging her to choose. Should it be that Elvia died, and Percy remained to answer for his crimes? Was that the perfect solution to her mental anguish, the cathartic resolution to their Aristotelian tragedy? As a sometimes-sister, overdue lover and the full-time Regent of a domain, she possessed no answers, no twist of the imagination that could deceive her desolated conscience. Each time she tried, she saw a snippet of a future foretold by a cunning Dragon: An ashen wasteland with a looming Kirin dancing amid a gentle dusting of necrotic Elemental Ash falling like powder across a devastated city. Her uncle Jun, a twisted husk of his hale past, crucified upon soft mounds of ash and debris, his chest sunken, punctuated by a milk-white Jade Amulet. Somewhere in Shanghai, a grief-stricken Ayxin loses whatever measure of focus she needed to bring about the impossible, resulting in the existential death of a baby cousin that was never meant to be. Her grandparents—overwhelmed by grief and becoming the scapegoat of Percy's ploys, with no Ayxin and Yinglong to shield them from the ramifications of Tianjin's loss. The worst was averted—and yet— _should she be thankful?_ Wasn't the city still a confluence of fire, water, despair and destruction? She felt in her chest the acute germination of something she did not wish to possess—the seeds of a deep-rooted detestation for her friend and, in time, a partner. Elvia's sacrifice was a betrayal of the highest order and a source of un-asked-for salvation that she could not dismiss. The paradox was so jarring that Gwen felt her joints ache, her mind torn violently between the desire to embrace her Cleric and kiss her on the mouth—and the violent impulse of taking Elvia's shoulders and shaking her until every bone was loosed from their sockets. Over and over, like frames of a Kodak carousel left on repeat, she felt assailed by her self-induced visions, her mind ever sinking into a quagmire of doubt. A long time ago. A lifetime ago. She stood a distance from her elfin friend in a house by the bay, on a pier, and listened to her angelic voice while a hundred Dancing Lights added dimension to the starlit waters. It was an epoch where they lacked power. Lacked knowledge. Possessed no wealth. And knew nothing about their futures. And yet, in those uncertain times, certain certainties felt so assured and unassailable, enchanted and magical. Now, those lights were just balls of mana hovering over cold, dark waters. In the recess of her mindscape, snug in the depth of her Astral Soul, Gwen heard the impossible verses of a long-ago ballad sung in the voice of a guileless Evee walking on water in mimicry of her dogmatic Nazarene. _I walked across… an empty land_ _I knew the pathway like the back of my hand_ _I felt the earth… beneath my feet_ _Sat by the river, and it made me complete_ But there would be no more completion. Percy had made sure of that. The river was poisoned, and none would dare to drink from it. _I came across a fallen tree_ _I felt the branches of it looking at me_ _Is this the place we used to love?_ _Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?_ There would be a tree, a great, incredible tree the likes of which humanity has never seen. A Tree. A woman. A snake. This tree would be hers and hers alone, and she would be its sole, lonely mistress. _Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?_ The melancholy lyrics were from an extinguished reality, sad and yet apt and prophetic. From the warmth on Gwen's face, she suspected her eyes might be overwhelmed by a sudden inundation of moisture. _And if you have a minute, why don't we go_ Where would she go with Evee? That house on the hill was now buried under a Leviathan. _Talk about it somewhere only we know..._ And where would that be? What else did they share now apart from the tainted past? _This could be the end of everything..._ Her heart grew deadly silent, its palpitations ceasing as though someone had pulled a sudden plug. Was that how the song ended? Like the churning contents of her Void-strewn gut, she felt only the hunger of the Void, within which her Shoggoth slumbered, its belly full of Men and Mermen, Undead and otherwise. _Oh, simple thing..._ Gwen could no longer recall if the chorus ended with hope, longing, anguish or loss. She no longer had expectations about Percy, of family dinners with Mei and maybe a little niece or nephew. She felt disconnected and desolated by reality. Without finding her brother, shackling the little turd-for-brains, and bringing him back in chains to answer his crimes, she could not face her babulya, her Yeye, Uncle Jun, and the rest of her family. And Hai Song and Helena Huang… she could not summon the strength to consider their involvement, even hypothetically. She had always known that the complications of her life would be in proportion to the power she desired to wield—but for that reckoning to hit her so hard and so abruptly was a predicament as farfetched as the arrival of Lei-bup upon a colossal lobster. _DING!_ Her Message Device chimed. The ISTC was ready for Sydney, and her followers awaited her command. Gwen wiped away any potential tell-tale traces of liberated mascara. Her Void shell slipped back into the Astral. Her face, cold and composed, was ready for the world. Enough Gwen Song for today. The Regent of Shalkar had places to be. Gwen's world flared silver. Before yesterday's revelations, separating from Elvia and her cousin to travel alone back to Australia would be an unthinkable prospect. Now, she felt her solo trip was the most natural exit as her body dematerialised away from her most stalwart supporters. When she reappeared among nostalgic recollections of "beam me up, Scottie…" She was already in the ISTC chamber of Sydney's yet-unfinished super structural Tower. "Gwen," the voice that greeted her not only possessed the warmth of a hearth fire but its owner dressed in the same hues of orange and scarlet. "Welcome home, Sister." " _Allie_ ," Gwen replied, feeling the tension drain from her body like an overfilled dam with the floodgates released. "It's good to be home." The two women embraced, savouring their bond as sisters and siblings-in-craft. When they parted, she found Alesia staring. "What's wrong?" Gwen couldn't help but be curious. "Your body felt so…" Alesia's expression was worried. " _Stiff_. Sure, we've got some heavy discussions with Gunther in a moment, but you can relax, I promise." "Yeah." Gwen touched her neck. "There's a lot on my plate at the moment. Will Yue be joining us?" Her once mentor patted Gwen's stooped back, then kneaded her shoulders with both hands until she forcibly relaxed. All of this was watched by guards whose eyes acutely savoured their moment with the Regent of Shalkar, Mistress of the Shoggoth, the most renowned mass murderer of Necromancers from Sydney to London. "She's with Whetu in Auckland, rebuilding the city as a liaison." Alesia indicated at the ISTC. "Would you like to speak with her? Might do you good." Gwen shook her head. "This was an unplanned visit, so let's not bother Yue for now.' Alesia seemed to understand—but Gwen knew there was no way her sister could comprehend the turmoil post-Yinglong Elvia would strain on their three-person sisterhood. Would Yue side with herself? Or would Yue side with Evee? Or perhaps their friend would be disgusted with them both? She had no answers and little desire to make that discovery. "Yes. And yes, I heard about what happened in Nanjing." Alesia's face, beautiful as Gwen recalled, replaced its concern with anxiety and undisguised anger. "And the bitch is back, I take it." "In the flesh." Gwen nodded. "Took Percy as a souvenir with her after trashing Tianjin like she did with our Master. If we are to hunt her one day, we must do something about that Planar Jaunt." "For sure." Alesia hugged her again, perhaps reinforcing that she should feel at home. "Come, Gunther's waiting in our penthouse." "Not his office?" Gwen tilted her head. "And let his secretary cook?" Alesia laughed. "We're going hear your story, Gwen. Not as the Regent of Shalkar, but as our Sibling-in-craft." "Right." Gwen finally found the energy to smile. "Then I shall leave nothing out. The details will be sordid and shocking. Is that alright?" Alesia touched her bare shoulders. "You see these?" Gwen's lips curled. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. "I know they're not as broad as Gunther's, sister," the Fire Mage snickered. "But they're plenty broad enough for you, Regent." Sydney. The Tower. Gunther Shultz, Tower Master of Oceania, was ready with breakfast. After exchanging pecks and hugs, they each took their seats, and Gunther spooned out egg, SPAM and toast, together with the most godly coffee Gwen had tasted since London. "If I were to tell the folks at Cambridge that the Morning Star himself served me coffee and asked for how many sugars," Gwen remarked, feeling the bitter liquid fill her with warmth. "The faculty would call me a liar." "If someone told me that a million Mermen worshipped our little Sister, and would gladly go inland to fight an Elemental Prince of Fire on her behalf, I would have called them a liar, too," Gunther returned her jab with his usual seriousness. Her brother-in-craft looked notably older, though not in the way of his advancing age, but rather in the air of his authority. There were now visible stress lines on his forehead and the corner of his eyes, which were signs of a man burdened with hard decisions and responsibilities. It was a look, she knew, that echoed her appearance, one that no longer possessed her doe-eyed formative years nor the ambitious hunger of her alter-world thirties. Now, whenever she washed up and made herself presentable in the mirror, she felt her age—despite her physique being maintained by the immortal Essences of a timeless creature. With the three of them settled around the kitchen bar like tribals around an amiable fire, Gwen did her best to re-tell her estimation of the events that began with her Uncle Jun's ludicrous idea of aiding her Spellcraft with Draconic Essence to the moment in which the Yinglong played his Royal Flush and swept the board with a single swish of its enormous tail. "Fuck these lizards." Alesia looked like she could boil a new jug of coffee with her ire alone. "Manipulative fucks." "I can't disagree with that." Gunther's response was to cooly listen to her story, interrupting only to ask for minor details. "Jesus, Gwen, you've been through thick and thin. Elvia, as well, whatever her faults, and the others. Your grandparents have my condolences." "Percy isn't _dead_." Gwen found herself rather unhappy at Gunther's cool-headedness. Gunther tilted his head ever so slightly. "I don't see you rushing off to Singapore like before…" Gwen had no comebacks. The three drank their coffee. "I would like to share something with you," her brother-in-craft said nonchalantly. "I didn't want to say this because your foundations are so entwined with Almudj and the Dragons, but I will now. Will you listen?" Gwen nodded. Gunther leaned against the counter, his natural radiance adding a texture to his sonorous voice as it played against her ear. "We are all aware that our Master trafficked heavily with the Demi-human races, especially the Elves and the Dragons, yes?" Gwen and Alesia both confirmed their knowledge. "But our Master dealt with neither here in Sydney." Gunther symbolically moved his cup of coffee away from theirs. "This is a choice, Gwen. Not an oversight." "Are you saying there are no Elves on this continent?" Gwen's eyes indicated the vista of the newly built harbour. Gunther did not refute her claim. "Not like Tyfan." Gwen's mind instantly recalled that living memory of Kalinda, the burning tree, and Almudj's soaring body. "That said, I _had_ been invited to join this Accord of Tyfan, as Master calls it, with a personal invitation from The Bloom in White herself. It's been almost two decades since, and the offer still stands. However, I do not need Tyfan's blessings, nor am I interested in what their Verdant Lord, the very ancient Tyfanevius, has to say either." Gwen waited for Gunther to continue. "But _you_ did need a Dragon's help, sister—and you were played like a fiddle by the Yinglong," Gunther said. "Because the Yinglong is not Almudj. The Yinglong will not ascend to the Unformed Land like your Patron, because it is far too worldly. So long as it remains grounded by its children and domain, its conflicts and interests are each an insurmountable barrier to ascension." Gwen felt her mood sink somehow even lower. "Of course, now that it managed to untether quite a few of its concerns thanks to wielding you like a spiked bat, maybe it could." "Gunther, be nice!" Alesia scolded her husband. "Gwen, look at me." Gunther reached out and squeezed her shoulder, his darkly stubbled chin both manly and threatening. "What do you think now about trafficking with immortal beings?" "Not as pleasant as I imagined," Gwen confessed. "I was so certain that I came away with each encounter with a little advantage—only to realise now that every iota of Essence I took came with a price." "Not to mention you're too deeply invested now to retract yourself," Gunther sighed. "You promised Sufina, didn't you? And there are older, more dangerous Dragons now watching you. According to your admission, I am counting Tyfanevius, Illaelitharian, and Sythinthimryr, who sent you a living Morden, and that's assuming the Yinglong is done with you." "Elvia says the Yinglong is asleep now and will slumber for some time," Gwen said. "I am still in business with Ruxin… Lulu's probably still tethered to Ryxi, and Golos is a lightning rod for Shalkar." "Don't misunderstand me. I am not telling you to cut ties." Gunther shook his head. "I am simply asking you what you have learned from being _used_." "Well." Gwen felt a little impatient with Gunther's patience. "I am pissed, for one. As for the lesson, I shouldn't have taken so much candy from strange Dragons wrapped around dubious trees advertising _Free Essence_." "A curious analogy," Gunther snorted at her attempt at humour. "To give and take with mutual respect, I suspect, is the lesson I am trying to impart here. What do you think would give you the means to say no and for them to respect that?" "Raw power." Gwen knew the answer to Gunther's enquiry. "A Tower, Politics, and Spellcraft." "Martial power you already possess," Gunther partially agreed. "I doubt even the Bloom of a World Tree would openly wish to tussle with the Shoggoth. However, if ever you go to war, the immortals will pay mercenaries to cut down everything you hold dear before slapping you down with an unseen hand. They are THE unseen power of Terra." Gwen felt a shiver. "Will your Tower be in Shalkar?" her Brother-in-craft asked. "More than likely." Gwen nodded. "It's the crossroads between the South-East Asian markets and the European-Mediterranean trade ports. Once I have the Low Ways restored, it will become a new Silk Road. Is that a problem?" "No, it's good," Gunther concurred. "I only wished to confirm your ambitions. Master Henry built the Sydney Tower for himself because of its isolation from the past. If you mean to grasp the future, it's right you build a Tower at the loci of the world's events as you are the loci of many interests." "Any advice?" Gwen nursed her lukewarm flat white. Gunther's lips pursed in thought before he spoke again. "If you cannot divorce yourself from the interests of these Dragons and their World Trees," Gunther said cooly. "Then you better find a counterbalance." "Counterbalance?" Gwen asked. "Through what?" "Not with the Mageocracy," Gunther said. "The ruling class and the Elves are thick as thieves." "And not the Communists." Gwen grimaced. "They've got a full table as it is. Maybe the Dwarves? But they're inundated with recovering Citadels in the Murk. Without the Low Ways, they won't be much more than an elite military expedition." "Look further." Gunther tapped the granite kitchen table. "There _are_ Human forces free from the influences of both Tree and Dragon—though I can in no way vouch that they are benign or even friendly. You know of our allied Towers in the New World, of course." "I do," Gwen recalled her newly recruited consultant from MIT. "They don't do Elves there?" "No Elves. No Tree that we know of, and no Demi-humans either…" Gunther said. "Take that how you will. It's a different way of life to how you see the world, but it is whole-heartedly Human in all its woes and glory." Gwen pondered Gunther's words. _Human_ seemed to be the operative word, for Sydney was also a bastion of humankind and humanity alone. "The Americans may not have a _World Tree_ problem," Gunther said. "But they do share our _Spectre_ problem, and for those in the know, there's evidence that one of Spectre's chief executives is himself a Hvítálfar. Are you aware of this?" "Vaguely," Gwen confessed. "It was in the briefings. The ones I've faced are mostly their Demi-human allies, though. The Elemental Prince, the Mermens Dragon Turtles, and now, the Undead legions of _Juche_ as fish. I've never encountered anything that might suggest Elven interference. Tyfan single-handedly decayed the entire Juche legion in the South Pole and saved Illaelitharian." "I am aware. Still, that one of Spectre's executives is a Hvítálfar is a confirmed fact," Gunther said. "I am sure Tyfan knows, though the details, I fear, are privy only to those who trafficked with Master or are long-term members of the Accord." "So you think all our troubles are a part of an immortal chessboard?" Gunther shrugged. "We both know the answer to that. Whatever the case, our Tower friends in the northern strongholds of the Americas are diametrically opposed to the status quo in London, particularly where Elves and Dragons are concerned. For resources, on principle, and in matters of theology, they've held their own against their version of the Yinglong, the Quetzalcoatl, and have never yielded against the Svartálfar from the Woods that Wend." Gwen felt her head throb. Gunther did not relent. "You're a morsel stuck in a great web, Gwen. A great many webs. The Dragons have their designs, and they may possess some other purpose as a collective. Beyond that, the individual World Trees have their tame Dragons, meaning beyond the lizards, there's still Elves." Gwen groaned. Gunther gave her a minute to gather her wits. "Let's move on to the main topic then. Elizabeth Sobel. Give me your impression." Gwen recalled as much detail as she could, everything from the cut of Sobel's hair, her strange titillating funeral garb, to every word they had exchanged. When she finished, the whole kitchen sighed with the softly whistling kettle. "Doesn't sound like she's gotten any weaker." Alesia absentmindedly chewed on a petal of mandarin. "But I still think you could take her, Gunther?" "In an ambush, perhaps, assuming she can be killed conventionally," Gunther said as he violently skinned a hapless citrus. "But that's not the point. What Spectre has accomplished costs an unimaginable amount of resources, even if they're taking advantage of existing tipping points. If what Gwen told us is true, I am positive Olly is onto something." "Olly?" Gwen asked, thinking about receding hairlines. "Magister Olyphant Gilt. We schooled together in Germany, and our parents were old acquaintances. If you are visiting the States, I'll introduce you." Gunther drew for her a pie in the sky. "Olly observed that almost every successful Spectre assault involved an insider-and-outsider confluence. He thinks that if we can discover then tap into the insider's access to Spectre, we might finally be able to deal a concrete blow to their organisation." Gilt… Gwen suspected she had read the name somewhere, but the source escapes her. "Either way, we'll need to be of two minds from now. We will need to divest our interests from our present projects. I'll keep in touch with my American colleagues who suspect that Spectre is attempting to inflame the Tenochtitlan situation. You should continue to consult your allies in Europe. Since you can no longer extricate yourself from Elves and Dragons, you may as well network." "Should I join the Accord?" Gwen pondered Gunther's earlier words. "Master was a part of it, correct?" "Until he wasn't, yes." Gunther palmed another mandarin, then peeled it for his wife. "But you know, maybe that's the break we need." "I thought you said it was…" Gwen frowned. "What with being used and all…" "There's that, yes," Gunther's eyes seemed to capture her in a singular frame. "But you're a little special in that regard. With your Shalkar, your Shoggoth, your connections to us and especially to Almudj… I think you're poised to extract as much benefit as you pay into the enterprise—I am certain that Tyfan, at least, is as keen to be rid of Spectre and their traitorous kin as we are to see Sobel finally put to rest." Gwen pondered her Brother-in-craft's words. "I agree. But my power base still needs time to mature," Gwen conceded that a city's real-life growth wasn't something a generous divestiture of accumulated wealth could achieve. A fledging region was its people—and her people needed training and time to expel parasites from folk who genuinely wanted a fair go at life. "Thanks to the Dwarves, Phase One will be done in under two years, especially if I can secure the city from Himsegg and the Murk. Phase Two: I am considering inviting Sufina but with the Ural mountains..." "That's good. Though, another thing." Gunther's tone softened. "When we begin our hunt for Sobel, what do you make of your brother?" Gwen sighed. "I don't know," she confessed. "I know Percy is due for treason by all accounts. Ayxin will not forgive him; therefore, no one in my family will consider his return. If he had done this to Sydney, I couldn't hold a grudge against you for vaporising him." Gunther studied her. "That's… a surprisingly mature response." Gwen felt a spark of mana zing from the tip of her hair. "Am I not mature?" Alesia passed over a few slices of deveined mandarins. Gunther did not answer. "What are your plans for the immediate future?" "Information gathering, I guess." Gwen slowly chewed the sweet petals of flesh. "There's a Red Dragon "Morden" in Shalkar right now. Gogo will be there as well. I've also got a Druid Hierophant on call, the Dwarves, and the locals." "And you have the Mermen as well," Gunther reminded her. "This Lei-bup…" "What about him?" Gwen thought of Lei-bup's many tentacles crawling up her arm. There was a connection between them, one that was as entwined as it was slimy. "It was unintentional, you know." "Well," Gunther said. "They worship the Shoggoth, not you. Just keep that in mind. This creature you summon is no more under your control than Almudj. To think so otherwise would be beyond foolish." "I know, I know," Gwen assured her Sibling-in-craft. "Spectre has always used the Seven Kingdoms," Gunther pointed out. "Lei-bup is a factor that exists so far outside the norm I have no words to describe it. A Greater Shaol, loyal to itself, indebted to a human, occupying an entire swath of the Yellow Sea… I think this is an opportunity." "To Purge Mermen?" Gwen thought about her Shoal crashing into another, aided by the emergence of a Shoggoth. "I suppose they have to eat…" "Nothing so bloodthirsty," Gunther interrupted her. "What I mean is, it may finally be possible to establish a foothold in the Deep that's friendly to us. If we can pierce the veil of the Seven Kingdoms, we might finally be able to explore diplomatic avenues and uncover how Spectre is directing the Mermen." Gwen's mouth made an O. She had been killing for so long that she had completely forgotten uses for her "troops" beyond the obvious. "Besides, if we can secure Sobel's routes on the land and sea…" Gunther popped a slice into his mouth as well. "Then our chances of bringing her to justice and recovering your brother would be greatly magnified." "No Air?" Gwen sniggered, imagining a future where Sobel had nowhere to hide. "If you can find the Mist Dragons, sure." Gunther laughed. "After all, you've managed to wrangle Fire, Thunder and Ice. What's one more?" The trio revelled in the prospect, though not for too long. "Right. I'll continue the dialogue with my colleagues in the New World." Gunther wiped his hand, signalling the end of their morning meeting. "If there is a discovery, however, Alesia and I won't be able to keep away from Sydney for long, so you might have to be our agent." "If Gunther travels extensively," Alesia reminded Gwen. "The Factions will start their bullshit within a month. Of course, I can take care of it, but there won't be many Mages left when Gunther returns." Looking at the fiery-haired Alesia, Gwen could foresee her taking a flaming mallet to the meetings to stamp out dissent and corruption. As for retaliation—who would dare harm Alesia? The moment Gunther returned, everything and everyone loved by anyone who dared to hurt his wife would evaporate like dew. In many ways, Gunther was the very picture of a benign dictator who could rule by fear and love. "Understood." Gwen concurrently reminded herself that her Regency's domain was a small city, while Gunther was the leader of an actual continent. The two of them and their standings were as distant as an Acolyte and a Magister. "I'll keep you posted, Gunther." "Make Master proud." Alesia held her fingers in her own. "No matter who you feed to Caliban, know that Gunther and I have your back." Shalkar. The ISTC. Unlike the Inter-State Teleportation Circles networks used worldwide, the ISTC of Shalkar was situated within the hollow interior of an enormous, fruit-laden tree. The older residents of the Shalkar all recall the first time they had seen the tree sprouting in a field of willowy grain, beckoned by two seeds from their Regent's secret pod. Since then, the spatial gate used by the ageless Hierophant Sanari had grown into a modest skyscraper that dwarfed its cousin baobabs, tapping deep into the ley-node beneath the golden fields of sun-soaked grain. The construct was an unfortunate necessity, for Shalkar lay so far from the closest human city that no Divination Tower could reach it. It was only thanks to the tree and efforts made by Sanari that Gwen's city even possessed a means to attain the convenience of teleportation. The moment Gwen emerged from the circle in a cascade of Conjuration mana, she was greeted by the endearing face of Strun, Captain of the local security forces, a soul-bound companion she could implicitly trust. "Mistress." The Rat-kin bowed deep, his nose almost touching her shoes. "We are glad that you have returned safely." "Thanks, Strun." Gwen waited for the Rat-kin to lift his head before ruffling his ears, watched on enviously by his troops. "Are the others here?" "Master Huang and Kuznetsova are already present in the Bunker. Mistress Li is securing supplies." her Rat-kin guided her toward the exit, bypassing the awed, mixed-race guards. "We have also received a Magus Morden, who has taken up residence in the guest hotel. Master Huang was entertaining him. The Magus said he was a VIP?" "He is indeed," Gwen confirmed Slylth's identity. "Anything happen while I was away? You've heard about Tianjin and Yekaterinburg?" "The Militia is armed and ready." Strun straightened his back, rising until he was almost her height. "Cherbi Khudu is mustering an expedition force on the order of Temir Khan. They are very eager to march to war." "What, gainful white-collar jobs don't suit them?" Gwen could imagine Khudu bursting from his yurt office to round up his warriors. "There are no more Demi-human tribes to subjugate within two weeks ride of Shalkar," Strun noted sternly. "The Horse-men have taken to an increased incidence of violence among themselves and against others." "It's in their natures, I guess." Gwen wasn't one to stereotype, but she also had no expectations that a mere two years would blunt the Centaur's innate longing for glory and combat. "How's our supply situation?" "Bountiful," Strun replied. "The Dwarves are buying everything we're not selling to the Mageocracy, and still, we're expanding our granaries." As she walked, Gwen tapped her thighs with her fingers. The excess was very good news—but she must not be fooled into thinking Shalkar's climate-change fortunes would remain the status quo. That and the harvests were likely bolstered by the understanding she and Sanari had reached. Food and travel… Thanks to Gunther's reminder, she was no longer willing to take these boons from Tyfan for granted. The help she received was not a gift. She could see that now. They were also a means of control. Outside the ISTC, a four-lane path shot past the wavy strands of spun gold into the horizon. Upon arrival, she and her entourage of guards ducked through a yet-unfinished Low Way Station that punctured through the Himmseg and the Murk. From within, travelling between the ISTC and the citadel was mere minutes. Strun continued his report on Shalkar's various affairs, from the Mages who arrived via the ISTC to the refugees who came through the Low Way nodes connecting her city to Bavaria and beyond. Exiting the cavernous central station below Shalkar, she forwent the Teleportation Circle, instead taking the enormous freight lifts of the Dwarves to emerge finally into the sun-lit realm of her home and domain. The upward journey had offered her a glimpse of the citadel's industrious restoration, adding to her confidence. "Regent! Over here!" When her eyes finally adjusted, she saw her Chief Administrative Officer, Ollie Edwards, surrounded by a small team of junior Mages. The two shook hands. "Thanks for looking after the city while I am gone, Magister Edwards. I'll be relying on your wisdom in the future as well." "That's literally my job," Ollie looked abashed. "Would you like to rest first? It's a long jolt between here and Sydney. A lesser Mage would have been ill for days." "I'll be alright." Gwen pointed to her casual attire, which made her followers doubt whether they were gazing upon the sole authority of the city or a casual tourist from down under. "Give me a few minutes to change, and we'll start the meeting. I've consulted with Tower Master Shultz and have a general lay of our more immediate goals ahead." "Very well. I'll come by later to compose the report for London." Ollie bowed his head, then moved beside Strun for Gwen to pass. "Captain." "Magister." Strun performed a half solute. "Mistress, I'll be returning to my duties. Garp and I have more work to be done in the southern districts." Gwen waved the Rat-kin goodbye, then motioned Ollie to walk beside her. "Ollie, what do you make of the problem in the Ural Mountains?" The Magister from Cambridge scratched his receding hairline. He gave her a troubled look. "I am not sure we can accommodate the new refugees and our current ones." "How so?" Gwen felt better when her heels clicked on concrete rather than the hardened sand ubiquitous to the steppes. "If we take in the allotment of two hundred thousand, it will greatly unbalance the ambience here in the city. Presently, we have refugees from the South Pacific, central Europe, the African coast, and even Auckland. They've been humbled by their experience, to say the least, and are quite pliant to the common grounds we've put into place. Comparatively, Russia has always been…" The Magister searched for something diplomatic. "Homogenous?" "Ah…" Gwen pursed her lips. "You mean they'll stick together and form a ghetto? We're prioritising Mages and skilled workers with families, are we not?" "That's not the issue I am worried about." Olly gave her a side-eyed glance. "Magister, our Russian neighbours have always been religiously Humanist." Gwen furrowed her brows. "Even if we were to resettle another two hundred thousand from other parts over the next two years," Ollie explained. "Humans will still be a minority. For the foreseeable future, we are fifty per cent Rat-kin, followed by the Horse Lords, then Humans and Dwarves." "Humanist, huh?" Gwen kept walking while thinking of Gunther's promise of finding a breaking point in Spectre's Norther American operations. "What's your worry?" "The Rat-kin may not mind the prejudice, though Captain Strun will," Ollie said. "If there's trouble with the Dwarves… A few refugees might die from quaffing, fighting, or both. As for the Horse Lords… maybe we should file it under suicide." Her footsteps halted just before their group struck the shade of the towering, Dwarven-made skyscraper clad with glass and runic steel. From the vista of an open-air lobby, she saw Horse Lords drinking from pewter tankards beside Rat-kin, joined by the occasional human colleague with their iced coffees. Elsewhere, uniformed Rat-kin guards with Dwarven-made shoulder pauldrons and a kit of Mageocracy Shock Wands patrolled the central district with their colleagues. Now and then, Dwarven builder Golems, with dozens of orange hard-hatted Rat-kin riding on top, groaned past the lower intersections, headed for the construction zones. And above all that, against the reflection of the rectangular building pointing skyward, she saw the multi-coloured shadows of Phalera's Harpy brood, now truly settled into their new home. _Make use of your resources._ Gunther had said. "Ollie." Gwen stepped into range of the detector Glyphs, coaxing the enormous glass doors to ascend. "When the refugees get here… introduce them to our head of security." "Head of security? Magister Song?" Ollie Edward quickly followed into the cool interior. "Do you mean Miss Lulan or Captain Strun?" "Neither." Gwen waved as she passed, her heels clicking musically upon the tiles. "From now on, Golos will be our Chief of Security and Head Overseer of Public Discipline. Our new friends from Russia will listen to a speech delivered in his true form when they arrive. And if anyone makes trouble within the community after that, they have only themselves to blame for facing the Dragon's court."

_War fatigue._ In a more innocent life in another world, the Regent of Shalkar could never have imagined that death and destruction could become as pedestrian as Mondays. After Antarctica, the war weariness had taken root in her chest like ivy vines entwined around the grand trunk of a once ambitious oak, sapping the passion, terror, compassion and loathing natural to human beings in a state of war. Such was why she had to convince herself to care, that there were Russian refugees, men and women and children, who required the helping hand of a compassionate power broker willing to forgo profits for humanitarianism. Soon, their first mixed-race expedition would set out for the barely mapped Wildlands between her shining city on the hill and the Ural mountains, and she had to ensure her citizens' well-being was prioritised. _And it was the right thing to do,_ Gwen told herself every so often into the endless paperwork, meetings, complaints and compliances needed to balance the unusual mix of sympathetic Dwarves, insensitive Centaurs and neutral Rat-kin. Additionally, the expedition would be the first field test of Shalkar's military logistics. To prepare the new front, the Dwarves would build a trail of temporary Divination Stations to be manned by Strun's numberless Rat-kin guards. In the event of an attack, Shalkar's Mage Flights would arrive through the combined magics of Spellcraft and Dwarven Low-way runic sorcery. Beyond that, Gwen had the unenviable task of managing the possibility of new information on the disappearance of Magi Igor Sakharov, with herself as the sole authority to make immediate and drastic decisions. As the Tower Master holding up the "Iron Wall" between the dormant forces of the underground Necropolises in Eastern Russia and the Ural Mountains' industrial centre, his _death_ signalled the demise of the old status quo. And as the Magi credited with the Spellcraft powering the localised gravity used in the Tower's combat levitation systems, a resurrected Sakharov would trigger an eastern campaign to rival the Great War. The worst outcome, therefore, wasn't the potential that she had to drop another Shoggoth on Yekaterinburg, for she had grown numb over the death of those too slow to flee or too feeble to take flight. A true catastrophe was transforming her future Silk Road business hub into a forward operating base for a multi-national conflict. The prevention of such an outcome was the core tenet of her expedition, with the secondary outcomes being Petra's hopes of retrieving her estranged parents and increasing Shalkar's goodwill. "Regent." A shadow motioned for her attention from the interior of the Bunker's chief administrative office, below the window of which her forces amassed. "Commander Strun report that we await on Master Axehoff's Golem Guards. They will need more time to retool the construction units." "How long?" She spoke to the Manipuri Shadow Mage in the darkness. "Two more day cycles, your Grace." Ollie sat beside her on a separate secretary's desk, tapping through the data slates with a Wand. "May I recommend that we send out the Horse Lords? Time is of the essence, and the Cherbi is impatient." Gwen considered the urgency of the matter. From the day of her return, it had already been forty-eight hours since she had given the order to arrange the rescue operation. The more they delayed the expedition, the lesser the likelihood of finding hale refugees. "Agreed, Magister Edwards. Süri, tell the Cherbi to begin the overland march," she informed her Shadow Mage. "The Rat-kin infantry will follow and establish supply lines overland. Strun and Garp will travel below the main force and prepare the new Low-way branches for the Dwarven Engineers. Tell the Centaurs to circle back at the first sign of trouble." "I don't think the Cherbi will retreat without…er…" Ollie remarked worriedly. "… _having a fair go,_ as your people would say in Australia." Gwen considered the misused slang. Indeed, a small Tide of Undead was no match for a Horse Lord assault. However, should her Horse-kin get mired in corpses, not even their Shaman magic will free them from a sea of clamouring, necrotic claws. "Send a request to Golos to tentatively scout between here and the mountains," she concluded that there would be no rest for her undeserving Thunder Dragon. "At an altitude necessary to see and record everything, it should be two hours to cover a thousand kilometres if he flies at full capacity." "Yes, that would put many risk factors to rest." Ollie breathed out. "As well as clear any unwanted encounters, I'd wager." "Aye, it's high time our tenants earned their keep. Have a flock of Phalera's brood follow the Centaurs from the sky." She nodded in agreement. "They should report back to the nearest established Divination node or call for their father in the event of a true emergency. Golos should be able to reinforce them within the hour." "As you wish, Mistress." The voice from the shadow grew faint until the darkness lost its dimensions. "I'll inform Magus Huang and Kuznetsova." Gwen returned her attention to the table. "Olly. What's next?" "Development of the residential blocks G12 to G42 on the eastern quadrant." Ollie willed away, then retrieved a new set of data slates from his Storage Rings. "We are waiting on filtration units from Berlin. They should be making their way through the Low-ways as we speak." "Prioritise the fabrication of sewerage and sanitation installations." Gwen's eyes swept over the Dwarven-made schematics for the civilian district, pausing at the plans for their first hospital. "How are we looking in regards to the Clerical situation?" "If you mean Healers." Ollie threw forward a few PowerPoint(™) illusions. "We're still drastically short-staffed, even with interim members from the Ordo." Gwen's train of thought checked in at a station she had previously visited with delight. "Increase the signing bonus to four hundred HDMs for the first year for Senior Mages, a thousand for Magus candidates." she tapped the data slate. "Tap into my Chinese connections and see if we can round up Mages displaced by the ongoing situation in Tianjin. Prioritise Healers and Transmuters. The CCP owes me. If any nationalists dare to interfere, ask Ruxin's family to speak with the local Secretariats." "I'll arrange it." Ollie jotted down her designs, flourishing his stylus wand. "How's fares our preparations for the Kirin Core?" "Master Morden is planning the Abjuration Wards," the Magister informed her. "As you have willed, the Ambassador has consented us to use the abandoned pit mine." "Good... good." Gwen yawned. "Regent, perhaps you should take a break? It's been almost ten hours." Gwen kneaded her brows. Her skin felt dry. Her lips felt parched, and the part of her brain she most associated with Powerpoint magic throbbed something serious. "Fine." She relented. A little rest could refresh her for better ideas. "Let's hit the Dwarf Bars. I am going to need something strong, vital and frothing. Are you coming, Ollie?" Her aide's protest withered as soon as their eyes met. "Yes…" he sighed dejectedly. "But please keep the quaffing under control. Let me remind you, Regent, that we have a Healer shortage." London. Westminister. The Courtyard Garden Cafe. Charlene Ravenport, daughter to the Duke, had not expected to find a friend in Thomas Holland, a childhood rival, bully, and fellow noble. Yet, in a twist of fate, she had grown uncommonly familiar with her one-time suitor through their common bonds to a certain someone. She had found the young Holland deeply contemplating a cream bagel in the alfresco dining space attached to the House of Commons' external grounds. Curiously drawn to a Holland alone and unattended by sycophants, she decided to grace the troubled young man with her delightful presence. They began, as the English were prone to do, with the weather, the tea, then family, followed by light-hearted politics, and finally, the topic of Gwen Song. The arrival at their final point of discussion was natural, for barely half a year had passed since their mutual benefactor had been sent away from the Mageocracy's seat of power, and she was already making the old men shift in their button-up trousers. "Your people are _investing_ , dear Thomas," she boasted to the smug Steam Mage, who had professed his support for Gwen's venture in the Black Zones belonging to the Horse Lords. "We Ravenports, through our Isle of Dog Norfolk Corporation, have already _invested_." The Steam Mage smiled sheepishly. Charlene could see why. In a twist not even his family's Diviners could anticipate, the young man had taken a risky excursion away from the Greenland expedition to New Zealand, then had inexplicably returned with a Draconic Spirit of the Steam persuasion, a boon so perfectly tuned that only a handful of Hollands across five centuries had possessed the same privilege. Not only had the Dragon Turtle expedited the growth of his Elemental Affinity, its absurd passives had negated the greatest flaw of Steam Mages: physical defence. As a direct result, the Arctic Expedition had been resolved, Tryfan's request had met a satisfactory end, and most of the Militant Faction's heirs had even returned to London with their marbles intact. The war against Zordiam was a vastly more expensive development than her Southern Expedition with Gwen. However, its success, meaning the rewards bestowed by Tryfan and the Mageocracy upon the resource-starved Militant faction, was enough to halt the Faction's financial crisis. "I'll concede to that." The Steam Mage did not refute that her father had been the first to see Gwen's potential. "But Shalkar's risk had just gone up ten-fold. With China out of the picture and Russia withdrawing its defence line to the Volga, the north is also set to lose Novosibirsk. There will be nothing between the expansion of the Juche Cult and her shining city in the sand." Charlene could only snort at the Steam Mage's paranoia. "Something _is_ standing in their way, though. A veritable barrier." "I doubt the Demi-humans are willing to die or risk _unholy resurrection_ for a human settlement," Thomas answered doubtfully. "Even for Gwen." "Thomas, what better barrier to stand between Shalkar and the Undead than Gwen herself? With her ties to Tryfan, her Shoggoth, and what the Thunder Dragons owe her, it's enough. Besides, have you seen the Lumen-casts of her new Mermen allies? Or was that not made available to your people?" The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. "Are you volunteering that information?" The Steam Mage chortled. "Or are you trying to rope us into another loss?" "We're a bit beyond that kind of pettiness." Charlene exhaled, thinking of the transcontinental chaos now eating up every waking minute of her time. "On a more serious note. What are your plans for Gibraltar? Do you need any aid with the locals?" "We'll manage," Thomas replied, his tone thrilling and dangerous. "I am done with war for a while. Mine's an audit assignment to secure the Black Sea from Human incompetence. If anyone tries to skim from the humanitarian cache, I will steam them myself and send the remains back to their kin. What of you? I heard that you're headed to Moscow?" "The loss of Yekaterinburg has left an enormous vacuum." Charlene did not withhold what should be common knowledge among the inner circle of the Mageocracy's ruling elites. "We both know that at our tier, little that can stop you and me from returning to a safe Tower with our Contingency Rings. That Magi Sakharov had returned to a falling Tower—or did not return—is more suspect than the possibility of his misadventure. We both know Moscow has always been a belligerent member of the Tower Treaties, perhaps this time…" The Steam Mage inclined his chin in agreement. A long time ago, before the Beast Tide, before the Great War, Moscow had ruled a vast and resourceful empire spanning from icy Siberia to the rich loams of the Balkans. And though it was debatable whether the Communists' murder of Victoriana's kin had progressed or regressed its ambition, the nation's expectations of relevance had only grown with its diminishment. "I see. So you're saying that if Gwen halts the Undead threat, her real trial for Shalkar will begin," Thomas read her inference at once. With the Ural Mountains gone, Moscow had to find a quick and immediate source of liquid HDM capital to fund a recovery—and there just so happened to be a convenient target barely a Black Zone away. What must the elites in Moscow have seen when an Australian-born Magister barely in her twenties was sweeping up the riches of the south like a maximised Maelstrom? Barely two years ago, the Fire Sea was an uncontested "no man's land". After the Fire Elementals' exit, Charlene could confidently state that Shalkar's soon-to-be-operable Dwarven Low-ways were a morsel many considered tempting enough to disrupt the unspoken laws of mixing one's laborious magic with the land. Of course, Germany's Dwarves would not labour alongside anyone other than Gwen, more so for the bad blood between the Human purists and the Demi-humans who never forgot a grudge. The problem, as her father ascertained, was that Moscow's kleptocratic _Factions_ might be on a different page, especially regarding the obscene resources Gwen's forces are poised to extract from the abandoned regions of the old Soviet Union. "Father wishes to put some political padding between Moscow Tower and its parasitic _nomenklatura,"_ Charlene half-whispered. "That way, when Gwen's acts of vengeance come calling, we can sigh and stand back and say _we told you so_." To contain the unborn hostility was the crux of Charlene's present assignment: to offer an aiding hand to a long-time ally while also keeping a hand raised with a half-manifested Fireball of friendship. "If you need it." Thomas' voice drifted across the chasm of her thoughts. "We do have assets in Moscow which may be of use. Legislators aligned with our Faction, as it were." "Without condition? Why so Gentlemenly an offer?" Charlene studied the Steam Mage. After their mutual trips to the opposite ends of the Axis Mundi, they both appeared older and wiser, their eyes no longer possessed of the capricious pride so dearly engraved upon young Lords and Ladies of the Empire. Of course, the same applied to their once naive political acumen. "It's a way to return a favour." Thomas did not hide his intentions. "To our mutual benefactor." "Fine. I am willing to entertain the details." Charlene did not read the offer as malicious, at least not from the eager glint in the Steam Mage's eye. "Is there a Message you would like me to pass on?" "Perhaps anonymity would be best for now." The undisputed heir to Militant Faction smiled sheepishly. "Life is long, as are the conflicts we're embroiled within. I have learned to be patient." Charlene gave the man a judgemental look, enough at least to make the young fellow add a dash of colour to his cheeks. Certainly, when the Steam Mage had herself in his sights, he had not possessed a single romantic bone in his body. Now, he was willing to freely deliver his family's prized favours that they had spent generations to accumulate for another woman. Bitterly, she felt both impressed and slighted. "Very well. You may give me the details once I am in Moscow." As a Ravenport, Charlene's ability to shunt away personal feelings was impeccable. "Good luck in Gibraltar, Thomas." "And a fair future to you in that viper's nest." the Steam Mage had the courtesy to pick up the tab as he withdrew. He bowed his head once again at the glass door, then was gone with the closing chime. "Russians... refugees and the Undead..." Charlene finished the last of her tea. "Gwen, I hope you're previsioned for more than monsters..." Hastings. Battle Abbey. Under the vaulted, rainbow-hued space of the abbey's monolithic stained mural of the Nazarene's crucified body, Elvia Lindholm, Knight Companion, prayed for the wholeness of her heart and soul. Against the fading sun, her waist-length locks were a fleece of burnish gold, bisecting her petite figure with geometric shards of multi-coloured light. As a stoic sentinel, she remained kneeling under the benevolent gaze bearing the Crown of Thorns, pondering a future she had not entertained. _Why am I not dead?_ Elvia heard her tortured conscience like echoed breaths in the prayer rooms. According to the Yinglong, her blood should have been spilt on the altar to consecrate the salvation of the original sacrifices, Jun Song, Ayxin and their child. Yet, she had succeeded and, inexplicably, lived. But Sir Kass, who had guided and taught her, had died for her sake. And Sir Reginald, who had given her advice when her faith grew faint, had likewise perished in her place. And all those poor souls in Tianjin— Who should have lived but was now condemned? Who had died but had been blessed to live? She had thought herself capable of carrying the sin to term. Now, alive and hale and possessed of a future, the pressure of all those lives smothered her, drowning her five fathoms deep in the blue dark. Every breath she took inhaled motes of cinders, igniting the wool in her chest, spreading the agony like Zodiam's Elemental Fire through her conduits. The heavy oaken doors announced with a _creak_ that she was no longer alone. Elvia reflexively turned to face the newcomers, but she had knelt for so long that her limbs had gone senseless, sending her into a sideward tumble instead. "Elvia!" The ceiling flashed golden. Mathias caught her before she made a spectacle. "You should eat. It's been a day and then some…" "Mathias is correct, child." The deep and resonant voice of the man beside him belonged to her mentor, Seneschal Ashburn. "What use is there to punish yourself with a fast?" Despite Mathias' radiance, Elvia shivered. Kass and Reginald were men from Ashburn's generation. They were the Seneschal's friends and life-long companions, brother-in-arms cut from the same cloth. How could she face the Senechal after wasting their lives? Mathias directed her to the pew, where the three sat in a row, sandwiching Elvia between them. “Seneschal, I am sorry…” Elvia had no excuses to give. "For my selfishness, Sir Kass and Reginald paid with their lives." Her Seneschal did not reply but waited until her curiosity forced her to raise her head. Their eyes met, his the colour of tempered steel and hers hot and swollen. " _Evee._ Most Knight Protectors will meet their end in battle." Ashburn's voice felt warm and alive despite the cold sandstone space of the abbey's cathedral. "To have Faith is to endlessly push against the tide of inhumanity threatening our existence. To halt is to lose Faith, perish, and betray our Holy Pledge. For Kass and Reginald, there is nothing to lament. Do not mourn for men who died well. No tears, regrets, or loss are involved in their sacrifices, save for their company and good humour." "I should have been less impulsive." Her voice choked. "I robbed them of their old age." "No." Ashburn's hand reached past her chin and gently cupped the side of her small face. "Child, Kass and Reginald gave their lives for you out of duty and free will, exercising the greatest gift the Nazarene had bestowed upon us. Blame yourself again, and you cheapen their choice, understand?" Elvia nodded. She understood, not that she accepted her Seneschal's kindness. "Do you wish to return to your friend?" Ashburn's question, perhaps to distract her from guilt, cut through her mind like St Michael's flaming claymore. "I do," she replied, though not immediately. Her Seneschal's rough thumb wiped away something from her upper cheek. "No, you do not." "I did… something unforgivable," Elvia confessed. "I made her choose me over her brother." "Now _there's_ a sinner beyond all redemption," Ashburn sighed. "I am very sorry for what you had to do, child. Mathias told me as much as he could, as truthfully as he could manage. Tell me, what does your friend think of her choice?" "Gwen hates me." Elvia felt the gloom of her mind like a cloak of dense darkness. "Hate is far too committed an emotion," Ashburn replied. "I have passed much judgment in my years, Evee. Yet, I would not say I hated those I banished, nor did they hate me more than most. Your friend hates herself, Elvia. Not you. Moreso, she is driven by her detestation of Elizabeth Sobel. Thereby, I conclude that your wishful thinking is as far from reality as her brother is from the path of righteousness." "So… I am less hated than Sobel, and therefore, things aren't as bad as they seem." Elvia surprised herself by finding a smidgen of humour. She wanted to smile, though all she felt was exhaustion. Her Seneschal took her hand away from their resting place on her lap. With a tap, he coaxed her to open her clenched digits wide enough to deposit a piece of metal warm to the touch. She looked down, noting the Holy Symbol of the Ordo Bath. From her herbal pouch, the petite figure of Kiki crawled out to stare at the luminous energy so reminiscent of the sun. "Elvia. The Ordo's exchange with the Yinglong is concluded. Your _ordeal_ with the Dragon is over." Ashburn's tone was one of relief. "I am unsure if the ancient one had expected your survival, but its interest in you has waned. Therefore, allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your formal ascension to the Ordo, Companion Lindholm. Few have accomplished what you have at your age." Elvia felt the living Faith entwined within the Holy Symbol like the pulsing beat of the living against the chest of an insensible patient, powerful and undeniably full of life. "Ki-ki..." Her floral sprite cooed. Ashburn patted the flower on the head, stroking the petals with his thumb. "As an ordained Companion, you may move the Ordo's resources as befitting your rank, which means you may return to Shalkar or invest in a crisis elsewhere if that's your wish. As for your friend…" her mentor withdrew his hand, sinking her heart. "Know this, Elvia. For our compatriots in the secular world, there exists an unhappy reality. For she who is unguided by benevolent powers, whether mortal or immortal, _vengeance_ always comes before love. Therefore, for our Regent, until her lust for retribution is resolved... there shall be no respite for the wicked and no room for forgiveness." The Northern Steppes. Shalkar. Petra Kuznetsova, Magus Enchantress and aide-de-camp to the Regent of Shalkar felt the crystalline coolness of her usual demeanour melt like spring snow in the harsh heat of roaring summer. In addition to her scalding anxiety, a part of her felt immersed in guilt. Having received education, benediction, finance and fame via the achievements of her cousin, she had long since consigned herself to a logically sound repayment plan of service and gratitude. Yet, when the news of Yekaterinburg had descended like the Yinglong from the blue, she could not help but put her regard for her estranged parents before the immediate concerns of her cousin. In the heat of the moment, the request for Gwen to aid her parents' city had seemed natural—but now that the conflagrations were put to rest, she couldn't help but feel like a burden. Her selfishness was inexcusable, for her cousin had just endured the betrayal of a lover and a brother and the literal loss of that brother to the same monster who had taken her Master. In the process, a city had been near-erased from existence, millions missing and dead—and she had possessed the audacity to hound Gwen to return to work in Shalkar and to organise this expedition to the Ural Mountains. In truth, she should have returned to Shalkar alone, found whatever allies she had managed to scrounge up in her academic years, then forayed an individual Path forward, leaving Gwen to properly settle her affairs with her uncle, with the Dragon Princess and with their babulya. Without Gwen, she could have still saved her parents. Many were interested in her talents in London, and more were invested in more than just her magical skills. With her training from Master Popov, it wasn't beyond her imagination that those in power, men in particular, could be tempted or enticed into aiding her cause. A small strike unit for rescue operations, a Mage Flight of Translocation specialists, would have been the reasonable outcome, not this northern march beside the Horse Lords. Looking at the dust column behind them, the sheer cost of the logistics alone was enough to make her head spin. "Petra, still worried?" Richard's voice, like his presence, was a welcome respite to her feverish self-loathing. "Like I said, if _Dyadya_ and _Totya_ managed to escape the city, they'd be fine. Hold onto that hope, for there's not much point pondering the alternative." To keep pace with the Horse Lords, they rode on a Dwarven Strider—one Petra had constructed as a part of her lessons under the Engineseers. Richard rode outside the cockpit, balanced upon the right stabiliser fin through Lea's supernatural control of Elemental Water. For their expedition, Richard was the second-in-command to Khudu and their principal source of refreshment. As for Petra, her array of Spell Cubes had been exhausted in Shanghai, making her doubly guilty of being useless. To keep herself engaged, she eased the throttle on the mana engine, adding a degree of slack to the gyroscopic stabilisers. "Thanks, Dick." She leaned back in the bucket seat. "You too, Lea." "And don't worry about our boss lady," her cousin, as always, seemed to read minds like a Mind Mage. "You did good. Gwen needed this." "She needs more work?" Petra cocked her head at the Water Mage. "I would have preferred if she stayed in Sydney. More time with her Siblings-in-craft will do her far more good than with us and with this… work." "Perhaps." Richard shrugged. "But we all know how focused Gwen can be. With Percy the way he is and with Sobel slipping the noose again, she's like an unstable Spell Cube at the brink of eruption. What she needs more than anything is an outlet for that pressure." "Like this expedition to the Ural Mountains?" "Yes, so don't put too much importance on yourself." Richard adjusted his glasses, blinding her with the reflection from the midday sun. "What we're doing here is a necessity and a mercy. A necessity to establish the importance of Shalkar as a conduit point between Asia, Eurasia, and Europe. We also need more Mages, and there are arguably thousands of them now displaced from their homes, with only a fraction capable of returning to a normal life in Moscow. So yes, we are here to rescue _Dyadya_ _Mikhail_ and _Totya Mila_ , but it's truer to say we're here to nab as many able bodies as possible for Gwen's city in the sand. In that regard, the Horse Lords are experts." "That's an interesting way of looking at it." Petra's eyes drifted to the Centaurs. Each dressed in their leather battle garbs, the entire vanguard was tattooed in the style typical of the Thunderblooded war parties of the _Nayzağay Qanı_. With Khudu as the spear of their combined vitality, the Khesig honour guard was capable of besting any known foe in the northern Black Zone. "Our Gwen isn't the girl we knew back in Shanghai, not for a while now." Richard's insight made her shiver a little. "In the coming years, we _will_ hunt down Sobel, Petra, even if it takes every form of calculation and cruelty to come. From the Elves to Dragons to dabbling in the fringes of Necromancy, there'll be many trials Gwen needs our help to overcome." Petra gazed upon her cousin, her eyes hard and serious. " _Necromancy_ , Richard? More than what has already come to pass?" "We fight Demi-humans with Demi-humans, Dragons with Dragons…" Richard said calmly. "How do you think we should fight Undead Mermen and the Cult of Juche?" Petra's limbs felt icy. Gwen had spoken often about her Master's magic—of what design he once possessed and what had failed to come to pass for lack of will and political opportunity. "Don't sweat it," Richard smirked. "A little Soul Tap here, some Essence Tap there, and when we find a use for Lei-bup's Shoal, nothing short of Sympathetic Life-Link will do." "Christ, it is looking that way, isn't it?" Petra tried to imagine Gwen at the head of a Shoal, riding on a Leviathan helmed by a portly, tentacled Fish-priest. Besides them, the Centaurs began to pick up speed. Above, the screeching of Phalera's Harpies indicated they had spotted something of great interest. The clay markings on the Horse Lord's bodies began to burn, heating the air and filling it with the unique stench of musky horses. "To cut off Spectre." Richard made a little model of a humanoid with the water gathered in his hand, encircled by a watery sphere. "Our cousin will peel away shrouds of power protecting Sobel like a blooming onion…" Petra adjusted the Strider's limbs to match their new velocity. "But as for now..." Richard rose into the air, floating on Lea's water clouds. "Let's see what Lord Golos' children have found, shall we?"

Between Shalkar and Aktobe, a distance of almost three hundred kilometres, lies the vast, flat landscapes of the northern steppes. Dry, sloped and rolling like static tides of a sun-bleached sea, the immense grasslands traditionally played home to the dominant Demi-human race of central Asia—the Horse Lords. For most of "Human" history, the Khanates' long reigns defined the region between the Ural Mountains and its southern descent into the Caspian Sea. Yet, the region was a Black Zone long before the emergence of the Fire Sea, being home to civilisations older than the written history of Humanity. One such Demi-human race was now reliving the crisis of their ancestors. The Kobold Tribes of the northern drifts were an indigenous tribe with homes split between the rolling rock-scapes of the lower Urals and the moonscape plains of the frosty Alga. In the Mageocracy's journals, the Human explorers had dubbed them "Dog-men" for their likeness to the mongrel breeds the shepherds employed, well adapted for harsh winters and bleak summers. Stout of limb, the Kobolds were noted for their perfect vision in low light, paired with scent glans capable of tracking prey over hundreds of kilometres. However, unlike the more uniform dimensions of Centaur physiology, Kobold tribes varied from the Halfling squats of the hill dwellers to the hunched-backed, long-necked tunnellers of the Murk, split into archetypal enclaves, rather a unified, communal "Yurt". From the air, Richard observed the great, gull-winged spear formation of the Horse Lords as they enveloped their quarry. On paper, the expedition's Horsemen numbered only in the two hundreds, with only a quarter being the elite Jagun. However, Richard understood that even a single "Golden Rider" threatened a mundane Mageflight, much less the surrounded Kobolds. It was just as well, then, that it wasn't Kobolds the Cherbi's men needed to battle. What had appeared to be their initial roadblock had not come to do battle with the expedition—but were pursued by something with a mana taint as blasphemous as it was loathsome. "KNEEL—KNEEL—KNEEL—!" The Jaguns barked, offering no mercy to the handful of Kobolds who did not stop but continued to sprint, pining them into the hard soil like furry moths on an exhibition board. As a tide, the cavalry overlept their prey, bypassing the passive Kobold columns. "Wolves—!" Howls from Phaelera's brood pealed from the cloudless sky. "Foul Wolves!" At his mental behest, Lea materialised closer to the ground, riding the wind beside the galloping Horse Lords and their wolf-like howls. Pilums, each as tall as a mare, leapt from saddle satchels into the hands of the masterful warriors, then made impossible arcs to meet a wall of gangrene flesh. _Christ!_ Richard grimaced as the stench traversed the headwind. Across the Northern Steppes, wolves were formidable foes, especially if gifted with Elemental Affinities. In Shalkar, where the Sand Wolves were plentiful, the alpha specimens could even traverse through soft sand and stone. Their current foes, what seemed like a pack of several thousand, were as unnatural as they come, being possessed by Necromancy to such a degree that they were both living and dead, whole and unholy. A wolf a Jagun had skewered utilised two heads, one large and natural, the other appearing just below the first, wearing the larger, slavering head like a helm. Others were also unique, possessing more legs than a wolf could need or having tumorous growths that erupted in vile explosions of noxious gas that drove the pack into a frenzy. The two sides closed within seconds—but the Centaurs were far too cunning to engage the Plague Wolves. As shimmering shoals empowered by their tribal blood magic, they peeled from the incoming hammerhead of jaws and claws, staying just out of reach by barely a meter. Unceasingly, even as they outflanked the wolves, the pilums continued their assault, skewering each monster with their weighted ends, slowing the advance of the roving fur tide. As the Cherbi's elite Khesig Guards broke away, Richard grew immensely impressed by Khudu's time-honed battle tactics—for the Centaurs had bought themselves more space with the simple offering that is the Kobold's rear! Ignoring Petra's gasp of horror, he marvelled at the sight of the Plague Wolves diving into the Kobolds like a black swell crashing against an edible sandcastle. While the rabid canines feasted on the weak and the meek, the rest of the Horse Lords moved into position, launching such a barrage of heavy pilums that the few Plague Wolves left could not harass the expedition. The exchange took less than fifteen minutes. When Richard finally excused himself from Petra to present himself as Shalkar's spokesperson, there were no combat-capable Plague Wolves still unpinned. Additionally, over a thousand Kobolds had survived, while only a dozen Horse Lords had the bad luck to be bitten. "Impressive work, Khudu," Richard commended the Centaur Commander. "A perfect operation." "Not as impressive as that lumen-recording," Khudu remarked upon Gwen's actions in Tianjin, which Richard had liberally sown among the fighting men as entertainment. "Ah, to ride or die against Zodiam himself, with our Yurts against our backs and the hot wind singing our manes! Now, that would be a worthy death for an Orkok!" Richard did not remark but nodded to feign understanding. "You'll get your chance, Khudu. There'll be fights to remember, I guarantee it." The Cherbi twirled the heavy pilum in his hand. "These Dwarven armaments. Tell your Mistress we like them very much. We'll take as many as the short men can manufacture." Richard gave the Horseman a thumbs up. Good quality iron and advanced metallurgy had always been limited in the Northern Steppes by its lack of access to materials and craftsmen—until the Dwarves came. With the sheer volume of deep iron being moved into the place for the reconstruction of the Citadel and the low-way, the scraps gathered by young apprentices were forged into weighted pilums—complete with runic imprints that made an activated implement exceedingly difficult to dislodge from the earth. "I am glad to hear it," Richard drifted a little away and a bit closer to a still-slavering wolf. "Say Khudu, does this Necromancy feel familiar to you?" The Cherbi wrinkled his nose. "Disease, like the ones from the rats." "Indeed," Richard also recognised the distinctive mana signature. "Looks like a more active, less potent strain. Tell your men to keep away, in any case. We need to burn these with fire. If any of your men fall sick—I bought some of Gwen's Essence Maotai to cleanse their blood. _Lea_!" A jet blast of whitewater, super pressurised by his Undine Spirit, was enough to erase the Plague Wolf almost entirely—albeit leaving a jet stream of necrotic particles in a sharp, long arc. "Thank you, Lea…" Richard sighed. "Yes. _Fire…_ that, or we will need to bury them all." The Cherbi laughed, then directed them both to the head of the Kobold column. The Kobolds' leader was an interesting, grey-maned specimen dressed in plates of iron knitted against leather, sealed with intricate inlays of precious monster materials threaded into the stitching. From what Richard could see, it was a _she,_ a Clan matriarch. "Name and Clan." The Cherbi asked with a hand against his favourite new toy, a Dwarven-made Satchel of Storing, which he used to stow his weapons. " _Vortu Sorn_ , Daughter of Alkar Sorn of Alga, O Lord," the Kobold pressed her nose against the floor. "We seek refuge, great warrior of the plains. My people… are willing to serve." _Slavery and servitude._ Richard sighed with appreciation. __ The golden rules of the Northern Steppes. To live as Tasmüyiz for a generation or two to preserve the blood of a tribe is worth ten thousand dignities. Richard watched his Horse Lord companion lift the head of the kneeling Dog Warrior with the tip of his prideful product from the Dwarven military-industrial complex under Shalkar. The Kobold leader, for all her piercing blue eyes of defiance, was exhausted, worn, and on her toes. _Ready to fight—or flight?_ Richard wondered. _Or perhaps, to die painlessly._ "Where is your Alpha?" Khudu asked, indicating for Richard. "Where is your Shaman?" "Perished in the ambush," the Dog-woman answered. "I led the survivors from our warrens. We are all that is left of Hom Alga. There are more of our packs scattered to the…" "Don't answer _me_ , dog. You are the property of Master Richard and his Mistress now." Khudu appeared to lose interest even as he spoke. Leaving Richard and the newly parked Petra in her Strider, the Cherbi left to dress down his fellow warriors. Gawked at by the Kobold survivors, Petra landed beside the Water Mage. "Master… Richard…” The kneeling Kobold appeared less inclined to be subordinate to a humanoid creature not even as tall as itself. "The sons and daughters of Alga heed your words." Richard did not mind the change in attitude. After all, fear and respect were earned. If they did not submit, he would kill them with kindness. "In a few hours, our supply convoy will arrive," Richard announced to the rest of the refugees, ignoring the female. "There will be clean food and water, and you will all undergo a health check. For those of you willing to become temporary employees of the Isle of Dog Norfolk Conglomerate, we will provide meaningful labour, shelter, and sustenance. For those wishing to leave, that is also an option." "The Isle…" Vurtu raised her head, her blue eyes wary and confused. "Of Kobolds?" Richard felt embarrassed, for his Translation stone wasn't nearly as good as Gwen's wondrous inheritance from Henry Kilroy. "And… food?" The Kobold masses were more suspicious than inquisitive. "Why?" "For an equivalent exchange of labour and produce," Richard clarified, making the universal symbol of the balancing scales with his hands. "Our Mistress calls it gainful employment. You will have rights, and there are guarantees for your safety. _From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs_ , you may trust me on this." "She has this much power?" Vurtu looked to Petra for confirmation. How similar their eyes are, Richard pondered for a moment. Both with that icy, piercing blue that would make wondrous jewels. "Who is this Mistress?" Richard cleared his throat. "She is _Gwen Song_ , Regent of Shalkar, Magister of the Shard, The Devourer of Cities, the _Pale Priestess of Many Millions_." With each pronouncement, he raised his voice, his visage amplified by Lea's light distortion. The Kobolds stared at Richard, their mouths open, a few with their tongues out, panting. "She is a Goddess?" The Kobold woman attempted to understand his words. "Many would not deny it," Richard answered vaguely. "Many others fear her for it. But you, my pups, can find a new home under her long and sheltering shadow. So, will you come?" "We shall! Great Richard! Please lead us to the Pale Mistress!" The Kobold leader's hesitation lasted only a few seconds, for the Horse Lords were already setting the Plague Wolves on fire. If these dogs had refused, Richard felt, he would have recommended that Khudu unburden their expedition of useless mouths. "Good." Richard studied the supplication of the dogs for a moment more before helping the female to stand. "No need for formalities, as our Mistress often says. However, I do need to ask for an immediate service." "Yes? Great Richard?" Richard chuckled. "Just Richard, while we're in public. Tell me, Vurtu, have you seen other humans like me, with lighter-coloured fur and manes, fleeing from the north?" The Kobold's expression changed. "We have, and they attacked us. Stole our food and supplies. They killed our Shaman and her daughter." "How many were there?" Petra butted in from atop her Strider. "Mages? Or Civilians?" "Pats, let the dog finish." Richard supposed the refugees must be in good spirits if they had the energy to spare. "We're looking for these Humans. Do you think you could lead us to them?" The Kobold looked from Richard to Petra, unwilling to return to danger. "If you help us," Richard offered a hand toward a meaty paw wrapped in bandages and hidden within a shredded gauntlet. "I'll take special care of your people here. If not, that's your choice. We don't force anyone to do anything here. It's all… free will. Or so Gwen advertises." He allowed the assonance of "free" to linger a little longer than was comfortable. "I'll help…" The Kobold offered her paw. "My scouts, we can take you to Orsk. That's where we were ambushed." "How far?" Richard checked his mental map while Petra produced a physical one. "Almost a hundred kilometres away, but the path is unobstructed. When did you see them?" Petra asked. "Two moons ago. My people travel by night when it's… less dangerous. It was during the day that flying humans came." Petra's traced a circle around the region of Orsk, somewhere within fifty kilometres. "If what she says is true, there has to be a group of Refugees there. More than one Mage Flight if they spared the men to forage." "Many Undead?" Richard showed the Kobold Petra's map. "How often did you fight?" If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. "There are many, but all are scattered to harass travellers who seek refuge in the south. Each time, a few of us would be crippled. We… we had to leave behind those would would succumb to disease… and transform." "Necrophage…" Richard nodded to Petra. "Same shit we saw with the Mermen and the Rat-kin, but obviously, the population here is much more scattered and the spaces less inter-connected than within the Shoals. We should send back a bird and inform Gwen." "I'll arrange it." Petra retreated into her Strider. The sooner her secretarial work was done, Richard saw, the sooner they would find her potentially still-living parents. "Very well," Richard performed as Gwen would and gave the Kobold a pat on the head. The dog flinched, thought to bite him, but ultimately endured the violation with patience. Just as he thought to say something Gwen might spew to offset the faux pas, he heard the distant rumble of thunder. The Kobolds looked up, confused as to the source of the cacophony. In the next second, the enormous body of Golos zoomed overhead, momentarily blotting out the sun with his vast wingspan. As one, the Kobolds struck dirt. Their heads bowed in total and unquestioning supplication to a being greater than their imagination. "G-GREAT DRAGON!" Vurtu cowered, this time wholeheartedly. "G—R-Richard. It has seen us! Are we doomed to be food after all?" Richard regarded the dog with pity. After a moment, he offered her a hand and pulled up her unwilling body with a tug. "No. Don't worry about Gogo. He's a friend and a companion, and if you find us those humans, I promise he'll be fed and watered." Shalkar. While her companions sought out ways across the Black Zone, the Regent of the city sat in her office, studying an intricately detailed sand sculpture built by the Germanic Engineseers of the Citadel below. "There are old segments of the Dyar Morkk here, and here—" Axehoff indicated with a Magitech variation of what Gwen saw was a laser pointer. "The Murk here, unfortunately, is thick with miasma. The reclamation will require aid from your Rat-kin troops, and if we do encounter strange Magical Beasties, the Guild requests a Purge from yer devouring worm." "And beyond this stretch of the Murk is another Citadel?" Gwen traced her fingers to a less certain cavern made by the sand construct. "It's huge." "The _Mimm Agaeth Kjangtoth_ ," Axehoff indicted to their present whereabouts. "Is, or was, a transport hub for the materials mined at this lost Citadel. Our records indicate that it was a _Glang_ Agaeth Kjangtoth, the Citadel of Iron and Forges, used to produce the precious ingots used by the Fabricators." "I see," Gwen understood where the man was coming from. "You did say it was good to find a localised source of ingots that doesn't involve the sellers from Bavaria." The Engineseer pushed a data slate her way. "The Meister has crunched the statistics. If we tap into the Ural vein, costs fer ya city's raw materials will reduce by forty-two per cent. Transport reduction costs by thirty-seven per cent. Transmutation Mana efficiency will increase by twenty-six point two per cent. Ya ken?" Gwen took a moment to scan the data out of respect, for she knew that Dwarves would sooner Soul Forge themselves into a Balefire than make a mockery of the sacred figures left to them by the Seven Ancestors. "And to achieve these numbers…" "Yer need to authorise an expedition into the Deep Murk. Too dangerous to build the Low Ways from Shalkar otherwise. Earth Wyrms, Hookie Horrors, Beasties from yer Planes of Ooze and Mud and whatnot. We won't risk it if…" "…I am not equally committed. I read you, Ambassador." Gwen considered the Ambassador's proposal. The cleansing of the Murk from its less desirable inhabitants had always been on the table. As always, in creating a trade route network free from interference from Eastern Europe to North-Western China, time and cost must be measured against the profit motive. The problem was time, _her_ time. So much of her work was now in the realm of delegations. The refugees were delegated to Richard and Petra, with Golos as the guarantor of their judgment. Shalkar's governance was delegated to Ollie and his team from London's elite universities, each with their agendas, balanced by the guileless Magister Edwards, with his final say also guaranteed by Golos. The construction, which she oversaw, was entirely carried out by cooperation between her Isle of Dog civil engineers and the Dwarven delegation concurrently rebuilding their Citadel. Shalkar's militia was split between Strun and Khudu, with Richard as an advisor and old Militant Faction veterans filling in for the ranks… And the agriculture was in the domain of the Tasmüyiz, now restored to their individual Clans of Demi-humans, shepherded by an often absent Sanari. Everything was working well—for now, but she knew with absolute certainty that Murphy's Law would visit her precarious balance in the coming months, for that was the nature of all projects of this scale and size. And when it did arrive, would her choices be the catalyst for catastrophe or repair? As a seasoned manager, she had composed mental and physical risk calculations countless times with her inner circle, setting aside men and HDMs for the occasions as insurance—but still, she felt the project was falling behind. To strangle Sobel, Spectre, the subverted Mermen, the Followers of Juche and their agents, she had to move laterally in ways her foes could not anticipate. A network connecting her major interests. A way to quickly move men and resources to the points of conflict. And finally, to build enough of a global business presence that power players would openly pursue and disrupt Spectre for fear of losing out on the great boon of Human progress. To do all of the above, she had to necessitate risks… "Let's set a date once the Expedition returns," she confirmed her willingness with the Ambassador. "We'll know for sure what lies in the deep once the excavations reach the foothills of the Ural region." "Three Himsegg faith cycles is my estimation," Axehoff informed her after a brief moment of mental calculation, inferring three rotations of Monday to Sunday. "We'll request more families from Bavaria to fill in our numbers here, as well as extra Golems for the reconstruction, assuming we arrive at this _Glang_ Agaeth Kjangtoth." "And I'll ready the Rat-kin and the Militia," Gwen nodded. "And free my timetable, of course." The sand sculpture collapsed into its display pan. Gwen uncrossed her legs, fixed her pencil skirt, and stood with her head still bowed. Her hand clasped the heavy leather gauntlets of the Engineseer, and the two shook on the expectation of an unbreakable agreement of trust. Declining a round at the bar to celebrate, she parted from the delegation of bearded men and women, then made her way above ground, where her next appointment was already fifteen minutes due. "Sorry I am late," Gwen waved with both hands as she passed the threshold, escorted by starry-eyed Rat-kin guards carrying Dwarven-made sonic wands. "Are we good to start?" "We are, Magister." The voice who answered her belonged to Magus Williams, the American Magitech engineer contracted by herself to work on integrating Spellcraft and Dwarven runecraft for her Low Way networks. She had not anticipated the American to join them initially. However, once the man got to know a little of Slylth's pedigree, he had been barraging the Dragon-kin with stories from across the continent, as well as newly devised Spellcraft Glyphs and Sigils non-stop. As a result, the two had become chums—though Gwen understood very well how one-sided William's perceived relationship with Slylth was in reality. Even a Dragon as young as Slylth would not categorically consider a Human, a NoM no less, to be a companion or friend. Thereby, the scene of John C. Williams simpering to the "Morden heir" was like a humanoid Golden Retriever hoping for affection from a charmed stranger. "GWEN! You're here!" Slylth sidled up to her, not unlike an auburn-hued Labrador. "I did it! I remembered enough of my Master's lessons to create a Hexagramic Annulment Mandala. There were some Human-type issues with power, but Williams found some solutions through the Dwarves' runic networks. Gwen nodded at the smiling Magus, then gave her Dragon-kin a slap of affirmation at the back. "Good job, Slylth." The Dragon-kin gave her an enormous, self-satisfying grin. Presently, she was in the furthest excavation from Shalkar, which would one day be where she hoped Sufina might find a home. The Dwarves had found a natural hollow here, an enormous cavern emptied of groundwater that could house a sheltered complex of government buildings. In such a space, it was possible to construct the base plate of her Tower, for here was where the underground water naturally gathered, making it a natural ley-node of Terra's more desirable, benign energies. In the above ground, an incredibly picturesque lake would play home to Sufina's secondary tree—assuming that's how things would work out, and mimic a watery home if Almudj's avatar wanted to sleep in its depth—as the serpent often had done in Lake Eyre. In their present junction, however, the large cavern was used as a containment field. Over the last few days, Slylth and Williams, aided by Dwarven Masters and others, constructed an enormous Mandala for housing Gwen's latest and most precious loot. An Ashen Kirin Core. A bitter prize, one now seated on a settee of Mithril like a precious gem awaiting an eager bride-to-be, blocked from accessing the Elemental Plane of its creation. They had to take great care, for if what Slylth had proposed held—this was no common Kirin Core. Instead, she possessed the "Core" of the Ashen Kirin as a species, an origin Core from which a lineage may be repopulated. If she had a choice, Gwen would have preferred to have no Core and a Brother, an unsullied Evee, and the bliss of her happy days with Sobel as a distant foe—but alas, all she had to show for her anguish was a priceless heart of a Draconic species from China's Dynastic past. "Gwen, we're ready to begin." Slylth made a gentlemanly move to direct her to a cosy space in front of the Kirin Egg, where she might question whatever was left of its consciousness after days of brooding within Caliban's digestive juices. If she so desired, Caliban could devour the thing—but the mere form of a Void Kirin wasn't nearly as precious as other avenues of discovery that lay within the ancient, subdued being. "Thanks, Slylth," she moved as directed, motioning for the others in the cavern to leave. Within the Mandala, only herself and Slylth, possessed of Essences resistant to the Kirin's primal bloodline suppression, could hope to remain unaffected. To her left and right, she released her Familiars. Ariel transformed instantly, standing guard against the Kirin's malicious designs. Caliban laid low, ready to swallow the egg again, depositing it into God knows what region of the void scape inside its astral intestines. With hands invoking sorcery too fast for her eyes to follow, Slylth completed a dozen arcane incantations back to back, speaking in the tongue of his noble race. The Mandala grew bright. A scent of Elemental Fire purer than anything Gwen had ever beheld filled the air with firefly embers. The momentary spectacle was enjoyable until the Kirin Core began to thrum, thrusting against the Elemental Fire with its necrotic energies of Elemental Ash. A ring of runes formed around the tip of the jagged Core, bright with burning, locking the means by which the Kirin Egg manifested its dominion of the Prime Material. A second ring joined it, and then a third, binding the Kirin Egg like bands of a smouldering wine barrel, choking the emerging creature in its infancy. Around the enormous chamber, the Dwarven Mandala thrummed, its pitch low and steady, drawing power from the great furnaces supplying raw mana to the rest of the city. Dragon Fear rolled from Slylth like a tide. With a final word of power, a fourth band of fire materialised, suspending the Kirin Egg from its ability to draw mana from the surrounding landscape and thereby transform it into a roost. Gwen closed her eyes, allowing her mind to relax. Like feelers from an inviting jellyfish, she let her thoughts extend via her Divination Glyph toward the Kirin Egg. The vision from within came at once, latching desperately onto her tendrils of empathic telepathy. She saw… A great, lion-maned head with furs of smouldering ash and cinder made majestic by a pair of skyward antlers. She saw scales of shimmering bronze, polished by unimaginable heat, flowing across the Kirin's chest and limbs like liquid. With every step the Kirin took, it left an imprint of burning hooves in the air. Below it, an oriental city stretched as far as her vision could see, filled with supplicants and sacrifices, citizens of the Kirin's domain, its source of Faith, power, and nourishment. Not far from the Kirin, others of its kind, lesser beings of small girth and mane, females, adolescents and pups, stood stoic as statues in its imperial court. Such was its enterprise, the existence of a ruler, a myth in the flesh, a Queen and Goddess of drought against the encroaching tide of oceanic Dragons seeking to usurp its domain. But Gwen did not care for that. Her mind pushed the enfeebled existence within to scour its memories for the day of its awakening, so fresh and vivid as to be unforgettable. She had only one chance to coerce the creature, for she was its dominator, and as a Dragon-kind, its submission was instinctual—at least until it realised the truth. The answer came unwillingly, first as a surge of wilful counter-domination, then as she scalded the Kirin with the threat of Almudj, the sensations grew clarified. While the two of their consciousnesses circle each other like a mongoose and a cobra, she caught a glimpse of darkness, of fear and loathing and hatred and anger compressed by the passage of millennia into a madness no mortal creature could begin to comprehend. In the Murk of the Kirin's memories, she saw a shard of light, of an unexpected call to life, of the Core thrusting itself into the city that was once its temple, believing without doubt that the millions above were meant for its nourishment. And between that, the death thrust and the darkness, she saw a young man with one hand extended, touching the egg, muttering to himself, his expression one of undisguised ambition. _The Kirin Egg wasn't… aware of Percy?_ Gwen felt the queasy stir of an alarm inside her. _Was its emergence reactive and unanticipated?_ Air sirens erupted in her brain. If so, what the hell was compelling Percy, if at all? When her grandmother had given up Percy's half of the amulet, it had become eerily inert, just as Jun's half had lost all of its potency. All of her family members had been unanimous in that Percy had inadvertently awakened the Kirin inside his heirloom amulet, which reasonably would have led the boy to exercise power beyond his understanding. So why isn't the Kirin Egg tempting her brother? Or had Caliban stripped it of selective memories? As she probed it further, she noted that other than its egotistical, murderous disregard for "lower" life, this ancient Kirin was wholly acting out of spite, arrogance and instinct, not plots and schemes. Her fingers grew numb as unhappy realisations filled her soul with dread. Was her brother the principal architect of his failures? Was that why Elvia tried to sacrifice herself like a little fool? How little did Elvia trust her to do the right thing? "Gwen, that's enough." The voice of Slylth came as a thunderclap from outside her sphere of thoughts. "You're not trained in Divination proper to sustain the link, and you're not… one of the Yinglong's kin." Gwen allowed herself to slip from the Kirin's glare. What Slylth had meant was that the Kirin had submitted to the Dragon-kind headed by the Yinglong and its ocean-faring folk. While Slylth himself was a true scion of the ancient Reds and herself a proxy of an even older being—it wasn't they who held existential dominion over the vanquished Kirin tribes of northern China. With a word, she broke off the tenebrous Empathic Link. Her answer was incomplete, but she knew the vision to be true, at least as true as her brother's guilt. Now, she had more questions. If not for the Kirin... what force had gifted Percy with so much unnatural knowledge? How did Percy even find the Kirin nest when the Communists did not know its existence? "On to our next state of affairs," Gwen said coldly, her tone dangerously agitated. "Let us recover some of our resources. I want to see what can be done with the Core, even if we sell it." Slylth appeared relieved that she could pull back her mind without complications. He tried to touch her face, though a raised brow from Gwen was enough to make the young man keep his digits to his sides. "Or so you say. Will you be using one of Master Kilroy's Necromancy hybrids?" The Red Dragon youth asked. "I've read about them from Master's journals." "Soul Fire," Gwen invoked the first syllabic clause as proof, lowering the temperature of the room instantly. "And Soul Tap, assuming it can be controlled." "No. No Spirits like the Dragon Turtle. No chance you'll be able to dominate it as a non-member of the Yinglong's Clan. Even if Ariel has some borrowed Essence, you and I know it's far from the real article." Slylth explained. "Besides, if you use Soul Tap—you'll risk your sanity by pitting the Old One against the Kirin matriarch and letting them battle it out in your Astral Body. With luck, I am sure you'll only be brain-dead. More likely, you shall combust into a prismatic spray of raw, uncontrolled Essence." "Thanks for the heads up." Gwen took solace in the morbid humour. Having a Morden with perfect Draconic memory while exploring unknown avenues of Spellcraft was as useful as she expected. "So we burn it down." "It will take some time…" Slylth informed her. "We attack the Kirin Soul. Then we rest while the Mandala constrains it. Then, we repeat the process until it is wholly... extinguished. After that, you should have a Core that can be used for… alternative purposes." "Too small for a Structural Tower Core, too big for anything other than a Golem—and too dangerous to leave as is," Gwen recalled their earlier conversation. "And there's little that can be done with Elemental Ash of this potency… what a crock. Sure we can't feed it to Ariel?" "EE-ee!" Ariel whinied. It did not like the mana flowing from the Kirin Core at all. "No. The Elemental composition is final," Slylth gave Ariel's head a sorrowful pat. "I know what you're thinking, little one, but those are the Planar rules of existence that defy even Morden's authority over the Primary Elements." "Shaa! Shaa!" Caliban offered its services. Gwen considered the Core, as well as her Draconic-aide's words. Such a rare Core. Like a blood diamond too precious to sell on the cheap, too controversial to be put into a crown. "Hmm, I have a good idea." Gwen thought aloud. "No. That's not going to work. Suppose your Dryad makes use of the ley line. It will perish when she attempts to draw mana from the Core. Don't be daft, Gwen." Slylth appeared to think he knew her well enough to read her mind. In response, Gwen could only scoff at the young Dragon's naivety. "Nothing like that," Gwen refuted Slylth's hypothesis. "What do you say to bartering this for a Lightning Dragon Core?" Slylth's golden eyes blinked. "I am sorry?" "Once we sanitise the insane Kirin," Gwen saw the possibility bloom in her mind like a flower. "What if I put it up for auction with Ruxin and the House of M?" "There is no possibility that a similar tier of Dragon Core would exist in human hands," Slylth scoffed at her suggestion. "Our kind would hunt the offending party down and reduce their city to cinders, then find their associates, and reduce their cities to ash, then find…" "Yes, alright, good." Gwen battered away the spluttering Dragon with a hand. "Listen up, Alex—Golos got his break from Illaelitharian. For that quest, we got the lead from Tyfanevius to go and save them. Do you get my drift? _Quod erat demonstrandum_ , your old folks probably have access to a cache, one that could be up for some _quid pro quo_." Slylth stared as her lips dropped names like bombs, his eyes suddenly wide with possibilities. "Those are the holy relics of those who ascended into the Unformed Land!" The Red Dragon-kin protested. "They're sacred!" "I am pretty sure most of the oldies perished before they managed to hit draconic _Rapture_ ," Gwen recalled her Master's notes on Dragons. "The Dragon Wars, you know? When the earth was young and all that, hundreds of thousands of Dragon-kind in every flavour, fighting for real estate on the Prime Material." "No." The Red Dragon shook his head. "None would risk the anger and the admonition from _Kin_." Twin streams of mocking air issued from her small pink nostrils. "Should I ask your Mother for another opinion?" Gwen did not like the disagreeing Dragon as much as she enjoyed the company of the agreeable one. "Maybe mighty Sythinthimryr has a useless nephew with the right Elemental composition tucked away on a shelf…" The young Dragon's protest lost some of its vigour. From his guileless face, Gwen guessed that, indeed, there probably were spare parts Sythinthimryr kept around for precisely that purpose. After all, as Golos demonstrated, Dragons grew stronger through age, dominion, and… usurpation. Sythinthimryr did not become the master of Carrauntoohil through a democratic election. "Any who…" she turned her attention back to the Kirin Core just as another thought struck her. "May as well get this fire started while we discuss how to proceed." Her mind was made up. Gunther had told her that if these immortal being wanted to make use of her as a proxy, it was only right that she made demands that brought credit to the debt sheets. If the Dragons proved to be prudes, she could approach Sanari—or perhaps Solana herself, to make a case for exchanging this rare and unusual object for a lesser but more useful one. For her Tryfan stay, she should also bring Slylth with her. The Dragon was here to see the world, and so long as he remained useful, she would satisfy his curiosities. Besides, the fellow had promised to teach her an improved variant of Morden's Blade free of charge, and she wasn't about to let that opportunity slip. Besides her, the student of Morden produced a data-slate and a conjured stylus of fiery mana. Gwen invoked the legacy her Master had left behind, felt the Void Mana in her veins turn her blood to ice, and raised a delicate, blue-burning hand. Constrained by the power of a Citadel's Balefire Furnaces and magics Draconic and Human, the Kirin Core raged against its cage, howling at the Essence eroding power in the palm of its assailant. "I don't know if this will hurt…" Gwen said to the Kirin Core, thinking of those its emergence would have consumed had it awoken in Tianjin. Among that number, or so Elvia had said, would have been her Uncle Jun, Ayxin's sanity, her unborn cousin, her grandparents, cousins and more. Should she feel pity for this rare and ancient being? Perhaps the old Gwen would have. As for herself, she could only consider its release to be an act of undeserved mercy.

Shalkar. In an unnamed chamber under the Bunker, dying Runes feeding light into the Dwarven construction site made the cavern's interior unbearably hot for the Human Magi-techian and the Rat-kin guards watching the proceedings with solemn expressions of fright and awe. Opposite, closer to the epicentre, Slylth Alexander Morden, scion of Sythinthimryr the Red, focused the entirety of his considerable mental prowess upon the sorcery employed by his subject of interest. Even now, he felt deeply intrigued, a feeling Slylth did not understand in its entirety, for the Human female was not born from an egg, nor was she sheltered, as Slylth was, by an ancient member of the Kin. Yet, the woman's mortal origins were no barrier to her possession of power and allure. Take, for example, her application of _Soul Fire_ , a spell the female now utilised to wear down the Kirin's existential being. With each completion of the circular invocation, he bore witness to a confluence of forces not usually found in harmony. _Essence_ akin to his own, but older and purer. _Mana_ wrought from the practice of Morden's Spellcraft. And finally, the _Faith Magic's_ inverse twin, Necromancy. Each drew upon a different source of power, each older than the youthful body of the female, a Vessel that lacked the two centuries of patient brooding Slylth had endured as an egg. Nonetheless, with each blue flare of necrotic fire, Slylth felt his heart beat in tune with the slow erosion of the Kirin's, each instance more vivid as the Ancient's anguish grew exponentially. From the violent pulses of Negative Ash retrained by his Abjuration Mandala, he could feel the Primordial's struggles as if they were his own. First came the resentment and anger, then the blind, berserker rage of being dominated by another. Then, as rage subsided, dire alarm. And finally, from alarm came fear, and from that existential terror of extinction came pleading bargains of inequality and absurdity. But his companion was as ruthless as the Elemental Plane of Radiance. Untouched by Human greed, she stayed the course, unswayed by the Kirin's promises of servitude. Her Familiars howled and hissed in unison as each Soul Fire struck, sending forth waves of Ash-tinged mana to spill from the Kirin Core. Eventually, the struggles against Slylth's barrier grew weaker. Then, the reactions ceased entirely. The Kirin Core became inert. Its mana conduits were now as free to use as any worldly treasure born of Primordial Terra. Slylth swallowed, appreciating the expansive opportunities for emotive expression offered by the Humanoid form. He had initially left Mother's nest to see what arrogance had refused the personal invitation of a student of Magi Morden, and now he bore witness to the extinction of a race of Kirins with whom the Dragons had warred since the days when the Prime Material still churned. The absurdity— Slylth found—almost toppled his fondness for the female. But as Mother would say, young people shouldn't dwell on death and extinction. Those stories were from the ancient past, and those who consumed their way to the top now possessed the privilege of not being food, especially when they were few, while the livestock had become a menace. "You're very good," Slylth remarked once the young Magister ceased her spell to take a breather, mopping the moisture from her glistening brow with her sleeves. Moving almost unconsciously, he offered her a handkerchief. The female appeared more touched by this gesture than when she flamed the Kirin into extinction. "Why does a Dragon have a handkerchief?" Gwen asked, studying the cloth as though it was a relic. "Why does it have strawberries on it?" "Mother said that t _he Cloth doth maketh a man,_ " Slylth recalled another of his Mother's confusing aphorisms. "And I am a graduate of The College if you remember. We are not farmers, Gwen. We have handkerchiefs.” The two stared at each other, almost daring one another to make sense of their banter. Gwen's eyes, Slylth thought, would look much nicer if her pupils were two thin slits. "Of course…" Gwen conceded to his logic. "Thank you." Slylth felt pleased. The female knew Human high society manners at least. Once Gwen was finished, Slylth returned the offending cloth to himself with an expert Mage Hand, then willed it into his Bag of Holding. "I should probably wash that for you…" The female seemed alarmed. "It possesses a self-cleansing prestidigitation," Slylth assured her. "Shall we get some air?" "Right…" his companion agreed. Somewhere, the overeager mortal called John made noises, but Slylth could barely hear the squawks as they exited the Low Way node. Outside, Slylth felt far calmer and safer than within that claustrophobic space dug by the Dwarves. "As I was saying." He desired to make more conversation. "Why are you so good at that? You suffered no blowbacks, failed invocations, or even lapses in concentration in over two hundred and six-teen cycles. Your mana Affinity is also absurdly well-tuned, better than Senior Maguses I've known from college—but for _Necromancy_." Gwen found herself a seat by the entrance's construction materials. The female did not have a smoking stick, but Slylth felt the scene would have been perfect if she could blow smoke from her nostrils like Mother sometimes did. " _Talent_ , perhaps. It's not like I practice in my spare time." "But Necromancy isn't the mainstay of your education," Slylth felt that he needed to explain why he was impressed. "Faith Magic isn't even a part of the Imperial Spellcraft System taught in your universities, nor is Necromancy a recognised School of Magic." Gwen's ears seemed to perk up. "When was Necromancy in the public domain?" "Before your Great War, it was taught here and there, including in your places of learning." Slylth hoped the female didn't pry too deeply into his limited knowledge. All he knew was that Master Morden was greatly saddened by its outcomes, especially in curtailing Human-made arcanistry. "After Tyfan intervened, it was outlawed everywhere ruled by Humans." "Yeah. I figured it's an open secret that Tryfan had a hand in the IMS." Gwen looked toward the orchids, beyond which the Trellis Portal from Tryfan stood. "You know, I sometimes forget how long-lived the Kindred are. So were you there, Slylth? Or rather, Morden was there when all this happened, like living history?" "Master Morden was one of the IMS' architects, yes." Slylth wore his superior lineage like a cashmere coat. "He said it was a shame—but Necromancy _had_ to be controlled, limited, relegated to the fringes of Spellcraft. It was a power that was too liberal, too open to ambition, and too easily accessed. It was better for everyone, Humans, Demi-humans, Dragons... that Necromancy did not achieve the balance it sought. I mean, look at the Mermen. What is even happening down there?" "The balance?" Gwen sidled closer, which was nice. The female's eyes were twinkling now. "What's this balance?" "Er…" Slylth realised he could not speak more. The teachings of his Mother weren't a Geas, but there were rules. "As someone not part of the Accord, I can't tell you more. I can only say history isn't so easily diverted. After the Great War, those same Mages carried your society onward into the Pan-European War, this time with Elemental Spellcraft…" The female prodded him with a finger against his shoulder. "It's true! That's the consensus we, the Kindred, have reached about you Humans, Gwen. You are not Dragons, not by far, but you possess an appetite for consumption and conquest that rivals our best. But, of course, there is a cost to every gain." "And the cost of slowly erasing Necromancy from existence is our gaining the IMS." Gwen's astuteness was pleasing. "What's the cost of the IMS, then?" "If you must know, Master Morden's Arcanistry is equally devastating in terms of the toll it takes from the Prime Material." Slylth thought to his lessons in the egg, listening to the old Magi drone on in-between snores. "But it is still better than whole empires wrought from defiled Essences of once-living beings. These days, you have the privilege of fighting the Elementals, who are far less destructive for the Prime Material than the Undead unless it's like... now... where they work together. _Hmm..._ " The female digested his words. "So it's true then? Those scholars aren't just blowing hot air? The cities ARE responsible for these Elemental rents!" "I am not a scholar." Slylth felt he might have let another detail slip. A Dragon wasn't prone to nervousness, but he thought he felt a slight queasiness. "Elemental rents happen all the time on their own. That's where you get those HDMs you love so much. As for the IMS, maybe it agitates things when deployed on a large enough scale… Elemental Magic is far more in tune with the Prime Material itself—And I am sure the Elves are holding the seams together. Granted, Mother sometimes lends them a hand when the Humans can't handle the gaps. I mean… I can't say more. That's the Accord." "It's good to have a first-hand account." The female seemed to have gained some new insight. "I am starting to see the merit in signing up for a membership with Tryfan Prime. You don't hear that in our college lectures, that's for sure. I get now why the bloody Elementals have these unhealthy obsessions with our settlements." "Tryfan Prime?" Slylth had heard from Richard that this was a Gwenism. Gwen made them when she was amused or agitated. "The Accord, Slylth." The female pushed her palm against his strong shoulders to lift herself from the stone slab they used as a chair. "Thanks for affirming our next objective. I will visit Tryfan and make them an offer for the Kirin Core. Presumably, we'll be seeing Big T himself. You coming?" Slylth felt a Fire Bolt strike his abdomen. “Ancient Tyfanevius?! One of the Kindred's Inner Council Elders! Of course, I want to meet him!" Slylth had heard hundreds of tales of what Tyfanevius had gotten up to in mingling with the Humans. It was true that of all the Dragons residing on the Prime Material, the roost Slylth admired most was Tyfanevius and his Hvítálfar Tree. To draw upon a Human analogy, a meeting with the architect of history was like meeting the grandmaster author of the world's oldest novel series. "Okay." The female's laughter told Slylth she was no longer thinking of the Kirin she had extinguished. "Then let's settle matters for the day, and while we work, let me give the ol' Bloom a buzz on the iLeaf." Over the horizon, a hazy morning climbed from the east, diffusing heat like the aroma of a well-brewed bag of English Breakfast. Gwen Song, Regent of Shalkar, stood at the Trellis Portal, now an integrated part of the ISTC Station her city utilised for VIP personnel. Besides her stood her seneschal, the ever-faithful and balding Magister Olly Edwards, chasing her signature to approve new buildings for the future refugees. Behind the pair stood their entourage, of whom only Slylth Alexander Morden had the pleasure of being her companion. As for the rest, half waited on their mutual Magisters for orders, while others newly arrived came for the prospect of seeing an immortal Elf in the flesh. At the stroke of precisely nine-forty-six, a time with no significance to Gwen, the Trellis Portal began to blossom, its vines rapidly filling with an admixture of Essence and Mana that Humanity could barely comprehend. Pink petals, some as large as a handspan, floated through the air as though born by invisible currents of an Astral Tide. From the shimmering meniscus between the gate vines, the regal face of Sanari, golden-eyed and richly hued in her insect-wing gossamer, emerged with the uncanny cast of her dancer's figure. Against Gwen's wishes and making her blush, her little crowd of Human Mages began to clap. Here and there, the Rat-kin peasants dropped to their knees and kissed the ground. Others greedily gathered the petals, possibly to sell to others or keep them as family heirlooms. Among the general chaos, Sanari approached with her forever gentle smile, then bowed her head. "I have come to receive you, Regent," the Hvítálfar spoke in Elvish that only she and Slylth could understand. "And your Highness as well, Lord _Slylthinthimryr_." "Just er… Slylth, haha…" The Red Dragon looked coy as he bowed his head. "Alex will do as well… That's what she calls me." "I see you are fast friends." Sanari's smile was too genuine for Gwen's comfort. "As you should be." "Mmm, yes. Thank you, Sanari." Gwen bowed back. "Shall we? I've quite the prize for your Bloom, and there is much to discuss regarding… Tianjin." The Elf stepped aside. A handful of Lumen-recorders fired, reminding Gwen to remind Olly that there should be no more flash photography in the presence of legendary immortal beings. While they waited for the portal to stabilise, the pink petals visibly formed a long and rich carpet path. "The Great One is waiting," Sanari informed them. "Please follow." A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Gwen felt very strange walking down the pink-petalled path while their Elvish Celebrant guided them to what was a floral trellis, but there was no complaining that the Trellis Gate was an unrivalled form of transportation. As a cool spray of mist, the mana meniscus enveloped the trio. There was no sound, no spark, no wasteful bursts of Conjuration. Only a slight unsettling of the stomach as her Astral Body shuddered—then she was in Tryfan. "This isn't the canopy." Gwen studied the earthly cavern. They were in the interior of a great grotto—but this wasn't a geographical feature, but one wrought by the roots of the Great Tree itself. Overhead, twinkling dews of mana—in reality, glow worms—created a swirling galaxy while ahead, the darkness of uncertain distance loomed. "Wow." Slylth was more marvelled than unsettled. "This is amazing." "You could fit a very large Dragon in here…" Gwen remarked as she followed the silent saunter of Sanari, gliding through the soft leafy floor like the principal performer of a Beryozka ensemble. "I assume the space is more generously used… usually." "The Lord slumbers often," Sanari informed them. "Though now isn't one of those times." The cavern extended for several minutes before opening into a domed underground chamber that was somehow even larger. From the lack of unease from her spatial senses, Gwen noted that this was not a Pocket Plane but a bonafide space within the World Tree itself. There was a man there—an Elven male too tall and broad-shouldered to be a true Hvítálfar. Despite his cultivated features, Gwen had seen enough of Golos, Ruxin and Ayxin to instantly recognise the aura of intimidation that oozed from their primordial souls. "For shame, _husband_ ," the voice of the Bloom in White sounded like it came out of an IMAX sound system. "No seats, no tables, no tea. They might mistake you for some ancient, ignorant cave creature like Brother Vynssarion." As they descend into the centre of the great domed chamber, the glow from the worm lights above bloomed in intensity, revealing the stage set by the Draconic Co-master of Tryfan. Sanari bowed deeply, then, to Gwen's dismay, bid her good tidings before suddenly winking out of existence. "Great Lord Tyfanevius—" Slylth announced in Draconic, broadcasting so loud Gwen's ears rang. "I am Slylthinthimryr, child of Sythinthimryr, student of Magi Morden. I humbly beseech your patience for my inexperience and immaturity!" The Dragon did not speak but waited for them to descend. Underfoot, the leafy path gave way to a soft carpet of paperbark wood. The air grew earthy and refreshing, reminding Gwen of the oxygenated ambience of a virgin forest. It was deeply nostalgic as well, for a long time ago, she would sit in one of these grots, her Master musing over stories of the past, a cup of Golden Mead in hand, while a Dryad played with her hair, a wooden boob pressed awkwardly against the back of her skull. The distance closed sooner than Gwen's mind could concede. Once eye-level, she affirmed that Tyfanevius was no mere Elf but a veritable Brobdingnagian at a minimum of nine feet, made taller by his Elven gait. Upon the Demi-divine being's head, two pairs of stag horns added to his impressiveness, made regal by the flaxen hair flowing from the horn stumps down to the polymorphed Dragon's powerful back. With ease, Tyfanevius weightlessly strode on feet that resembled hooves, giving Gwen the distinct impression of a draconic Satyr. "Sit," Tyfanevius commanded. Her bum landed on a comfortable divan, sitting side by side with Slylth. A second ago, there had been nothing, but now Gwen guessed there was, for the Dragon had willed the divan into being. Ergo, it was there, to begin with. "Your mother fares well?" As one might expect from a kind old relo, Tyfanevius' Draconic, Gwen noted, has been translated into colloquial speech. "Mother is well," Slylth answered respectfully. "She talks about your highness often and with fondness." "Those Fomorians still making trouble for her?" The Dragon said. "They remain fearful of Mother though they've been testing her," Slylth replied. "Incursions are becoming more frequent. The Human losses have been kept to a minimum, though. They dare not rend the fabric of the Prime Material, lest Mother pays the One-Eyed King another admonishing visit." "Sounds like someone is emboldening them." Tyfanevius smiled in a manner that was more Golos than Solana. "Someone like _Elizabeth_ _Sobel_." The Dragons' slitted, emerald eyes centred on herself. "What say you, O simulacrum of the Void Witch?" Hearing that it was her cue, Gwen cleared her throat. "You should know, great Lord. Tianjin was a disaster. We lost far too many of my people to Spectre. There was Sobel, of course. There were also the Undead Mermen, Necromancers from the Juche Faction, the Yinglong and his kids. And no. I am not ashamed of being a wielder of the Void. It's a tool for our mutual ends—and for this end, I am interested in how much Tryfan knew and how much I am owed for acting as a Draconic _agent_ this whole while." The Dragon smiled toothily. She smiled back arrogantly. Slylth's eyes darted between the two of them with immense worry. "Will you join the Accord, then?" Tyfanevius' voice boomed. "Few are authorised to bring new members into the fold. I am one of them. Become one of us, and all shall be revealed." "Is what happened in Tianjin because no one was part of your Accord?" Gwen felt her Astral Body quake in the wake of Tyfanevius' will brushing her own. "No protection for those who don't pay their insurance premiums?" "The Eastern Dragons are Kindred, but they are distant from our jurisdiction," Tyfanevius explained, amused by her accusation. "Even Dragons, young one, has politics, just like your kind bicker and quell while their world flood with fire and water." "You are…" Gwen searched her mind for the word "Wisely informed of the events of the Human world?" "We meddle, here and there…" Tyfanevius hinted at something more upsetting. "You know of our work? Solana said you are acquainted with labour..." "Which is to _prune_ what may grow to eclipse your needs," Gwen interrupted the Dragon's thoughts. "And _encourage_ that which is harmless to the Great Tree." "It's nothing so _selfish_ ," Tyfanevius halted her accusation with a glare. "What would you rather prefer? Eternal War with the Elementals? Fire Seas opening like Trellis Portals every turn of the Spheres and in every conjunction and alignment? The Prime Material, young witch, is a _Sanctuary_! It is not a battlefield! Don't mistake your ignorance for knowledge!" "Gwen, please don't antagonist Great Tyfanevius." Slylth tugged on her sleeves. "He is very old and very great, older than Mother." "So what? I am _Twenty-One_ ," Gwen snapped back, willing the Red Dragon to remain silent with her glaring eyes. "What do I know of unpretentiousness? I am just a mite stuck on the great trunk of this thick-skinned oak." Tyfanevius turned his head skyward momentarily as if willing the heavens to give him answers. For a second, Gwen could almost hear Solana's laughter in the shivering of the grove's leafy walls. She sighed. "Lord Tyfanevius, to answer your question—YES, I intend to join _The_ _Accord_. However, before that, I wish to complete a barter, and I want to ratify a few promises before the Bloom in White chain me to your cause." "Very well." The Dragon remained looming and standing. Gwen figured her standing would make her position no different, so she remained seated with her legs angrily crossed. "Make your thrifts known." "I have a Primordial Kirin Core." Gwen waved her hand, causing one of her Storage Rings to glow vividly before a Core larger than Tyfanevius landed heavily near where they sat. Almost instantly, the mossy floor wilted in a meter radius around the Core's base. The Dragon's brows frowned. Slylth groaned. "It's cleansed," she told the Dragon. "The Kirin of old has met its oblivion." "Not IT. Her name was _Li-Rin."_ Tyfanevius' Draconic formed a word impossible for Human languages to pronounce. "The Scarlet Empress of Ashen Summer…" "I didn't ask for her name." Gwen suddenly felt guilty now that her victim had a name. "Did you two… know each other?" "We did." Tyfanevius nodded. "She was youthful, bold, ambitious and foolish." "I hope you were foes and not friends." Gwen felt a little less sure of herself now. "Which were you?" "We had more reasons to be foes," Tyfanevius replied. "After all, Li-Rin's people broke the agreements in the ancient Accords." "What did they do?" Gwen noted the return to the topic most pertinent to her current visit. "What rule did she break?" The Dragon looked down upon her. Gwen glanced at Slylth, who remained guileless and untouched by the Draconic pressure. "She—her Kindred—turned to Human Magic to empower themselves," Tyfanevius said with a solemnity that certified his true feelings. "And when Faith Magic was insufficient to contest our Oceanic cousins, they turned to its ultimate manifestation." Gwen felt a puzzle piece fall into place. "They turned to Necromancy…" To think Percy joined the Dark Side for the magic used by _losers_. "They did. The early Emperors of your eastern continents were apt users of this magic." Tyfanevius inclined his chiselled chin. "A warning had been delivered to our Kindred there. And true to the Accord, our Eastern cousins had weaned themselves from the worship of the Humans and had slowly transpired to using the lesser Races as tools rather than resources… but Li-Rin's people were desperate and made _poor_ decisions." Tyfanevius walked around the divan until he reached the Kirin Core. "I suppose this is a fitting end. To be erased by the very power they sought. To consume Humankind for power, only to be obliterated from existence by a Human Wyrmling. It will be a good allegory, I suppose. The Core will work well as a monument to the consequences of _unnatural_ ambitions." The Dragons' gaze made her skin feel sticky. An _allegory_. Gwen considered the lizard's words. And a _warning_ for her as well. "What do you wish for this… memento?" The Dragon asked. "I need a Draconic Core for Ariel." Gwen willed her Familiar into being. "Unless you have Tower Cores just lying around in the storage…" The moment Ariel struck the ground, its fur spiked upward like an electrified cat. It ran in blurred circles around her legs, then flopped over to show its belly to Tyfanevius before demanding to return. Gwen allowed it. "A most fortunate fate for an otherwise insignificant creature." Tyfanevius shook his head. "Why do you not ask the Yinglong? Li-Rin was his fated rival." "We have a complicated relationship," Gwen said. "Supposedly, he saved the lives of all my loved ones and my… friend, as well, just as we saved his kids. Besides, he is asleep now, and I am here _now_ , dealing with you. All of these involvements, I assume, can be tethered to my expedition to the South Pole on The Bloom's behalf, upsetting the plans laid by _Spectre_." "I cannot verify that." Tyfanevius horn-waved her conjecture away. "However, I can appeal to our Kindreds living in the clouds. Tryfan will offer them something of similar value, and they will offer something a little less. What you will receive… will be sufficient." "Sufficient?" Gwen just hoped for no more side-quests that would waste her time. "Enough for your creature to be a True Kirin, though immature. Even with the Old One's aid, there is no replacement for time, child, as you should know well." "Fair." She nodded. "I'll hold you to that." "And so." Tyfanevius' tone grew more solemn. "Will you join us in maintaining the Accord?" "Can I not wish to know a few minutes first?" Gwen knew the answer, but signing anything without the fine print was against her principles. "For example, is there a honeymoon period? What if I want out?" "As the student of Henry Kilroy and Solana's mercenary, you already are privy to… _more_ details than most," Tyfanevius growled. "What else do you wish to affirm? The rewards are plentiful—I may personally assure you—and the restrictions apply only to our common interests in the stability of the Axis Mundi." "Fine. How about this? If your Dragon Tongue is sealed." Gwen put up both hands in defence. "Then merely listen to what I have perceived and refute me if I am wrong. Regardless of your best intentions, we Humans have a saying: the _road to hell is paved with good intentions_. I am a capable agent and more amicable than my Master. In this regard, let's share a little honesty. Is that too much to ask?" Tyfanevius said nothing. Once more, the vines in the grot rustled in laughter. Gwen gathered her thoughts like a farmhand raking autumn leaves into a pile. _Elves. Dragons. Trees._ _Vessels. Magic. Humanity._ The scale of it all made her thoughts so abstractly difficult to grasp. "So, let's begin." She took a deep breath. "The Accord, to my understanding, is the agreement that certain elements of the mortal races, Humans and Demi-humans, would be pruned if they threaten the Axis Mundi's stability. To this end, for service, there is a system of equivalent exchange in place, where we receive support in magic, resources, and the prolonged lives of our dearest leaders, correct?" Tyfanevius remained still as a statue. "Furthermore, the Accord has a hold on implementing the Imperial Magic System, derived from the work of Magi Morden, who has long been a customer of both Dragons and Hvítálfar. The purpose of this portion of the Accord is to curb the use of Faith Magic, especially its derivative magic, Necromancy, in special circumstances such as the attainment of Undead Immortality. Correct?" "The lending of the Hvítálfar's knowledge came later," the Dragon muttered. "Thank you. To remove Faith Magic as the mainstay of Human Arcanistry, you tossed us a bone. Ironically, the fabric of the Prime Material is wearing thin because we constantly breach it to draw power, and typical of Humanity, we hunger after the HDMs produced by rents, both natural and unnatural, creating a self-destructive loop. Am I correct?" The Dragon looked impressed, as did Slylth. "Ergo, the Accord is a balancing act. We need Elemental Magic to deal with the problems that threaten the stability of the Prime Material, which, in the opinion of Elves and Dragons and I assume World Trees, is better than a balance of power based upon Life and Undeath since Terra is our living room. Am I right?" "… Correct, in parts." Tyfanevius did not refute her hypothesis. "Now, what I don't know is why there is resistance to such _good_ intentions—" Gwen's thoughts strayed to the events of recent months. "Spectre, the Elemental Princes, the Undead... Do you get me? If I join the Accord, I must know I am not a cog in this eternal, endless meat grinder. I have goals, like Sobel, my brother, Spectre..." "We do not induct new members if we do not believe they will tip the balance, in some way, to favour our mutual goals." Tyfanevius' tone had lost some of its self-importance. "You will make a difference, though we cannot ascertain how much. Your Master made enormous leaps, Gwen Song. He was a good man. Though he had his… weaknesses." "I see. Next question. What happens when I am disillusioned? How do I leave?" Gwen raised a point very dear to her. "No member may _leave_ the Accord. Not even in death," Tyfanevius snorted. "But you may choose to contribute nothing, interfere with nothing. Just as your Master had done in his late life." "After Sobel rebelled." Gwen thought of Henry's unreliable narration of Sobel's demise. "Yes," Tyfanevius concurred vaguely. "Henry had lost much of his… energy after his body was hollowed out the first time. We healed what we could, but not even time heals all wounds. And not when the gangrene is seeping into the best of his plans. Nonetheless, the Towers he had proposed had contributed greatly to our cause, even if it vastly catalysed your kind's careless greed. But, this is a _cost_ we were willing to pay, for regular rents and disasters are better than seasonal cataclysms, such as during the Primordial Age." "Like the Nights of Fire! Or the Epoch of Frost!" Slylth finally got a few words in edgewise. "Even Dragons died in those bygone eras. Dragons, Gwen! Dying from the weather!" Towards Slylth, at least, Gwen saw Tyfanevius was like a kindly grand-uncle. Toward herself, he reminded her of a stern CFO wondering why he should assign another cent to her department's budget, minus the lewd leering. "Tell me about the rewards," Gwen said. "You can do that, correct?" Tyfanevius snorted again. "You do not need prolonged health or life, so your interest lies in our resources, spells and knowledge from Magi Morden's Clan and others who have attained similar levels of expertise. There are treasures here which even we have not taken total account, for the aeons are long, and your conflicts are unending. As for your dearest wish—Solana has already pledged that if you join the Accord, she will succour this future Tree of yours." "How generous. So your… _wife_ is on board?" Gwen carefully balanced the pros and cons of what she was hearing. "I assume this support means you will take a hand in dealing with the political fallout I may encounter… in addition to technical troubleshooting." "We will do what we will and can." Tyfanevius seemed offended by her give-and-take mentality. "Nothing more, nothing less." "Now that inspires confidence," Gwen answered mockingly, hoping that Gunther would have her back if she did retire. "So, say I join. What's the process? Do we sign a contract? Does the Geas go both ways?" "Geas?" Tyfanevius appeared confused. "There is no _Geas_ , Regent. Your role will be presented to the Gathering, and a vote will occur. Once entrusted, you will become our own. You will receive requests, respond to crises, and gain seniority accordingly, opening new worlds of information." "And if I betray this… _Gathering_?" Her hand made the motion of a guillotine. "What happens then?" "This Accord has custodians, Regent Song," Tyfanevius' answered her flippancy with one of his own. "To use one of your Human conjectures. _Bad children will be aborted_." "… Lord Tyfanevius." Slylth raised a careful hand. "It's _spanked_. Sir. _Spanked_. Why do you and Mother share the same mistranslations… Is it Morden? He made the Divination invocations…" Thankfully, Gwen held her tongue in check. After giving herself a pat on the back for not making fun of the geriatric head of a multi-national Accord, she stood, then made herself presentable. With her back straight, her spine steeled, her heels well-met, and her graceful face raised to meet the Dragon's slitted eyes, she faced her new boss head-on. “Lord Tyfanevius of Tryfan. I, Gwen Song, Regent of Shalkar, wish to be a part of the Accord." The formality seemed to catch Tyfanevius off guard, but the Dragon instantly recovered. Nodding solemnly, he stood a step back. "I, Tyfanevius of the Emerald Eternal, have received your request, Gwen Song of Shalkar. I will relay your desire to the Bloom in White, and we shall commune with our members before giving you a favourable answer." Besides them, Slylth gave a subtle little golf clap. "Okay, what now?" Gwen exhaled. Taking a few steps around the grot, she took in the sights again, appreciating the architecture's dream-like visage. "Do I go home and wait for a call from Tryfan HR?" Before she finished, a Vine Trellis sprouted from the floor, revealing Sanari. Gwen nodded. Between the Dragon and the Bloom, she much preferred the company of the porcelain Bloom in White, a being both easier on the eyes and ears. Tyfanevius, in her humble opinion, was a little too Human for her liking, lacking the mystique of the Yinglong's constant, arrogant absence. Maybe, she thought, that's the cost of dealing with Humans. "I will be seeing you later then, Lord Tyfanevius." She bowed her head. "For the good news, of course." Beside her, Slylth also bowed. " _Slylthinthimryr_ , stay a while and enjoy some of Tryfan's delights." Tyfanevius made the offer in full view of Gwen's retreating body. "There are wonders here not seen in Carrauntoohil, and I would be an irresponsible host if you were to miss out on feasts fit for an Elder Dragon." Gwen turned a half-step to stare at the Dragon Princeling, who looked like he wanted to rend his body in two. After a struggle, the Red Dragon relented by waving her a sad goodbye. "Come!" Tyfanevius patted the young Dragon on the back, seemingly wiping her presence from memory. "I have travelled to every corner of the Prime Material, young Drake. Let me show you some trinkets that would make even your Mother's mouth water—!" "Little traitor…" Gwen muttered. She had seldom been betrayed so totally and completely, and now the jubilation from joining the Accord was soured. "Regent? Your… Regent-ness?" Sanari's catcalling beside the Trellis Gate was like fingernails against her brain's fat folds. "This way, please. Much work is needed in Shalkar… plans, documents, and refugees… Your relatives shall soon return…" Gwen stopped by the gate. "Yes, Regent?" The Elf blinked innocently. "When he's done." She gestured toward the conjoined form of Slylth and his elder. " _No Gates._ Tell him to fly his treasonous ass back home."

The Northern Steppes. Orsk. One of the reasons why the Horse Lords were the unchallenged species on the Steppes, Richard observed, was that no other Demi-human race or monster kind could match their aggression, numbers, and tenacity. For instance, in one day, the Horse Lords had covered four hundred kilometres of broken plains, rolling rockscapes, and a low ascent into the foothills of the Ural Mountains. Initially, Richard had planned for a two-day journey. Yet, by twilight, the Horse Lords were cooling their heated bodies in the waist-high waters of the Ural River's rocky rapids. "The city is over the river—" Petra pointed at the silhouette in the distance. "But Phalera's brood reports there are no lights or sound. Either the railway stations and the HDM processing plants are demolished—or someone shut them down to avoid drawing attention." The Horse Lords chortled. "Well, the water in the river isn't _that_ polluted," Richard added his two cents from Lea. "If there is a Necrophage, it hasn't reached here yet." "We should still wait til morning," Petra advised from her Strider. "The Russian Mage Flights likely won't respond diplomatically to a vanguard of Centaurs, especially ones as well armed as the Cherbi's men." His cousin's paranoia was sound, for even at a safe distance, Khudu's body spoke the same language of ultraviolence as Golos—Not to mention the Thunder Dragon would make himself known the moment combat was joined. Without Gwen here, and if these Mages tried to Fireball Golos, the reputation of Shalkar might take a nosedive. "What usually lives here?" he asked of their furry guide. "Just Humans?" "Your city was once named _Hom Orsko_ ," the Kobold boldly answered, her voice a deep drone of passive aggression. "We had warrens here, thousands of them…" Richard waited to see if the Kobold had anything valuable to add. "This is true, Warrior Richard. In the time of my Father's Father, the Khan of Khans," Khudu spoke with the neutrality of a documentary orator. "The Human Khan of your Empire paid our people to raze this place for pasture. Hahaha…glorious! Was that your kindred?" Richard greatly admired Khudu's candour, though he couldn't say the same for the Horse Lord's sense of humour. Turning away, the Kobold showed that silence was a virtue. "That would be… before the Great War," Petra broke the awkwardness with her husky voice. "The city as it is now was built after the war, under the rule of the Communists. It was destroyed again in the Beast Tide, then rebuilt as an industrial outpost. There are countless tunnels here, not enough to rival our Dwarven under-city, but the shafts provide good cover against overland threats." "Unless something's come up from the Murk," Richard added. "But I digress. If the Cherbi doesn't mind, let's wait for the first light. Khudu, I dare say your men deserve some rest." "Centaurs can travel for many star cycles if we pace ourselves," the Cherbi spoke as he scooped a cupful of the icy water over his exposed pectorals, wiping away the dust and grime with a rough cloth. "We can still fight in our best condition, but if you insist…" "It's not about the risk," Richard offered. "To save them through violence in the dead of night would make a poor impression, Lord Cherbi. We're here to build a reputation; the rescue is merely a process." The Horse Lord, laconic as always, left the Humans to their devices. "Vurtu." Richard summoned the Kobold female. "Come, you and I will go for a stroll. Lea will keep us near-invisible. Use your nose, and let's sus out some bodies…" At first light, Mila Kutznetsova awoke in their tattered tent to the sound of hard boots kicking up the gravel just outside their tent flap. She groaned, for though her fairness betrayed her age, her body ached like an old farmer's hands from the spell fatigue weighing down her brain. "Mikhail…" the Magus Enchanter croaked from parched lips, her voice kept low. "I think it's the Lieutenant Colonel and his men. They're outside." " _Sukin syn!"_ her husband grumbled under his breath, his foggy eyes abruptly hard with purpose. "The bastard doesn't know when to give up." "Hold your temper, Mikhail." Mila shared her husband's ire. Between her superior, who didn't know his place, and her husband, whose temper was made worse by their destitution, she felt an acute desire to wall herself in crystal. Mikhail was paranoid over Lt Colonel Ivanov's overfamiliarity and dishonourable intentions. Yet, Mila could not deny that she and Sergey had a history and that she knew the man enough to understand that he intended to shame her husband into eating his inferiority. Once classmates, they were now in their forties, and what little remained of the passion and jealousy was only pettiness. "Comrade Mikhail and Mila!" the voice that penetrated the thin fabric was not its usual haughty invitation to the Officer's breakfast mess, which Mila had refused daily, but one of forced friendliness. "We have guests. And it's someone dear to our sister. Please make yourselves presentable and join us." Mila looked at her husband, who remained stoic and possessed. Mikhail was not the brightest of her suitors, but he was the most earnest, and her in-laws were kind and uncomplicated, very much the opposite of Sergey's elite circles in Moscow's Tower. _Moscow..._ She and Mikhail had already lost a daughter to that nest of gilded vipers. That was why she had convinced Mikhail to take the demotion into the Frontiers, where, at least, they would be at peace. _Though_ s _ome peace that turned out to be._ Mikhail sighed. "Alright, love. Let's get ready." Mila sensed her husband's unvoiced criticism, though she did not share Mikhail's opinion that she had made a poor decision to relinquish their Moscovite privileges. Before last week, if any member of the inner Party had announced that Yekaterinburg would fall to an implosive infestation of Undead, the Committee for State Security would pull them into a dark room for a long conversation. It took the pair a few minutes to don their uniforms and run a quick cleaning incantation. When Mikhail, clean-shaven, finally opened the tent flap, Milas was surprised not by the face of her old classmate but by a visage as unfamiliar as it was familial. She was looking at a younger version of herself— a girl with a face that was vivacious and aggressively sensual, with blue-hued irises that resembled twin pools of purified water. "O— _Oomnyashka_?! "her lips stumbled. " _Petra_ , is that you?" "Mama!" The figure embraced her with unyielding, enveloping arms. Through the fabric of her olive uniform, she felt the strange lumps and bumps that adorned her daughter's self-made Enchanter's garb. "Everything is okay now. I am here for you and Papa. The Regent sent us to find you and guide you back to Shalkar." Mila allowed herself a dozen breaths while the world fell away, and all she could feel was the warmth of her daughter's cheek. When they finally separated, Petra moved to deliver the same welcome to her disbelieving husband. " _Oomnyashka._ " Mikhail struggled to recover himself, still calling Petra the nickname of Papa's dearest _bunny_ from before they had sent her away. "My god, you are taller than me! I am happy you are here, but it's dangerous! The city… So many did not escape, Petra. And all of them will soon come to hunt us." Besides the reunited family, Mila caught Sergey's impatience as the man inched forward. "Colonel Ivanov, why don't we take our official matters over here," the Mage that spoke was not her superior but a spectacled Water Magus with a fair appearance. "Lord Khudu is out there, his patience growing thin." "It's Lt Colonel." Her old classmate suppressed his displeasure. "I am the highest commanding officer of this refuge, and I _will_ need to verify your claims before we move my men anywhere." "Of course." The Chinese Magus appeared completely unfazed by Sergey's assertion of rank. "But do be quick, Colonel. We are here to escort you to safety, not an unimpressed Cherbi." _Cherbi?_ Mila's mind turned. _Horse Lords? What was her daughter doing with the Centaurs?_ "Mila." To her surprise, Sergey turned instead to her and Mikhail. "You and Mikhail will remain here while I discuss the rescue operation with Magus Huang. As members of our mage Flights, I forbid you both from exiting the camp." _So we're bargaining chips?_ Mila read her schoolmate's intentions at once. _Just because my daughter is a part of the rescue team?_ "Did you forget we are civilians, Ivanov," Mikhail's protest was almost a growl. "We are not your subordinates. We follow orders out of duty, not rank." "Mikhail," Sergey's retort was far less patient now that her husband wasn't so meek. The man's eyes flashed. As a Lightning Mage, Sergey was far more gifted in combat. "The city is under Martial Law. Don't make me repeat myself." _CLAP!_ The Water Mage interrupted them both. "Alright, I can see you're all stressed. No matter, you'll be relaxing in a hot bath soon," The exclamation of the Chinese Magus made the tense atmosphere unable to continue. "Pats, take care of your family. I'll organise the move with the Colonel here." "Petra." Mila lowered her voice. "Is this your CO?" "Something like that, and he's your nephew," Petra whispered back through a localised Message. "Please keep that to yourself." With the upper echelon of their camp's leaders moving away, Mila calmed her heart. "Bunny." she still couldn't believe Petra was taller than herself. Petra wasn't even thirteen the last time she had seen her daughter. "I heard about what happened in Shanghai. Are you alright? Is Aunty alright?" " _Tianjin_. Babulya is fine, Mama. Uncle Jun is saved, and many others. We left as soon as we found out that Yekaterinburg had lost its Magi," her daughter corrected the name of the besieged city. The more Mila gazed upon her daughter, more larger-than-life Petra became. As a mother and a fellow Enchanter, she could sense the boundless energies within her child, which possessed a quality and volume that exceeded herself. "I am so glad you're both safe. I prayed to Varekan-Kül that you would be found, and I was right." "Varekan-Kül?" her husband raised a brow. "Are you religious now?" "A Dwarven Ancestor." Their daughter's fingers brushed past her Enchanter's garb, where Mila could see a dozen small plates interlocked into a pattern. "Very reliable, the Ancestors." "Dwarven Runes?" Mila recognised the patterns. "Petra, what are they teaching you in England? What happened to Spellcubes?" "This is from my studies and research." Petra appeared to search for something. "I have passed the accreditation to become a Journeyman. I came on a Strider as well, Mama. I built it…" "That's all very good," Mikhail interrupted them. "But like I said, bunny. Here is a dangerous place. Yekaterinburg—Bah! __ By St Michael, Petra! You cannot imagine the carnage. Everyone we knew for a decade became fodder for the Necromancers or turned into monstrosities that would hunt us for our warm breath." "As long as there isn't a Lich, it's not so bad." Petra's unperturbed tone disturbed Mila. "Mama, we couldn't tell you, but Gwen and I spent six months at sea fighting more Undead than you have seen in your lifetimes. In Tianjin, we also repelled legions. You will all be fine." "That's a dangerous arrogance." Her husband wasn't convinced. "The Undead, _bunny_ , are beyond reason and comprehension…" "The things Gwen summons daily are beyond human imagination." Their daughter shook her pretty head with a confidence that her husband could not comprehend. "Stop worrying, Papa. You'll see. Our Regent will be happy to meet you both finally." Her husband nodded to humour their child. Mila felt a new worry engender in her chest. If this Regent is truly their niece, how would she take to a family that once "sold" her cousin to Moscow Tower? Petra's training in Moscow was highly encouraged by herself and Mikhail, who had wished Petra a fruitful career out of fear and hope—but they all knew how that turned out. And in their exile to Yekaterinburg, they seldom contacted Petra except for the seasonal greetings and when Petra called, leaving her entirely in the capable hands of Aunt Klavdiya. According to rumours, this _Regent,_ for all intents and purposes, was a monstrous existence, an exterminator of cities, a Void Witch famous enough to be known even in Moscow's Frontiers. "Da, Papa." Petra's digits moved to envelop theirs. Her daughter's hand was calloused and rough from the Enchantment work. "Don't overthink, and come with me to Shalkar al-Jadeedah. Forget about Moscow. There are opportunities in our city you cannot imagine. It's Gwen's domain, and she is a fair and visionary leader." The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Her husband did not refuse their daughter's offer, and she could feel his worries growing. The loss of its Ural Frontier might weaken Moscow, but a crippled behemoth is still a monstrous existence. Its claws are long and unyielding… As for this Shalkar al-Jadeedah of Petra's— If indeed the Mageocracy's New Frontier was as richly endowed as her daughter promised, what rewards would the likes of Sergey see when they were inducted into its welcoming halls? At the apex of Moscow's Tower, those old Magisters were gilded Goblins wearing human-skin masks! Tryfan. Trawsfynydd Trading Post. After loading up on several Large Storage Rings of rare and local goods, the Regent of Shalkar was ready to depart the Pillar of the Axis Mundi. "ISTC, please." She bowed her head at the towering figure of Sanari. "Now that things have settled where they lie, I want to confirm a few things in the South China Sea." "You will see to your worshippers?" Sanari's golden eyes twinkled. "Will you partake in Faith Magic to employ their psychic energies? Studying Humanity's esoteric arcanistry is a significant challenge, or so I've heard from my colleagues, but your time isn't overwhelmingly abundant." "Perhaps one day, but certainly not now." Gwen shook her head. "I am merely arranging the pieces for our hunt for Spectre and Sobel. On land, we've reasonable allies everywhere, but the sea has remained a blindspot for too long." “True,” Sanari concurred. "Even your Master could not tame the Coral Sea, not even with the aid of Lord Shultz and Magus de Botton. That you've somehow claimed a Shoal as your own is unprecedented in the Mageocracy's records." Gwen tilted her head, suddenly interested in the omission of information from the Hvítálfar. "What about your records?" Sanari's smile informed Gwen that she had swallowed a lure. "Humans have always been aquatic creatures from the very beginning. Your kind have an affinity for water. Despite the obvious dangers, your most prosperous cities are coastal, and your empires rarely flourish without taking from the sea its near-limitless resources." "I can see how that works," Gwen nodded. "I can also think of a few land-bound civilisations, but go on." "Of course. You've heard of _Atlantis_ ," Sanari dropped a Fireball beside her ear. Gwen took a second to stifle the glee fleeing from her throat. "I am not familiar with it. But we all know the stories. Care to enlighten me?" Sanari pointed at the horizon. "Not long ago, during what your mortal race would call the Age of Antiquity, the Humans of the Aegean Sea mastered enough of their Faith Magic to summon from the Elemental Plane of Water the likeness of a God." "An Elemental Prince?" Gwen tried to picture a being like Triton from Disney's Little Mermaid, calling up waves like a cheap Poseidon. "An adolescent Leviathan, actually," Sanari humoured her. "The creature resonated with the Faith of these masterful worshippers of water and allowed them to build a prosperous city upon its carapace. The result was decades of absolute dominion where Atlantis unquestioningly controlled every trade route from the Aegean to the Mediterranean, enjoying a prosperity their land-bound cousins could not conceive." "Real estate is infinitely better than handsome demi-gods." Gwen could imagine the thriving city, which would be something like an aircraft carrier of antiquity. "Go on." "There's not much more I know." Sanari's smile remained patient, like a small, pink peach flower. "The Elemental Princes later discovered their missing flock and found it more worthwhile to eradicate their wayward kindred than to allow peaceful co-existence." "I see," Gwen bowed her head again. "So this is history as allegory. A little slice of wisdom from my allies of the Accord for my next excursion?" "Receive it how you will," The Druid waved her hand in an arc, coaxing from the ground a sampling that would soon become a portal to pierce time and space. "Know that there are Mermen and Elementals, native and foreign, and either can be friend or foe." "I don't suppose there's a shorthand method of telling who's who?" Gwen took advantage of her thick skin. After all, it never hurts to ask. "As a prospective member of the Accord, Regent," Sanari's wisdom-delivering face was more stern than her perpetually bemused self. "And a long-lived _Guardian_ at that, you should understand that we do not speak of friends or allies as mortals understand. With each epoch and circumstance, allies and enemies are merely sides of a catastrophe. More often than not, I fear, you may find that the needs of the Accord require that you aid your enemies by stifling your allies. This is the way—to be a saviour and betrayer—leader and tyrant—and often both." " _Ominous._ " Gwen watched the vines grow into place. "I'll see you back at Shalkar, Sanari." "Please be careful in the ocean." Sanari bowed. "And I have been authorised to allow you a small privilege of the Accord. Farewell, Regent, and stay safe." Gwen re-materialised half a world away. She had expected to be taken to the Shard in London, from which she would transfer to the Heathrow ISTC and then onto her various way stations. However, when her stomach settled, and she stepped into the rune-engraved tiles similar in ISTCs everywhere, it wasn't English faces that greeted her, but soft-featured hostesses in a style of clothing she recognised. "Greetings, Regent Sama," The aides anticipating her arrival bowed as though they had practised the act prior. "We are honoured to have one so rare visit our humble home of Kagoshima." It took Gwen a few more seconds to consider that Sanari had taken her to the Kyushu Islands. Once her mind acknowledged her new physical reality, she nodded politely, then stepped from the dais. This particular ISTC's whereabouts were not the concrete building's interior but an ancient construct in bright, lacquered redwood, affording an elevated vista of the city below. She could see flowering fruit trees from the open floor beside a pristine rock garden, beyond which the rest of the temple complex sprawled down the ladders of a cliff. "This way." The shrine women, the _Mikos,_ moved soundlessly, shuffling so delicately as to glide across the polished floor, their red garments flaring like peonies. Gwen followed. Then, after a dozen embarrassing clacks of her heels, she levitated herself across the pristine floor. The temple was smaller than she had expected, consisting of the main building that housed the ISTC portal and a four-quadrant courtyard. In the middle of the complex, an enormous Japanese Maple, in an explosion of autumn flame, cast its half-dome shade across the entirety of the exterior, beyond which lay her objective—The East China Sea. _Tree Gates?_ She realised what Sanari meant by a little boon. Tryfan, in its trust, was informing her that it maintained a trans-planar transit system no Dwarf or Human could begin to comprehend. "We sincerely hope you will return to us, Regent-Sama," the impeccably attired priestesses bowed again, making Gwen conscious that she was merely using their Tree as a way station. "The Terukuni Maidens forever serve your needs." "I shall when the opportunity arises." She bowed in turn, then released the Omni Orb from her Storage Ring, eliciting eager gasps from the women. Mindful of her appearance, she stepped into the air, each ladder step leaving a little circuit of living lightning. Her crow-skin cloak bellowed outward, catching the air to send her heavenward without effort. When she finally attained a suitable altitude, Gwen felt the elements envelop her body, empowering her mastery of Flight. Clear thunder crackled across the firmament—then the Regent of Shalkar was but a spec upon the deep ultramarine. It took Gwen three hours before the Omni-orb declared that she had arrived by spinning in place. Gwen ascertained that the orb was correct, for she had indeed reached the proverbial Atlantis of Sanari's musings. She drew a deep breath. "Lei-bup!" Her Clarion Call, delivered in the gurgling tongue of the Mer, echoed across the island. "Your Priestess has come!" Below, now noting her thunderous arrival, sat a small island a dozen kilometres across, lazily listing from left to right as vents large enough to expel sea sprouts took deep breaths of foaming seawater. At the furthermost end, she could see a dozen eye-stalks, each a little watch tower encrusted with dark scales and fossicking molluscs, converging their gaze upon her hovering figure. _So this is a Shoal in its natural place_. Her mind marvelled at a sight rarely seen by humans. In its resting configuration, the Shoal resembled a microcosmic city-state with all the bells and whistles. Near its outskirts, patrols of Wave Riders, Mermen possessing mastery over the Seahorse Kelpies of the open ocean, circled the Leviathan's perimeter, now and again surging into the air in aerial displays of wondrous acrobatics before submerging once more. In the far reaches of the young Leviathan's starboard fins, she saw the sleek bodies of yellow-finned Mermen tending to an enormous array of seaweed and algae that spanned for dozens of kilometres just on the surface. Upon the _shores_ of the Leviathan's flank, she saw Mermen engaged in leisure, using the gargantuan's body as makeshift beaches. Shops, as strange as a fish tucker shop could be, dispensed food to lines of chattering Mermen answering to matronly looking Cods wearing aprons with a rainbow's hue, lathering grilled SPAM with a dark sauce. Elsewhere, the fry of the Shoal frolicked near the head of the Leviathan, safe in a brine pool created by entwined tentacle whiskers. Slowly, with a tectonic gait, an enormous portion of the Leviathan's encrusted back detached, sending a thousand smaller scales to scamper in all directions. Once enough of its living armour moved out of place, Gwen recognised the elevating structure as the body of a crab as wide as the Bunker, though only three storeys tall. Slowly, the Leviathan's upper crab carapace rose, opening to form the private sanctum of the Shoal's leadership. A thundering blast of water erupted—clearing the skittering symbiotic creatures crowding the entrance. After that, something resembling a bi-valve and a door blinked open, revealing the corpulent figure of Gwen's many-tentacled servant, Lei-bup. She slowly descended, her eyes wary of the Mermen who lowered their bodies as she passed, some pressing their faces into the shell-grit of the Leviathan. Even the island seemed to dip its head into the ocean, sending thousands of Mermen tumbling from its sides. As she drifted closer, Gwen's suspicion that the Leviathan was an entire ecosystem unto itself was confirmed by the iridescent interior of its carapaced body. In addition to the Mermen tinkerers working on new tunnels and opening spaces, she saw sea worms squirming through the apertures, crustaceans living in every cranny, and tiny tendrils of anemones embedded in the sparkling walls. "Iä! Iä! Iä!" With a mighty bellow seemingly impossible for his body, Lei-bup gathered the attention of all those who swam on the surface, simultaneously coaxing Mermen to emerge from the Leviathan's interior. More and more, the Merman swarmed out until all Gwen could see was a sea of scales and chitin, all fervently focusing their eyes and stalks onto her feathered body. "Your _whip_ awaits your pleasure." Lei-bup prostrated himself, as did the Mermen and maids behind him. "Iä! Iä! Iä!" "Iä! Iä! Iä—!" The gathered Mermen leadership echoed the High Priest's gurgles. "For our comrade who lurks at the threshold!" "For the All-in-one!" "For the One-in-ALL!" The sound of the Mermen's hollers rolled like a tide across the Leviathan's back, washing back and forth across the undulating mass of bodies. Feeling the hair on her neck rise, Gwen took a moment to take in Lei-bup's entourage. Of the Mermen present, she recognised the twin blondes, who were Lei-bup's attendants. To his right were three older and wiser Mer-women sporting the distinct shell garbs of Sea Witches. To Lei-bup's left were a more mismatched assortment consisting of a dangerous-looking Mermen with a tiger shark's patterns, a Crab-kin that looked half-fossilised, and a bipedal sea-turtle studying her intently behind algae-encrusted beaks. The Shark-kin stuck a fist to his chest, drawing her eyes toward the uncharacteristic tendrils growing on the Merman's back where the fin should have been. When her eyes scanned the leaders, she confirmed their shared trait—extreme body modifications. Alarmingly, these Mermen were being digested—she was certain of it—though some appeared to possess the vital means to supply their hungry parasites and somehow draw strength from the appendages. Her feet touched the floor of the elevated dias, which now she realised was a speech platform. Inside, bioluminescence in hypnotic patterns made the open cathedral larger than its space otherwise suggested. Behind the Shoal's leadership, she saw a large plate a dozen meters across. Lesser Sea Witches, a trio of them, maintained an illusion of the Shoal's movements by manipulating fine grains of sifting sand. Lei-bup, guiding her hand with a tentacle, led her forward until she was an elevated point of interest facing down the million-strong Mermen Shoal swarming below like a school of piranhas. "The Priestess of Pale Flesh has blessed us," he announced to the Mermen, his voice amplified by the Sea Witches. "My Shoal! In the likeness of her flesh, we shall feast upon SPAM tonight!" "As you will, High Priest." The Witches wove ripples of water into the sandcastle likeness of the Shoal. The message spread, followed by a sudden frenzy of activity. Lei-bup stepped aside, beckoning her to take the centre space, looking downward at the gathered. Gwen stood, forcing herself to ignore the puddle of slime climbing up her leg. "COMMAND US! Oh, Pale Priestess of the Endless Hunger!" Lei-bup threw her into the limelight. "Tells us what we must do! What is our purpose!" Her followers fell like wind-tossed wheat, torsos, appendages and tails striking the floor, some bowing, others prostrating. "Iä! Iä! Iä—!" "Iä! Iä! Iä—!" "Iä! Iä! Iä—!" Gwen felt her head abuzz as she scoured her frontal lobe for something to say. She had expected many things when she flew down to see Lei-bup, everything from slimy greetings to belligerents seeking to harm her life—but a speech wasn't one of them. Whatever her plans were for Lei-bup to cooperate, she had to at least pull this particular rabbit out of a hat to feed her ravening swarm. "I thank the _Faithful_ for the welcome," Gwen surveyed what she supposed was her domain. Rationally, nothing here besides Lei-bup could be considered a product of her direct action. However, a sorceress on the warpath of revenge against an ageless Void Witch wasn't about to look a gift-Leviathan in the mouth. Tuning the mana in her conduits, she adjusted the setting of her Clarion Call illusion to Dolby-Digital THX. "As promised, I have come to speak with you all regarding the next step for the Great Shoal Forward. Therefore, Friends! Mermen! Comrades! Lend me your… listening organs!" The last part wasn't properly translated, as she could see no ears, but her audience perked up all the same. She waited for the crowd to calm their fins, abiding the precious seconds to compose her oration to the fish nation. "For too long, the menace of the tranquil seas—these Undead Mermen that come from the deep, have plagued the living. Through the Cult of Juche, they have become a true menace, one that seeks to eradicate all natural life! Think of Tianjin, and not just your cousins of the land! Where the Undead has swam, they sweep through the seagrass like a scythe, consuming all in its path to add to its incalculable number!" The answering roar made the Leviathan bob in the water, engendering several localised tsunamis. "My Mermen! TIANJIN was an invasion! An invasion of the very existence you call _sacred_. The invasion of your very being! Your way of life! Think of your fries frolicking in the water! Think of your spawning pools and egg clutches, devoured not by the cycle of life but by mindless minions seeking to pervert life itself! The Kingdoms—these Seven Kingdoms of the Deep, were they not shelters for the Mermen, extensions into the Elemental Plane of Water? Where are these Kings now?! Where are these protectors when the Prime Material is despoiled?!" The Mermen were rilled now, their unblinking fishy faces expressing as much rage as she could discern from the foaming Shoal. When she had given such speeches to the Rat-kin, she had felt like a visionary of emancipation—but the Mermen's numbers and reactions were entirely on another scale. "Your Pale Priestess intents to hunt down the source of this corruption, O Great Shoal! If we continue to neglect the spread of this danger, we shall all prove ourselves unable to defend our great stretches of the sea! How can we live and prosper under the constant storm of Undeath? Under the shadow of unceasing war? Such is why I walk among you, friends and comrades. We shall defend the seas where the Kingdoms have _failed_ , where these Elemental Princes and Regents have _failed_!" "Where shall we fight? Pale Priestess? How shall we fight?" A Crustacean General raised a titanic claw. Gwen wondered if Lei-bup had prepared the man beforehand, but the exclamation felt very organic. "Fear not! We do not fight alone! We shall descend the great Shoggoth upon the Depth!" Gwen's voice rang out. "We shall fight them everywhere we find them! We shall fight on the beaches! We shall fight in the seas! We shall fight them in the twilight depth of the Elemental Plane of Water! There shall be no quarter, no surrender, for such recourse, would be the choice of bait fish! _Trust in the Shoggoth_ , comrades! Through the Old One! Though the All-in-One! He who is the Gate and the Key! We shall find victory. We shall predate upon the Un-living and cleanse the seas! Join me in our Great Shoal Forward, and I promise you an eternity with the Shoggoth at your side!" With her final delivery, Gwen focused her empathic link upon those fragments of the Shoggoth kept alive by the Merman's uncanny Faith. Her Essence coursed through her conduits as waves of resonating Void Mana rang out. The appendages of the Shoggoth, which had been looted from the battlefield and grafted onto her faithful, flared into energetic action. Her presence pulsed like a beating heart, reaping the faithful like an invisible combine harvester. Some of the grafted perished at once, unable to stomach the sudden activity of their stolen gifts. Others, more robust, howled in sickening pleasure as purple-pink tendrils sprouted from their bodies, some gifted with eyes and others with teeth or barbs. The air grew damp and oppressive. Even the sky, which had been cloudless, seemed to have lost heat and light. The fabric of the Axis Mundi shuddered as the will of the Shoggoth, sensing the call of the Faithful, pushed against the space between worlds. Like a giant meniscus in reverse, all felt the hair-raising presence of the Many-Eyed Hunger harkening to be born into the Prime Material. Gwen felt the presence of her creature intrude upon her mind, its tentacles like cold icicles of death worming through the heated fat of her feverish, mana-fed brain. _Not yet._ The Pale Priestess informed the Void Matter to whom she had given thought and shape. _Soon. I promise you will feed._ The creature's will clashed against her thoughts like a tidal wave, but the bulwark of her ego held it at bay. With a banishing thought, she closed the conduit. Gwen knew that her teasing of the Mermen had reached a frenzied peak. Any more, and the climax would ruin her proverbial bedsheets. "Great Priestess," Lei-bup's trembling voice sounded beside her. "When shall we set forth?" The Shoal's leaders, Mermaid and Mermen, crustaceans and all, fell to prostrate before the caller of the Endless Eyes. "Scour the South Sea for the source of Undeath," Gwen gave the command she had been musing since that faithful night in Tianjin. "As for the rest—prepare an audience chamber, Lei-bup, and I shall let my desires be known." Shalkar. The Bunker. Slylth Alexander Morden, rebel extraordinaire, arrived at his temporary abode, having ridden Tryfan's tree portals across time and space. When he emerged once more into the hot, dry air, a much more enjoyable sensation than the perpetual humidity of Tyfanevius' grot, his eyes actively scanned for the mana signature of the one arrogant enough to forbade his return. "Huh..." Slylth noted the presence of the female's Essence but not her mana signature. He took to the air just to be sure. True to his expertise in detecting Magic, there was no Gwen. However, he did sense many new magical signatures in the enormous square atop the Bunker, where the city mustered its Rat-kin troops. Within the half-constructed square, hundreds of Mages who looked newly arrived were assessed by the city's chief security officers, the human swordswoman Lulan Li, and the brutal body of brother Golos, who lounged on a stage, sunning his brilliant-blue scales. To think he had expected the female to be waiting for him, not like a dutiful wife, but at least be present. Slylth touched a finger to his storage ring, struck by a sudden thought. Tyfanevius had given him many gifts in rare foodstuffs and elixirs. He had thought of sharing some with the angry female upon his return, but if she wasn't here to receive them... Perhaps Brother Golos would like to partake, and in the aftermath... they could boast to the Regent the consequences of her tardy arrival.