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Shalkar.
The Bunker.
"Do not doubt, Dear Lulu." The hypnotic voice of the Dragon-kin drifted across the table. "Part take! You won't receive another opportunity once it is all gone."
Lulan Li, Chief "Bruiser" at the Bunker, gazed upon the Dragonfruit with awe and anxiety.
The exotic cacti' flesh presented before her by the generous Master Morden was no ordinary offering but a real "Dragon" fruit from the ageless garden of an immortal, dimension-anchoring World Tree, reared with care by a primordial tied to the fabric of the Prime Material.
And there were only four "Dragonfruits" available, meaning if she partakes, she would be consuming the portion originally intended for her Mistress, her saviour, the Regent of Shalkar.
Yet, if she were to forgo the experience, Lord Golos would have double-dipped without a second thought—and her Mistress would have lost the opportunity anyway.
Therefore, is the consumption of a delicious Dragonfruit meant for the Regent a betrayal? That was the Wraith haunting Lulan's mind. She had already engaged the Yinglong to repay her saviour, and in turn, she had acted behind Gwen's back. The outcome had been fortuitous, for she had prevented the worst outcome for Lady Ayxin and Lord Jun—but in the aftermath, she had failed her Mistress.
Not only had she withdrawn from Elizabeth Sobel, she had failed to bring back the severed head of Percy Song, which would have brought happiness to her Mistress by lessening the guilt of Elvia Lindholm.
And now, this fruit…
"Sit, _eat._ " The tempter gnawed at her soul, opening the fruit with his polymorphed hands, letting loose the sweet aroma of vitality and life. "You're an Earthen Mage, correct? This fruit will strengthen your Elemental Affinity. Your defence and offence will improve."
_VILE TEMPTATION!_ Lulan felt her fingers flex and un-flex. "I am… I am not hungry…"
"Just eat it," Lord Golos commanded. "These things don't last once they leave the tree. I'll toss it to the Dwarves if you're not eating it. Slylth brought it for _family_ , Lulan. You're one of _us_."
_One of us?_ Lulan pondered the Dragon's words. She was the disciple of Ryxi. She wasn't a Vessel, but she had still lived on the mountain, and had conversations with Golos as a junior might have with a disciple-uncle.
Of course, Golos never acted like a senior. Consistently, he was the thuggish, layabout sibling.
A lifetime ago, when her saviour had first spared her, and they still trafficked in the small victories of life like the IIUC, Lulan had fantasised about the notion of _family_ founded in friendship.
But there was a hierarchy now. Lulan's Mistress was the Master of a domain that would only grow. The responsibilities placed upon Lulan's shoulders were unfit for a family member. She was a sword. A shield. A bulwark against the designs of avarice from men and women greedy for her Mistress' accomplishments. To perform her duties, she had to bathe in blood, as the parables foretold, to defend her saviour's interests. If Gwen were to be an Empress one day, she would be the butchering bitch heading the Embroidered Guard.
Take, for instance, this latest flux of refugees from the Russian Federation. Having lost the Urals to an Undead revolt and being powerless to stop the collapse or recover the Frontier, their survivors were now funnelling into the city by the tens of thousands.
When eventually Richard and Petra returned, Lulan suspected there would be more Russian citizens and Mages of various Oblasts in Shalkar than any other human ethnicity. Of course, the Ratkin still outnumbered the humans by magnitudes—but the newly arrived Mages didn't seem to perceive the Rat-kin as a threat. Incredibly, not even the NoMs would give the Rat-kin the time of day, and both avoided the Horse Lords whenever possible.
Comparatively, their passion for the Dwarves and the city's riches bordered on the fanatic, a fact the Shadow Mages of Manipur had been closely scrutinising.
Thus far, scuffles had only involved insults, brawls, and one near-fatal injury to a NoM resolved by Clerics from the Ordo Bath. With increased incidence, Lulan suspected, she would have to bring in heavier-handed methods to force compliance from their prideful Humanist Mages.
The problem was that she was short-handed in terms of Human Arbitrators, as these refugees responded extremely poorly to Strun's Rat-kin enforcers while complying with the Horse Lords out of unquestioning fear. Any additional Arbitrators she did recruit would be from the Urals, and she knew instinctively that such an act would be very short-sighted indeed.
With her mind deeply weighed by responsibilities, she looked to the wisened Dragons, immortal creatures of yore, for some signs of wisdom.
"Eat!" The Thunder Dragon commanded, his Dragon Fear crawling across her skin like little worms. Golos' eyes sparked as he slammed the table, sending the fruit to leap and land with eye-watering bruises.
"Don't be shy, Lulu." The Red Dragon poked a piece of pink flesh against her lips, his mien full of sadistic purpose and designs on her Mistress. "Open up… Ahhhh…"
What could she do? Lulan opened her lips obediently. She was only Human. Maybe the Dragonfruit would help her think.
Her eyes moistened as her mouth filled with the delicious scent of immortal fruit. When would her Mistress be back? Lulan wondered. How long would she have to endure the bullying of these Draconic emissaries?
The Easter China Sea
While two Dragons had their way with a faithful Chief of Security, the Regent of Shalkar underwent a culinary baptism.
"I thank you for this nourishment," Gwen said to the tentacled Fish-Priest as she sat upon the throne originally built for the corpulent figure of Lei-bup. "But there is no need to provide me with your children. I assure you."
In front of Gwen, provided by the Mermen as a sign of obedience and respect, were large, gleaming bowls of living wonder.
Caviar—the hopefully unfertilised eggs of her followers from the stoic Marlins to the brilliant pebble-sized oranges of the Prawn-headed Mer-kin, filled a hundred bowls from one end of a long coral table to another.
"Each offering is from our various tribes and Clans." Lei-bup's tentacles coiled around the cups nervously, careful not to tip the enormous loads. "By consuming them, they will know you have accepted them into the Great Shoal and its Grand Purpose."
Gwen tried to imagine herself swallowing the "caviar" and almost emptied the contents of her stomach.
Sometime after her speech, Lei-bup had invented a new Neologism— "The Grand Purpose". He had explained that this new term would involve the overarching design of her goals for the Shoal, whether to challenge the Seven Kingdoms or to erasure the corruption that has permeated the Deep Sea Mermen's domains.
"Mistress." One of the Mermaids, a Sea Witch dressed in pearlescent, skin-clad suits of interlocking shells, came dangerously close with her spiny garb. "These virgin spawn are from our Clan of Mer, the Nymphs of Kalimon, whose Matriarch was a royal hailed from the _Fourth_ _Swell of Isia Eternal._ When ingested, old wounds would heal, ailments cease, and youth would return—"
"The Priestess is ageless." Lei-bup reminded his aide.
"And though you are ageless." The Sea Witch quickly adjusted her advice. "The overworld's Star of Radiance is harsh, unlike the soft and loving waters of home…"
Gwen smiled as genuinely as she could. She was a sucker for sashimi, but these are talking, walking, fawning fish! As a Human with principles, Gwen wasn't about to pop an egg from the virgin cousin of one of her followers and let the flavour burst in her mouth like a Starburst. After all, what if she made a habit of it?
Imagine if she had asked Strun for one of his babes? No doubt Strun would give it—but what Modest Proposals would the Jonathan Swift of this world have written about the Bloody Regent of Shalkar?
_No._ Gwen told herself. The Caviar of the Faithful was _a bridge too far._
Seeing her doubt, the Sea Witch fell to her fins like Ariel from Disney. With her overlarge, luminous eyes of yellow amber, her begging played on the heartstrings. "PRIESTESS! Have we offended? Are you not pleased with this offering?"
The other members of Lei-bup's council appeared worried as well. As for Lei-bup, the aberrant creature had declared itself sterile—which was all the better for serving the Priestess' desires until the moment of his sudden but silent death in the maw of the Shoggoth.
"Rise! I am well _pleased_ ," she informed the Mermen, hoping she had picked the right sentiment for her Translation Stone. "Thank you for these gifts. I shall collect them for consumption at a later time, and when I do partake, I shall think fondly of those who spawned them."
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The appeasement seemed to work, for finally, the attention of her followers shifted from the joy of feeding her unborn children to the enormous sand-pit at the centre of the conference chamber.
"Lei-bup, you said once that you have an idea of where the tainted Mermen are coming from?" As the only member with two legs and no tail, she adjusted her posture to better address the council. "Show me."
Lei-bup waddled into the shallow quicksand. A pair of attendant Sea Witches sang in low notes until the grains began to shift, transforming into a map Gwen did not recognise.
"This is the seabed of the Yellow Sea," her High Priest explained with forbearance, tracing with a tentacle the outlines of what she guessed was the coast of the Korean peninsula. Large swathes of green, she recognised, were kelp forests; the others, Gwen possessed no idea. "The largest concentration of the Undead Mer can be found here…"
An orb of scarlet sand lifted into the air, somewhere east of Dalian, where she had first shocked the world in the IIUC.
"… We have also found traces of the Undead infestation in the Shoals here—in the Yellow Sea—and here, in the region known as the Sea of Japan."
A dozen spheres, darker in hue, lifted into the air.
"Where is the Kingdoms' outpost?" She asked. Though the Seven Kingdoms had their home in the Elemental Plane of Water, it was well known that each had sizeable establishments within the Prime Material. After all, Terra was largely a sphere of water—one of the key motivators for the Seven Kingdoms to claim the Prime Material as an extension of their domain.
The map changed again, completely disorientating her knowledge of geography.
" _Ghurghdp Hiij_ , the Bright Reef, lies here," Lei-bup spoke like a man gargling stones. "A Great Shoal guards this place, overseen by the Elemental Prince Nin Pak. He is a formidable scion of the Fifth Swell, though I do not believe he could stand against the weight of the Grand Purpose and the visitation from our Lord and Saviour, the Shoggoth."
"A Great Shoal…" Gwen was reminded of another Great Shoal on the southern edge of the globe. _Swells_ or _Vel,_ for the lack of better translation stones, were portals into the Prime Material. The notion of _five_ was literal, pertaining to the _fifth_ such portal made accessible by fate, engineering, or both—into Prime Material. Therefore, the Towers had advised that it was best to consider the Mermen cities as Forward Operating Bases, while each Swell was something like an expedition. The only reason the Fire Sea was world-famous while the Swells were hardly known was that Humans had little interest in unseen catastrophes unavailable for short-term profit. "What's their relationship to the Crown of Corals? Are there Dragons involved with these underwater politics? In Auckland, we had a whole ordeal with Miommiriorthyr's scions."
"The Elemental Princes of Nin hail from a different Kingdom to the scions of _He who Slumbers in the Crown of Corals_ ," Lei-bup explained in his slow, droning way. "The Sorceror Nin is a sly Sea Witch with the blessings of ancient Sea-kin long dormant in the Plane of Water. Bright Reef city, like ours, is a Leviathan—but older by many millenniums.
Gwen pondered the fact. Assaulting the city was not a part of the future she had envisioned in the first place—for her Master had already done that to various degrees and achieved little else apart from a multi-decade concession of peace. For the problem to evolve—for better or worse, she had to find alternative methods.
"And are they having problems with the Undead?"
Lei-bup moved aside to reveal one of the broad-shouldered Wave Riders serving as the Shoal's Vanguard. "Commander Tomasin hails from the Bright Reef. Perhaps he can tell you more."
The hulking Mermen with a comically small head and a nose that tapered off into a sharp, sword-like spine laid flat his body in supplication.
"Rise," Gwen commanded, feeling queasy in her new role as The Patron Saint of Fishes. "Speak truly, and I shall grant you a boon of life."
The giant Mermen opened his mouth, and a sharp, pipsqueak gargle emerged. Stifling her mirth, Gwen focused instead on using her Divination Sigil to process the expressive powers of her Translation Stone. For someone who had to deal with Mermen, her Master's Stone extensively possessed an excellent affinity for Mer.
"I was the expeditionary Captain of the Outriders," the high-pitched, child-like voice of the Mermen explained. "My fishes and I were abandoned when a civil strife erupted between the city's high factioneers, vying for the control of the _Vel_. The First Kingdom's scion, High Prince Sarkonnian, desired submission from Nin Pak. The two came to blows, and many fishes fled the ensuing cataclysm between the two Elemental Princes."
"Sarkonnian…" Gwen teased the tongue with the word. "Is he a Dragon?"
" _She_ is a scion of the Great Manta whose body enfolds the Elemental Plane of Water, or so the Priests of the First Vel advertises." The Mermen's tone turned sardonic. "As a Princeling of the First Vel, few dare to challenge her. The Fifth Vel is not her domain; nonetheless, she had arrived claiming as such, and the consequence is anarchy and civil conflict…"
Which—Gwen supposed, was the natural way of things. As her lecturers in Marine politics had often cited, the Mermen hate Humans on an unconditional basis, but the hatred was more generalised into something of a Holy War, a vague belief most Mermen exercised—even if they had never seen a land-dweller in the entirety of their lives.
In the ocean, the more immediate concerns were always other Mermen—with each tribe and Clan allied with larger Clans and Kingdoms into Shoals, and the Shoals war eternally for spoils and territory—which was why Humanity was left to develop unmolested.
"This is very interesting," Gwen said. "But what does it have to do with our interest?"
"Before I fled for the free seas," the Outrider Captain spoke as though in a confessional. "We heard that Sarkonnian was taking masses of Mer and sending them somewhere—both depleting the forces of the Fifth Vel and using the deportations to create space for the First Vel. At first, we imagined that she was organising a land raid for resources—but we never saw the kin who Sarkonnian's mantas had transported away—or received news of their death."
"Do you believe they were been… given to the Followers of Juche?" Gwen vaguely gestured toward the map's north.
"I do not know." The Merman's facial fins flapped in distress. He guided Lei-bup in tracing the route followed by those he once knew, then laid himself flat again. "Please punish this one for his lack of knowledge, Pale Priestess."
"Your informative is valuable." Gwen felt her spine chill. She knew a Merman Elemental Prince had to be in cahoots with the Necromancers, but now her suspicions had some bite. "Approach—"
The Mermen shimmied closer, watched by the Sea Witches, the ancient Crab-kin, and the mossy Sea Turtle.
Gwen slid off her gauntlet and then distilled a small sphere of brimming Essence held together by the telekinetic energies of her brimming mana.
"Blessed are those who pursue the Grand Purpose." She leaned closer, allowing the scintillating ball to lower until it fell into the half-open mouth of the Merman.
The others around her swallowed as the Merman gulped and gurgled.
" _Aah—ah—Gurrrghgh—_ " The Sword Fish Mer moaned as her Essence, purer and greater now in the advancement of her mana maturity, invigorated his Creature Core in a way only the blessings of Almudj could manage. There was a sound of moving bone, muscles becoming firmer, and then the warrior rose to his fins, his eyes staring into the beyond.
The phenomenon wasn't a Pokemon evolution—Gwen knew that—though the purity of Almudj's Essence _nourished_ the Core, giving creatures an existential elevation akin to a permanent runner's high.
A tendril attached to the Merman's back twirled, then struck itself back into its host's flesh, nourishing itself upon her Essence. A lung-deep grunt followed as the Mer endured the invasion—then a second appendage, blessed with several eyes and a saw-barbed tongue, lashed out into the air, tasting the warmth of its allies.
All but Lei-bup took a fin-step away from the squirming Merman. The High Priest watched on, his many tendrils writhing in harmony with the flesh-seeking barbs, nodding with a comprehension Gwen could not begin to guess.
"Thank you, Mistress of Pale Flesh!" the Mer wept milky tears of white-blue gratitude, though Gwen was predisposed to believe it was from the discomfort of losing an organ to the Void parasite rather than from appreciation.
She patted the Merman on the head, spoke a few more words of platitude, then bid the Mer rest. When she returned her eyes to her council, she found herself at the centre of hopeful, passionate devotion.
"So we have a location and an objective. However, I am unlearned in how the Mer make war," she confessed to her fishy counsels. "Lei-bup, how shall we approach this matter?"
"We shall need some time to recover from the expedition at Tianjin, to replenish our numbers, and to instil Faith in the new members," her High Priestess explained with great patience. "Pale Priestess, pardon my ignorance, but you as well would require the rites of sorcery necessary for deep ocean dwelling."
"I suppose that's true." Gwen regarded the pearl-like interior of their council chamber. "Mermen Magic doesn't work on Humans?"
"It is crude magic we use on captives." Lei-bup bowed his head. "I do not dare to gamble with the Pale Priestess' comfort."
"Right," Gwen acknowledged the Merman's wisdom. "How long until the Shoal would be ready to make the journey?"
"Four… five moon cycles." Lei-bup raised one tentacle after another. "Restoration of our lost numbers, indoctrination of the recruits, scouting a path into the Fifth Vel, and readying our young one for a prolonged siege against its elders. _Many_ will perish. But that is the price of the Grand Purpose."
"I'll be taking care of that when the time comes." Gwen pictured herself riding at the head of the Leviathan, pulled by a one-Shoggoth sleigh. If the Shoal's earlier impact on the Prime Material foretold things to come, her synergy with her Void Ally would soon reach a level beyond Human understanding of Spellcraft.
To breach the fabric of space and time through willpower and mana alone… was the _domain_ of beings like Tyfanevius and Sythinthimryr. Of course, hers was an admixture of factors unique to herself—while a Dragon's eventual access to the raw energies of their Elemental Plane was a birthright.
As for how _The Accord_ might react… She wasn't a member yet.
That said, she couldn't help but wonder what the Bloom in White might think of a breach in the Prime Material when used to stopper an ever larger breach from the Elemental Plane of Water. In her original land down under, they had introduced cane toads to eat the sugar beetles and foxes to eat the rabbits.
Hopefully, introducing the Shoggoth to the untold billions of Mermen in the Fifth _Vel_ would go down... just as well.
Shalkar.
Alexander Fishenko, "Fish" to his friends, lived as a sleeping Sparrow under the Committee for State Security. In Shalkar, he was an ordinary, unassuming Fabricator under the employ of the Dwarven construction teams working day and night above and under the domain of Shalkar.
Unlike the other refugees who had arrived later, Alex was one of the first Mages who volunteered in London. Originally, his goal had been to compile a dossier on the meteoric rise of the Isle of Dogs. Unfortunately, Charlene Ravenport's entry and the Crows' arrival had Alex spooked enough to find employment elsewhere.
That elsewhere was Shalkar.
Frantically, in the tiny abode of his rented studio apartment, Alexander Fishenko composed his report with his back turned toward the door, half hidden in a nook connected to the kitchen.
"To the Deputy Chairman..."
The strands of silvery Divination woven into the Message he sent "home" to urge his "family" to come to Shalkar were composed of a code only Sparrows of a certain rank could comprehend.
"This city is a rich jewel that must be absorbed into the folds of the Federation. Its true roots lie in the old lands of the Rat-folk, once belonging to the Czarist imperialists. Our maps from the Great War should still indicate that the Commonwealth has not laid claim to the Frontier, nor was it claimed or recovered by any other human nation. This new jewel in the desert would enrich our nation as much as our losses in the Urals, so it must go ahead. I say this because even now, refugees from our Oblasts filter into the city daily, sometimes by the hundreds, other times in the thousands. I have seen representatives from NoMs to highly-ranked Mages keeping their heads down. When enough of us are in this region, I will organise a Federation Nationalist movement and gather our comrades. Comrade, if we can vote on the ownership of the new city—we should be able to acquire the resources here bloodlessly..."
"The resources here, Comrade! You cannot begin to perceive the incredible riches here. The Rat-kin, those worthless and filthy labourers, tirelessly tend to plants blessed by immortal Elves. These seem to reach maturity both quickly and without detriment to the soil. From my sources in the trading department, these sanctified produce are sold to China and Europe for exorbitant prices in the hundreds and thousands of HDMs while costing the city almost nothing to grow."
"At the same time, the tithings from the surrounding tribes of Demi-humans could fill a dozen warehouses to the brim. I have seen Raw HDMs as large as vehicles carted into the bay by Centaur Raiders. Materials from Magical Creatures take so long to categorise, the Diviners in charge are paid double the rate of a Tier I city to ensure the shipments going out of New Shalkar are fulfilled."
"Below the growing city and its oasis facade lies an underground network connected to the Dwarven infrastructure known as the Low-Ways. I understand that we have long since eradicated the presence of Demi-humans near our capital—but these are the ones responsible for the Mageocracy's newest transportation systems. Controlling this node, or even destroying it, will signifcanlty impact the trans-European-Asia trade currently putting on chokehold on our exports. The Dwarves also have their most prized technology here, including an original Fabricator Engine, which I believe the Committee for Magi-Tech Acquisition would risk their lives to attain."
"Most importantly, the Regent assigned to this place is only twenty-one years of age. _TWENTY-ONE! A mere lass,_ Comrade. Can you imagine such a thing in the Motherland? She is well-connected, however, and powerful in her own right, even if naive and inexperienced in the rulership of a city. I want to remind the committee not to take her lightly, for she is the Void Sorceress after that great villainess, Elizabeth Sobel, and is connected to the same lineage. Her abilities as a Strategic War Mage are many, and I have included this in a separate dossier for the Deputy Commitee for Warfare Doctrines."
"Lastly, there are notable beings here in Shalkar, particularly a Thunder Dragon ally of the Regent, which must be bribed or neutralised if we wish to take the city in the name of our nation. To move toward these efforts, I will organise a Worker's Union as soon as more of our comrades arrive from the Urals."
The final threads of Divination ceased to glow. With some effort, Alexander compiled the Message until the hidden details were truly woven into the mana of the Message itself.
_Knock—Knock—!_
The sudden sound from the door almost unravelled the final few seconds of his spell.
"Fish, mate! We're headed to the Dwarf Bar! You coming?" The voice of his "friends" from England permeated the thin door. They were heavy drinkers, but few could drink a Russian under the table, and Alex was famous for his liver even back in the Tower.
"Coming, lads! Don't you dare start without me!" Alexander made sure his East End accent was as genuine as could be.
Sealing the spell, he sighed. If anything, the Dwarve Brew here was to die for.
|
Shalkar.
The Refugee Quarter.
Unlike her contemporaries, Mila Kuznetsova stepped not from the buttock-bruising interior of cargo carriages pulled by Centaur auxiliaries but from the second seat of her daughter’s towering Strider.
When the chicken-walker Golem haughtily lowered its carriage, the Magus Enchanter joined her husband in a daze, still struggling to comprehend the stories told by Petra.
Now standing in the external square set up to process the arrival of the refugees, she could see with her own eyes that Petra’s tall tales were neither fiction nor exaggeration—but understatements.
Nonetheless, her rational self struggled to process her lying vision of a city of improbabilities built in an impossible oasis. As a resident of Yekaterinburg, she knew very well that south of the Urals lay the unforgiving Black Zones of the Centaurs. Beginning at the foot of the Urals and ending against the coast of the Fire Sea, no humans could inhabit that landscape without becoming swallowed by sand, Centaurs and despair.
And yet, in their approach to the city, she saw tall canals of transmuted stone carrying vast quantities of unclouded water into vast kilometres of fields in verdant grids. Orchids, some with trees as tall as municipal buildings, reeled from the burden of fruit as large as a man’s head. Corn, maize, and multi-coloured grains grew in sizes that seemed to her mythical, lining the arteries into the city’s boundaries.
As for the city itself—she could see that much of it was under construction, with its skyline inundated by a forest of mechanical cranes. Closer to its walls, she saw more Golems than existed in the Motherland’s capital: walking, crawling, meandering and climbing in, out and atop the rapidly fabricating structures.
Among the city’s avenues, trees impossibly expansive and mature for the city’s age lined the sandstone pavements, providing shade to the resting labourers below. And among those labourers, she saw something even more incredible.
Rat-kin, untold numbers of them, wore the clothes of modern man and ran amok on errands beside their human counterparts. Near what looked like a sewerage construction, Rat-men in yellow hats lazed beside their human co-workers while a Dwarven Golem transmuted the basalt beneath into workable earth. A row of a hundred Rat-kins, joined by a Dwarf and a dozen humans, sat on an overarching steel beam overhead, eating sandwiches from tin lunch boxes.
Elsewhere, less laborious folk, possibly office workers on break, drank coffees on stone benches or discussed plans over cafe tables, with Rat-kin in collared polos speaking to Mages in Common while waving magical implements in the air.
To Mila, who had lived in the imperial capital of Moscow and then Yekaterinburg, Shalkar’s interior was an insane sight, something like a fevered picture book from her girlhood. Within the Federation, the Great Purges after the Great War had seen all Demi-humans, Dwarves included, exorcised from the nation’s holdings to ensure the purity of the national census. This extreme attitude toward Demi-humans was also the core reason the Federation saw itself as opposed to the Central Powers of Europe, particularly the Mageocracy.
Her husband whistled, choosing not to express his thoughts.
“… This is quite a city,” Mila managed to croak out words of praise for her daughter. “You say the Regent is only twenty-one? Has she had many experiences building cities and managing diplomatic ties?”
“She initiated, planned out and created the Isle of Dogs with Norfolks and the Dwarves back in London,” Petra replied. “Its strange, but Gwen’s education opportunities had never stopped her from successful ventures. For that, we can only chalk it up to her being a multi-disciplinary prodigy.”
“I see…” Mila wondered when they would finally meet this Demi-God figure her daughter is convinced to be the second coming of the Nazarene. _So this whole city is driven by the cult personality surrounding the Void Mage?_ That, in itself, was a danger.
Around Mila, unlike herself, the other refugees from Yekaterinburg were displaying mixed feelings about the controlled chaos. Along the way, she had been keeping a close eye on her colleagues from her elevated Strider.
Initially, when they had only seen Rat-kin labourers working in the orchids and the fields beside the gigantic agricultural machinery, their eyes had been filled with wonder and anticipation. On the way to the city, even the Horse Lords looked upon Petra and Richard with respect, and even the Thunder Dragon, who had visited them thrice, seemed to hold a special deference for the two Human Mages.
However, When the refugees saw the armed Rat-men with shock wands and in the city’s guards' blue-white uniforms, their attitudes grew less passionate. To be told, admonished, and God-forbid, commanded by servile Demi-humans, was a step too far for the sons and daughters of the Federation.
Such was the sentiment when Mila’s fellow refugees finally realised that the Humans living in Shalkar were not masters but equals. She felt the cold arrogance typical of her origins taking root in their cold gazes, their minds actively seeking the bitter waters of anger and envy. Shalkar is a Human city, conceived and built by the hands of a Human being. _Why were these animals enjoying the same rights as Humans?_ Why were the Demi-humans wearing the same clothes, eating the same food, and working in the same spaces as the Mages? They traded and trafficked in the Motherland with the Demi-humans, but the capital was a Human domain! None would eat, drink or pray with the creatures that once called the Oblasts home.
But what Mila feared more than anything was the prosperity of this developing city, its youth and seemingly unworried citizenry… She could sense the gears turning in the heads of men like Sergey. It was an awareness she had learned as a girl-child, for a young woman possessing extraordinary comeliness must mature quickly or lose themselves completely.
And now, she saw in the eyes of her fellows from Yekaterinburg the same gaze Petra used to receive outside her all-girls school in Moscow. That was partially why she had sent Petra into the Tower, where she had hoped that men with better designs had plans for Petra to achieve greater things.
And now, her daughter had achieved _great_ things.
Amazing things.
Unbelievable things.
But these things are also fragile, and prone to theft.
“Halt! And Welcome!!” came a booming voice from above.
A piebald Rat-kin, the most human-like of its kind Mila had seen, emerged from the wall gates adjacent to the refugee’s temporary shelter spaces. What was more daunting than the aura of command and authority the Rat-kin possessed was his uniform—something of an Officer’s garb in solemn navy with flourishes of dark gold, accentuated by a pair of what had to be Spellswords.
When the Rat-kin hailed the Khan’s Cherbi, Mila felt a jolt of disbelief as it and the Horse Lord performed what could only be the Human social ritual known as the “high-five and low-five”, after which it leapt almost six meters onto a rogue sandstone platform to address his audience.
“REFUGEES from Yekaterinburg!” The Rat-kin spoke Common effortlessly. “Welcome to Shalkar Al-Jadeedah, the dual city of our Regent, Magister Gwen Song, and our allies, the Dwarven Masters of _Mimm Agaeth Kjangtoth_! Your journey has been long, though I hope it has been uneventful…”
Having known Strun’s history from Petra, Mila knew the pride of the Rat-kin was well-deserved. Still, she could clearly see the disbelief on the faces of some of her comrades, especially when the Rat-kin began to lecture the values of equality and fresh starts and the boons of a clean slate. More unsettlingly, Harpies with vibrant plumage took up the corners of the square, their exquisite faces making their unblinking observation all the more intimidating.
“…Here in Shalkar, you will be given two choices. If you have relatives, homes, or a place to accept your old citizenship, our Shalkar will provide the necessary resources to return to those places! However, like many refugees before you and many more after, should you find yourselves no longer possessing a home—know that Shalkar is a place of _gainful_ employment! Our Pale Pri—REGENT will consider your talents once registered in the boarding camps. You will be given positions suitable to your ability! Ergo, present yourself earnestly! If you align with our Mission Statement, you will have a new home. A new life in the heart of the fastest-growing trade hub in the world! A new city to interlink Europe and Asia!”
To hear these words from the mouth of a Diviner Commissar’s mouthpiece would be completely within the expectations of men and women of the Federation. However, to hear those inspirational words erupt from the fanged maw of a talking rat—Mila bit her lips.
She stole a quick look at the group huddled around Lieutenant Colonel Sergey Ivanov, consisting of the surviving high command, the Commissariat, and members of the inner Politburo. The men did not speak, but their body language spoke of barely suppressed insurrection, as though they had just witnessed a tap-dancing dog reciting the Federation’s sacred manifesto.
However—Before Mila could decide to warn her daughter to moderate the Rat-kin’s proposal, the ground began to shake.
As the refugees toppled and fell, an enormous concavity opened beneath Strun, revealing a creature's rotating maw so large and hideous that Mila’s chest constricted out of fear and disgust.
Like a living nightmare, a skyscraper sprouted until it towered above the new arrivals, while on its head stood the uniformed Rat-kin with its furry, piebald face, its arms crossed with oppressive authority.
“Newcomers, allow me to leave you with a final lesson,” the Rat-kin’s voice echoed across the courtyard. “Life is _harsh_ in the Steppes, but it is _fair_. New friends and family of Shalkar Al-Jadeedah, remember this, and you shall prosper.”
While the refugees stared, the sandworm retreated into the earth with the Rat-kin, leaving no trace of its passage.
Heart-in-throat, Mila turned to her child.
“P-Petra.” She could hardly keep her heart from leaping at her throat. Such was the recollection of this all-consuming sandworm. Such was the intangible aura it sowed of death and destruction. “Where do we get registered?”
“Oh.” Petra took her hand. “No need. Richard will arrange an interviewer, so relax until after…”
Mila’s pale eyes scanned the milling, terrified refugees. Reluctantly, Sergey and his ilk were filing into line.
“…After lunch.” Petra’s laughter made her all the more flustered. “Come, Mama. You won’t believe what the Dwarves can brew with potatoes!”
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“Name?”
Alexander “Fish” Fishenko, volunteering his free weekend to accrue Contribution Credits, gazed up at a face he recalled quite vividly. In truth, he wasn’t here for the credits; he was here to see who had survived Yekaterinburg to collect the necessary information to execute his plans.
The “refugee” in front of him was Lieutenant Colonel Sergey Ivanov, the eldest son of General Ivanov of Moscow Tower, one of the nation's rising stars—at least until his jurisdiction fell suddenly to ruin.
“Ivanov, Sergey,” the Colonel did not recognise him, which was within Fish’s expectations. He was just a teenage trainee at the Tower when they were visited by the then Captain Ivanov and his father, an utterly unassuming cadet undergoing the trials to become an agent of the Federation.
“What was your employment, Mister Ivanov?” Fish feigned disinterest, watching the man’s lips twitch, hovering his pen over the forms like a bored bureaucrat.
“Military.” Ivanov gestured to his lapels. “My rank is Lieutenant Colonel. I was one of the COs in command of Yekaterinburg’s garrison and commander of its Mage Flights. In Moscow Tower, I would hold the rank of Magister.”
Fish’s pen paused. He made sure to look shocked, just as those around him also stopped their processing to regard the Lt Colonel. For the old families of the Federation, such ranks were half merit, half nepotism, so officers who hadn’t survived a few Purges and a dozen wars were rarely taken seriously. Nonetheless, the title was impressive in Shalkar, where the only senior military advisors were Militants returning to pad their retirement funds.
“Do I have to repeat myself, Mister Fishenko?” Ivanov read Fish’s name tag.
“No, Sir.” Fish lowered his voice. “Sir, I cannot process someone of your rank and abilities. May I escort you to my supervisors?”
“You may.” The Lt Colonel finally seemed pleased by Fish’s deference. “Do it now.”
“Yessir!” Fish meekly signed and filled in the forms for the Colonel, pushed back his seat, and then guided the man down the corridor meant for unexpected VIPs. Along the way, a few checkpoints with Rat-kin NCOs questioned Fish’s intentions but lacked the authority to make the correct judgement. In this manner, with only minor impediments, they made their way toward the Central Security building. Subtly, Fish slowed his step until he was almost in lockstep with his superior.
“You are from Moscow, Sir?” he asked.
“I am.” Ivanov’s tone soured further. Perhaps the man was expecting fanfare and a red carpet—but Commander Strun had been very clear on the deliberate treatment of the refugees to foster upon them the reality of Shalkar’s aid as practical rather than charitable. “Your last name is not uncommon in the Motherland. Which Oblast do you hail from, Mister Fishenko…”
“I am a London boy, second generation.” Fish laughed, his accent true to his lies. “Is Moscow as cold as it is grand? My mother used to say there are countless pigeons in the city. Pigeons that do not fear the cold and forage for the smallest seed.”
“Nothing survives our winters.” Ivanov did not appear to notice the code for several seconds. Then he did, and their lockstep fell into disarray for several meters. “Your… mother’s memory must be muddled. How long has it been since she saw a Moscow winter?”
“Fourteen years since she last saw the Festival. She missed it dearly, though she is gone now.” Fish answered.
“I am sorry to hear that.” Ivanov’s face lost its flush as quickly as it had come on. “Do you still speak the Mother tongue, Fishenko?”
“Not since my mother passed,” Fish replied, completing the code. “I don’t remember enough of it to speak fluently.”
Ivanov patted him on the shoulder.
Further ahead, the towering basalt exterior of Central Security loomed above them. Fish made his case to the Centaurs guarding the entrance, who then moved aside to allow them entry into the building’s interior. Within, the central complex was still a mess of construction habited by Dwarves in Golem Suits working alongside uniformed human Mages, transmuting Enchantments and other magics into the building that would service the city’s policing needs. An aide guided the two through the foyer, passing an enormous, multi-level, open-plan office before they finally arrived at a set of double oak doors sitting flush upon gleaming guide rails.
The doors slid open, revealing the interior of yet another office space surrounded by filing cabinets and workstations, positioned in a semi-circle toward an enormous desk fit for an Ogre-sized humanoid.
Fish could guess who would be sitting behind that enormous table and also knew from rumours that the “thundering” leader of the Security Bureau usually roosted atop the Bunker at the city’s highest vantage point and not deep within the belly of its paperwork-laden warrens.
What instead caught his attention was the strange sight of a young man with flaming hair loitering around the record cabinets, flipping through data slates and files, mumbling to himself.
Unfortunately, his attention was diverted by another. Accosting the pair, the unassuming clerk exchanged forms with Fishenko and directed them toward the central desk.
“Colonel!” A voice called out from the oversized desk’s right, in a sunken pit that created a little private space of its own. “I had expected to see you here sooner. Did you _actually_ line up with the proletariat? I am impressed that you’ve taken the values of our home to heart!"
Fishenko recognised the voice as belonging to one of the city’s most infamous administrators, the always smiling Master Richard Huang, cousin to the Regent, and by reputation someone far more unpredictable than a life-devouring Void Witch.
Behind the Water Mage floated his Spirit, the equally infamous Undine worshipped by the Rat-kin, an integral member of the city’s agricultural efforts.
“Magus Huang.” Ivanov lowered his chin in a mock bow. “I had expected that you would be here as well, though I had hoped we could speak more personally sooner.”
“Mister Fishenko, you may return to your duties.” The city’s administrator waved Fish goodbye. “I’ll take Ivan through the hoops. I hope you’ll stay, Colonel. We could use men like you in the days to come.”
“Shalkar is a majestic city, Magus Huang.” Ivanov gave Fish a nod, bidding him to leave. “May I sit? There is much to discuss. And I doubt that I shall remain a Lt Colonel after Yekaterinburg, so please address me informally.”
“Very well, Sergey.” The Water Mage produced two crystal glasses and a bottle inscribed with Dwarven Runes, his voice fading as Fish retreated. “I am glad you’ve come around. Come, sit. Let us discuss how we can put your talents to gainful employment…”
As Fish tidied his thoughts for future endeavours with Magister Ivanov, his mind naturally drifted toward an important question.
Where was their neglectful Regent, and _what could she be up to?_
Singapore Strait.
The island informally known as _Abang_.
Gwen Song, the Regent of Shalkar, had yet to return to her abode, for the Regent was confident that the _regents_ she had left in charge would not burn her shinning city to the ground.
Her final errand was both bitter and sweet, for after leaving behind the Mermen Shoal, she had to fly a day and night southward to arrive at the epicentre of her past life—the island housing Henry and his ever-watching guardian.
With the Omni Orb, there was no waste in the time it took for her to locate Sufina’s grot, well disguised among the hundreds of islands with their man-eating ecosystems, deep within the reclassified Black Zone beyond the Batam Shielding Stations.
Gingerly, Gwen landed on the canopy, then levitated her way into the thick jungle until the entrance to the past was once more visible. Sensing her presence, the trees bowed, parting like an Elven Trellis Gate while laying down a soft carpet of ferns.
Since her last visit, the stakeholders have been consulted, permissions have been given, and the groundwork has been prepared. The timing of the _promise_ was still a little premature, but the necessity of gaining Sufina’s aid grew with the size of her city. The construction of Shielding Stations within Shalkar would not be logistically feasible thanks to its many species of residents, implying a need for contingencies not padded with the corpses of her Militia.
“Sufi, I am _home_.” Gwen felt the fabric of reality distend and snap into place as her body penetrated the meniscus of reality into the Grot’s interior. As she made her way inside, the quasi-magical maze undid its twists and knots, robbing her of the opportunity to rethink her choices.
Barely a hundred meters in, she found Sufina exactly as she had left her, half lounged over the eternally preserved body of her Master, her doll-like body groggy with sleep.
“Welcome back, _daughter._ ” Sufina’s bedroom voice was familiar and comforting. “Did you miss your _mother_ and _father_ while you were carving up the world?”
Gwen laughed out of habit. Moving closer to the casket, she ran a finger gently across the dustless facade of the living tomb housing Henry’s body. With each step, invisible weights piled upon her heart. She had thought the grief had passed and that she had moved on—but like the stasis of her Master’s body, the renewed woe assailing her organs spoke loudly of her failed catharsis.
There would only be one form of release, she suspected.
_She had to find Sobel…_
“You’ve grown more beautiful, though I do prefer your younger self,” Sufina interrupted her thoughts. “Have you a boyfriend yet? Or a girlfriend?”
“I’ve got better.” Gwen felt soothed by Sufina’s roleplaying. “I’ve got a city of my own.”
“I see. A very large possession to fill a very large void. How Gwen of you.” Sufina slowly rose from the casket. Embedded in place of where a heart should be, Gwen could see the tendrils entwined around Almudj’s Scale. “It took Henry far longer than yourself to acquire his first domain. He would be proud to know you’ve taken up his mantle.”
“Well, it's not exactly by choice. Did you know Spectre has set half the world on fire and drowned the other half?” Gwen sat beside the Dryad. Drowned by nostalgia, she held the creature’s wooden hands in her lap while waiting for her emotions to find their place. “I also had a run-in with Sobel. This time, face-to-face.”
“What has happened?” Sufina wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “You can confide in me.”
Gwen sighed as she gathered her thoughts. With as much rationality as she could muster, she relayed the sundering of Tianjin with Elvia and Percy’s involvement. When she finished, even Sufina’s false breasts were heaving with simulated emotion.
“… I am very sorry, daughter.” Sufina’s reward was a mugful of her Golden Mead, which Gwen part took with more recollection than effect. “Your brother has grown to be such a coil of poisonous ivy. I am just glad your _Sobel_ isn’t Elvia. You were close, correct? But not _that_ close. Maybe this is an opportunity. You can both clarify your feelings while you hunt Percy down. Until he’s dealt with, it doesn’t sound like you’ll be able to sit together in the same room for long.”
Gwen didn’t know what to say. In moments like these, she was reminded that The Dryad was simulating human emotions through Henry’s Empathic Link.
“Well, you’ve come to me for a reason.” The Dryad moved on. “For what it’s worth, I am here. How can I help our Henry’s child?”
“Sufi.” Gwen accepted that now was the time to make her case. “Shalkar is almost ready to receive you. I’ve consulted both the Dwarves, Elves and Almudj. There will be oppositions, but not enough to prevent what we have planned.”
“Truly?” Sufina’s expression was one of surprise. “So… soon?”
With more ease than she had anticipated, Gwen pushed away her feelings, leaving behind the cold logic of reason. “Now is an opportunity, I think, to capitalise on the distractions occupying the old stakeholders of the world. While there's famine, trade disruptions, regional wars and civil strife… We can begin to nurture our World Tree by taking advantage of this crisis. Once established, so long as Shalkar remains central to trade, no particular power broker will be able to spare resources to deal with us—”
“I see.” The Dryad pondered her words.
Gwen waited with patience. The original proposal came from the Dryad. If Sufina no longer wished to be a part of it, she would find another partner.
Sufina’s affirmation came a split-second later.
Slowly, with the delicacy of a surgeon, the Dryad raised a hand toward her heart, where slow sprouting tendrils wrapped around Almudj’s Scale until finally, something akin to a seed pod the size of a coconut migrated into the palm of her hand.
Fighting the shock of their suddenly evolving circumstance, Gwen fumbled with her clothing until she produced the Ilias Leaf, her evergreen storage for magical plants.
Sufina moaned. Her wooden exterior audibly groaned as its fibres struggled to revitalise the damage caused by the visible exhaustion. The jade leaves overhead abruptly changed to autumn—sending a swirl of flaming leaves to turn the summer grot into an amber room.
Then, just as quickly, those same leaves lost their vibrancy, embracing rot and decay before landing on the dry moss floor.
As one sensitive to life and vitality, Gwen felt the grot’s waning life force. The Essence in her conduits raced, stimulated by the enormous volumes of living mana stowed within the seed pod housing Almudj’s scale, resonating with the endearing energies contained therein.
When Sufina looked up again, her youthful mien was marked by old bark. The only thing that remained unchanged was Henry’s casket and its precious cargo.
With reverence and care, Gwen slipped the seedpod into her Ilias Leaf, where the powers of a true World Tree would nurture the immense Essences stowed within both scale and seed.
“Sufi…”
“It will pass,” the Dryad assured her. “I’ll manage.”
“This seed…”
“Place the seed where you wish the new tree to tap into the ley-line. Water it with Essence from the Old One.” Sufina’s voice was no longer echoing throughout the grot. They now spoke face to face through her mock vocal cords.
“What will happen to this place?” Gwen touched a hand to the casket. “Will it be moved?”
The Dryad shook her head. “I will remain here, but the better part of me will be reborn in Shalkar.”
“You’re not… coming?” Gwen struggled to understand the revelation. “We can move Master’s body, surely?”
“I shall be with you… but not exactly as I am,” Sufina’s voice regained some of her vitality. The bark peeled away, revealing new, greener growth. “Here is our tomb, daughter. The part of me that was Henry’s will remain here. It’s where Henry found me, where I had taken root—To leave this place, this grot—would cost… more than I am willing to give.”
Gwen fell silent.
She didn’t like leaving her Master’s legacy on an unknown island off the Singapore Strait, but she could respect the Dryad’s sentiment. Where else had she seen such a display of fierce, selfless loyalty? Of devotion so wholesomely disturbing that it would span the stretch of knowable eternity?
She thought of Elvia… but found only the face of Percy’s grimacing growl.
“Fret not.” Sufina’s bell-like laughter lightened the mood. “There will be a connection when the new tree is strong enough. My two selves will find each other through the immaterial world, and there will be a path. Henry will slumber here with me, and we will watch over you and your shinning city together.”
Gwen slipped the Ilias Leaf back into the pouch sewn into her outfit’s interior. Nestled within the astral space of the leaf, there was no bulge to prove the presence of her cargo. Yet, she felt the radiance of her first gift from Almudj, and now Sufina, as poignantly as a piece of her flesh.
“Thank you, Sufi,” she spoke from the deepest recesses of her heart, her voice a living thing escaping from her contorted diaphragm. “For everything.”
Sufina leaned forward, touching her forehead to Gwen’s.
Gwen understood that there was nothing more to be said.
Woman and Dryad sat side by side against the morbid bed of their slumbering father, mentor and teacher, savouring snippets of memories from a simpler time. When their mutual recollections concluded, one would leave for the future—and the other shall entomb the past.
|
As a part-timer goddess, the Regent of Shalkar understood the necessity for subtlety.
If she were to appear at midday at the ISTC in a blaze of Conjuration, the Rat-kins maintaining the vegetation around the Trellis Gate would raise such a ruckus that a train of worshipful faithful would follow in her wake.
Thereby, Gwen Song appeared in her city like a thief in the night, then blasted off toward the Bunker as a star-falling meteor, alerting only the nocturnal Rat-kin still labouring in the wavy wheat fields.
Her goal was the Bunker’s highest vantage, whereupon she entered an enormous nest. The original design was for an aerial garden mirroring Babylon’s arboreal ambitions. The result, however, was Golos taking over the unfinished sky-scape, transforming it into a Dragon’s den, replete with his Amazonian seraglio.
Thankfully, now possessing the inheritance of an Ancient Blue, the once potato-brained Wyvern had acquired some semblance of taste. The Thunder Dragon’s abode reflected the egotistical Demi-godhood perceptions of itself, comprised of large concrete columns erected by the Dwarves in art-deco style, holding an enormous umbrella of a canopy, creating a large open-concept chamber where his children could come and go as they pleased.
In the moon-bathed atrium, she found her partner in rulership slumbering among hundreds of its chicks, a scaled and armoured hulk among a bed of plush, cobalt feathers.
She did not wish to rouse the Dragon, but the Harpies were instinctively vigilant and began to loudly bellow her name even before Gwen could call for the levitation platform into the Bunker’s bowels.
An enormous reptilian eye opened, its iris larger than her fist. The blue-gold slits drew into focus, then a huff of static-infused air escaped its nostrils.
“Calamity.” The Dragon did not bother to move.
“Gogo.” Gwen dipped her head. “Don’t mind me.”
“I rarely do,” the Dragon snickered. “Did you have a fruitful trip?”
“I did,” Gwen approached the Dragon, then extended a hand to stroke the horned ridges atop its nostrils. The tingle from its electrified mana made her digits numb, but the sensation was pleasant to one so similarly attuned. “Lei-bup is onboard. His Mer deduced where the Undead are emerging… and I brought an old friend to our new home.”
The Dragon’s slitted eyes looked her up and down. “The Tree Spirit?”
Gwen affirmed the Thunder Dragon’s wisdom by patting its warm nose. “How’s our city in my absence?”
“Lulu and your cousin are keeping a watchful eye on the new refugees,” Golos yawned. “They’re hardly subtle. I can taste the greed dripping from their bodies like grease. When the moment is ripe, I’ll have to show these mortals exactly why the rules are written in blood.”
Gwen felt the Dragon Fear ripple from her Planar Ally, sending his chicks to scatter and cry. From an inner section of the sanctum, the multi-coloured body of Phalera burst into the scene, her flawless Grecian face repressing its displeasure.
“My Lord!” The Harpy harped. “Do you know how long it would take to gather the chicks again? You—”
Golo’s eye-slit wandered to its mate.
The Harpy and its offspring caught by the gaze grew instantly silent.
The disparity in power was not outside of Gwen’s expectations. Golos was, after all, the blessed son of a deity. At the end of the day, Phalera was a plaything. For Gogo, his sentimental humanism was little more than a veneer covering the primal aggression of a natural disaster.
How strange it was then that Golos was the Sword of Damocles held over the head of Shalkar’s potentially uncivil civilians. Such a paradoxical existence! A monster she employed to enforce the equality of the people in her domain even as itself existed beyond that fragile equilibrium. Were it not for herself, the city would be a plaything for beings like Golos, a domain to be conquered and ruled or ravaged and destroyed.
“Gogo, be nicer.” She gave the Dragon a resounding _thwack_ on the snout. “Phalera is one of our citizens as well.”
The Dragon growled. For a split second, its throat grew blue with thunderous energies. “ _Rannox!_ ”
The Draconic command for its brood to return tolled like a tower bell. The scattered Harpies returned from the skies surrounding the Bunker’s apex, compelled by mental domination and abject, primordial fear.
Phalera lowered her body until her forehead touched the cold sandstone floor.
Gwen sighed. “I am going to sleep. Find me tomorrow if you have anything else to report.”
The Dragon waved her away by closing its eyes and wagging its enormous mace-tail, sending more Harpies to scatter to safety.
Feeling sorry for the Dragon’s hapless pet-wife, she coalesced a dozen drops of Essence dew to gift the Harpy as Phalera escorted her to the levitation platform. “Philly, do you miss Amazonia?”
“I do not.” The Harpy’s answer surprised Gwen. “It’s much safer to be here in your domain.”
“You don’t mind Golos’ attitude?” Gwen asked. “He’s as abrasive as his scales.”
“The brood prospers.” Phalera shrugged her very lovely wings. Gwen was just glad the brood’s matured members no longer flew topless. “We have vast spaces, almost no competition, and unquestionable safety. My children are strong, and a few have even inherited the thundering talents of their father. No Priestess of the Woods that Wend could ever hope for better.”
“I guess that makes sense…” Gwen drew the secret Glyphs to the Levitation Platform, summoning it from the depth. “Okay… if you need anything, don’t be a stranger.”
“I shall never forget your aid,” Phalera’s tone sounded not so different from Strun’s folk as she proudly misinterpreted the implications behind Gwen’s “stranger”.
“Right. See you later.”
Gwen drew a second Glyph in the air.
The circular barrier slid shut.
Soundlessly, the Levitation platform descended.
As Gwen had not prepared the city for her arrival, she gave her departmental staff several days to set their data in order before her “town hall meeting” took place.
Meanwhile, she gathered her core members in the heart of the Bunker, where a Kirin Queen named Li-Rin had put a full stop to three millenniums of history.
With Sufina resting against her bosom and, most importantly, Almudj’s Scale now in her possession, the next stage of Shalkar’s expansion could be exercised. With everything she had put in place after Tianjin, the momentum was ripe, and this meant all of her staff needed to be informed of her “Tower” and its progress.
There was no conference room built yet for her followers. As a group, they stood on the Rune-etched earth where mystical energies had once scorched the volcanic rocks.
Her immediate family, Petra, Richard, Lulan and Golos, stood to her left. To her right sat representatives of her allies, starting with Engineseer Axehoff of _Vethr Hjodlik_ , followed by Sanari of Tryfan, Strun of Shalkar, Ollie Edwards of the Shard, and Slylth Alexander Morden of Carrauntoohil. Nonetheless, several spaces remained empty on what would one day be a round table, with present reservations for Charlene Ravenport, Eric Walken and Lei-bup.
“You took a long time to return,” Slylth, now counted among those whose expertise she wished to exploit, stood beside the yawning Golos.
“There was a lot to do,” Gwen explained, smiling at the Red Dragonling. “How did you spend your time while I was gone? How was your flight?”
“We partook in rare fruits from Tryfan,” Slylth watched her intently. “I was back within the day so they would remain fresh. Alas, you weren’t here.”
“Sounds like you’ve had a good time,” Gwen studied the smug Slylth intently, ignoring the obvious goading. “Was the fruit tasty?”
“Lulan loved it,” Slylth’s response was enough to elicit an uncharacteristic whimper from a red-faced Lulan.
“I am sorry.” The Sword Mage bowed, her ears turned the colour of beetroot. “It was delicious.”
“I am sure. Let’s move on.” Gwen wondered at her followers' antics and Slylth’s display of playful adolescence. “First, let me relay the details of our progressions, beginning with the Mermen under Lei-bup…”
Gwen expressed her opinions on the Mermen now worshipping the being known as the Pale Priestess, exploring the strange confluence of Marxist ideology intermingled with aquatic theology. The exact details were as fantastical as they were unbelievable. Still, coming from herself, her audience could only nod and ponder the implications of her emerging role as a SPAM-bearing messiah.
When she finished, Strun was the first to speak. “Does that mean our people are free to worship the Pale Priestess?”
“I wouldn’t,” Gwen winced. “Strun, you know as well as I do the reality of how everything works. The city is a confluence of labour, Magi-tech, and diplomacy. No greater magic is involved in its creation than grounded folk tilling the soil and tunnelling under it. Let us not complicate the situation in Shalkar needlessly.”
“As you wish,” the Rat-kin leaned back, withdrawing from the discussion.
“You have delivered a thoughtful perspective,” their Elven representative approved Gwen’s pragmatism. “As you know, our Kin are wary of Faith Magic.”
Gwen thought of Elvia, who should have had a seat at her round table. Her friend was absent, however, both from the city and her inner council. Perhaps, like the others have foretold, until Percy was brought to ruin, the bloody gash that was their relationship would only fester and weep with no hope of healthy healing.
“On that note. Sanari.” Gwen directed their attention at the Hvítálfar among them. “Any news from our Dragon friend?”
“The approval process is proceeding.” The Druid lowered her regal head, her golden eyes capturing the whole table in their encompassing vision. “The Lady would like to inform you that Lord Tyfanevius has made a perfect case for our Regent.”
“Very well,” Gwen nodded at the other inner council members. “For those not in the loop, I have applied for an exclusive membership with our Hvítálfar allies from Tryfan. As to its utility, those who know already _knows,_ and those who don’t are discouraged from finding out. I assure you, however, that the venture is essential for Shalkar’s longevity.”
“Would your alliance with the Hvítálfar impact our terms of agreement?” Axehoff raised a stylus from his data slate. The Forge Master rode on a convenient Golem platform that raised him to their height, negating the awkwardness of speaking to the crotch of their taller compatriots.
“The pact should hasten the promised stability, in so far as I can guarantee with my power and influence,” Gwen assured the Dwarf. “Perhaps Lady Sanari can clarify for you until my membership is resolved. Sanari?”
“Master Dwarf. The Hvítálfar will not infringe upon the homelands of our Dökkálfar compatriots,” Sanari spoke in archaic Dwarven, an act both amazing and strange considering the stones being gargled in her delicate Elven throat. “As true as the heat of _Bürumm-Dal’s_ forge _,_ our people have never broken faith, not even during the Founding of the Seven Ancestors.”
The Dwarf responded with a few verses from the _Ancestor’s Scriptures_. It was all Axehoff could say, for Gwen suspected that those cut off from Deepholm had no real way to examine the claims made by Sanari, even if they did trust the High Elf’s knife ears.
Satisfied, Gwen motioned the meeting forward, fortifying herself for her future delivery. While her mental script wrote itself, her inner council continued with a few more minutes regarding the city’s construction, refugee influxes and increased security burden. Overall, construction of the various infrastructure was ahead of schedule, but the number of refugees has burdened the city’s many logistical departments. Food production and export are on par with expectations, though Strun recommends increasing the volume of fields or reducing exports as a contingency for the next harvest cycle.
“Our new Russian citizens are up to something,” Richard announced after further discussions. “I would like to put them to good use, though. There are many skilled Mages among the refugees, from Conjurers to Transmuters. Most have some form of military training. A small group are direct deserters from the Federation’s armed forces. The Shadow Mages are watching a few core suspects, though nothing they’ve done so far is worthy of punishment beyond a verbal warning.”
“Hmm,” Gwen pondered her cousin’s foreshadowing. “Petra, has Aunty and Uncle settled in?”
“They have, thank you.” Petra gave her a happy nod. “Richard’s right, though. Mother has also told me there is no way folk from her old haunt will start new, _unambitious_ lives. Even the ones who want to settle will listen to the agitators.”
“Interesting. Dick. Should we bring up the schedule?” Gwen gestured to one of their schemes hatched to create a sense of ownership and belonging in the population—in this case, literally. “Perhaps the IoDNC Co-Operative Scheme?”
“No, not yet,” Richard shook his head. “I would like to see our agitators well invested before we make any investments. I am completely confident that there will be no violent uprising. Between Strun and Golos, there aren’t enough Human Mages in Shalkar to remotely make that attempt. Whatever happens will be political—likely from within or outside—but we won’t know until we’re able to gather more information. Of course, we could expedite the situation with some encouragement…”
Golos chuckled.
“What does that mean?” Slylth asked her. “Are you expecting _Necromancy_?”
“No. Nothing that serious.” Gwen partly understood what Richard meant by moving up the timetable. There was no need for Necromancy, though someone _would_ wish they had died. “However, let's keep our ears closer to the ground until we figure out exactly what we need to dismantle.”
“As you wish, Regent,” Richard retreated even as Slylth continued to murmur to Golos for details on Richard’s psychopathy.
“Right…” Gwen took a deep breath.
She had to get on with it eventually.
Rising dramatically, she retrieved the Ilias Leaf from the folds of her clothing, then meticulously performed the Glyph to unlock its subspace. With the flair of a curator retrieving a Fabergé surprise, she produced the enormous seed she had received from Sufina and raised it for all to inspect.
“And here is the final minute of our meeting,” she announced to the gathering. “A long-promised member of our family. This is _Sufina—_ and in a way— _Almudj._ This city, this chamber and all of its ley-lines have been prepared for _her_ arrival.”
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“Whoa…” Richard was the first to punctuate the silence.
The viridian energy of life surrounding the seed was of such purity that all of them, Dragons and Elves, Demi-humans and men, looked drawn to its very presence. The impact, Gwen knew, was not from Sufina but what the seed held—the Scale of Almudj.
“… By the Bloom,” Sanari spoke with reverence. “It’s truly upon us.”
Gwen rested the seed on the Ilias Leaf until they all acknowledged its gravitational pull. Then, with loving tenderness, she returned it to its envelope. “Now that’s we’ve all seen the real deal. Any objections?”
“None. I was merely surprised by the urgency of the mortal races,” Sanari touched a hand to her gossamer dress, where a heart would reside in a Human’s chest. “By which I mean Tryfan was expecting a more… relaxed schedule.”
“Our foes scheme day and night, Sanari. For us mortals, the tyranny of time awaits for no one.” Gwen spoke with confidence. “The Bloom would have foreseen this, surely.”
The golden-eyed Elf bowed in deference. “Assuredly. Tryfan will spare no expertise for our sister Tree.”
However, another member of their inner circle was not so happy-go-lucky.
“Gwen. I mean Regent. Are you doing this, _actually_? You seek to put this Sufina into this ground here?” Slylth let loose a torrent of unasked-for stutters. “SURELY, you would wish to do this with subtlety, yes? A World Tree is no mortal instrument. It can change the entire ecological landscape of this region or restore it, as it were. There’s the Fire Sea to the east. I assume you wish to close that Elemental Portal for good. That will bring rains back to the region—and since both Poles are intact, your efforts will hasten the healing of the Axis Mundi. However, the process will involve tremendous change! A newly made ley node will bring attention from everywhere and everyone. The Elementals… what would they do? How do you propose to hide such a thing? With a Warding Mandala? It’s impossible…”
“Who said we’re in it for _subtlety_?” Gwen halted the Red Dragonling with a finger. “This is an _exclusive_ opportunity for profit. Subtlety would kill it.”
“ _Exclusive_?” Slylth appeared flabbergasted. “Profit?”
This time, the other member shared Slylth’s hesitancy.
The exceptions were Richard and Petra, who had participated in formulating her blueprints.
The Dwarven Forge Master looked from the Dragon to herself, then to the Elf. “What do yer mean, Regent? There’s more to stabilising the Murk?”
Gwen took a deep breath.
With a few rare syllables and a swirling of her fingers like a conductor’s wand, she conjured forth the illusion of PowerPoint(™) to overlay their view of the enormous underground chamber.
First, she pointed her finger to their nadir. “Here is where the seed will take root. Sanari will know where exactly, but here, as it were.”
Then, she overlaid a few streamlined arrows in the six paths leading away from the “heart” of the Bunker.
“When Sufina takes root, she will create a pocket space within her growing grove. Within this space, everything lies in her control—and mine, to an extent. This entire chamber will be almost impervious to external conflict. To penetrate what lies within, a foe would need first to destroy the bunker, then uproot the exterior of her tree, which is integrated into the Bunker—and then finally diminish her while inside the domain of her creation.”
Those who knew said nothing. Those who did not put the matter into contemplation.
“Which is about as perfect a defensive measure as one can manage—but that’s not what this is about.”
Her audience was all ears.
“As some of you know, the tree canopy will become an extension of that Pocket Space, as demonstrated by Tryfan. The larger the tree, the more interior tiers it possesses, and therein lies a great opportunity. Sanari—how many souls dwell within Tryfan’s great bowers?”
“Tens of thousands and more across its nine circles,” the Druid answered vaguely.
“And its leasable volume?”
“Do you mean our _abodes_? The facilities are what we will it. We can create more if needed…”
“Exactly. And where did my Master live temporarily?”
“In the radiant quadrant.” Sanari’s golden orbs were also confused.
“My Master, Henry Kilroy, lived in an _Edenic haven_ , full of magical herbs, where the air was full of vitality and mana the likes of which The Prime Material will never experience! Do you all see the potential here?”
“What does this have to do with anything?” Slylth put up both hands, putting his fingers through several of her illusions.
“So…” Gwen felt her ego purr as more illusions overlayed their foundations, becoming a giant, magical tree Tower with multiple levels. “We are going to put these spaces out For Lease under the IoDNC! Our World Tree, my friends, will be the most sought-after real estate _in the world—_ an arcane space I shall dub the _WORLD TOWER._ ”
Slylth stared.
Golos chuckled.
“Exclusive spaces will be reserved for members joining Shalkar! Magisters are welcome to join the _World Tower_ from anywhere in the world. Immigrants selected by our administrative tribunal will enjoy a private space where not only is there a gentle dilation in the passage of time, but enjoy a living space so revitalising that it will extend their lifespan—literally!”
More PowerPoint(™) bars appeared, this time adjacent to the tree-shaped “Tower”.
“For those who wish the freedom of coming and going to our World Tower, there will be Membership Tiers, from VIPs with access to the highest, most rejuvenating environments to those who pay for short stays to revitalise their body and soul.”
Gwen pointed to the zenith. “Our Dwarven friends have designed the earth to bloom when the time is ripe. Sufina’s Tree of Shalkar—AKA the World Tower (™), will be an exclusive space the world harkens after. It will be accessible to anyone willing to pay the price in labour or HDM! And as the loci conjoining the new Silk Road…”
She reminded them of the Low-ways connecting the low quadrant of their World Tree. “I shall establish an enormous trade hub below our tree. Dragons, Humans, Demi-humans, over-world and underworld, whatever anyone may wish to barter, they will find it here, in this _loci_ of magical commerce. And once things are settled, we can also bring in the Mer’s resources!”
_Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!_ Richard began to applaud the reveal.
With a face full of embarrassment, Lulan followed suit.
Petra clapped twice, then looked downright ashamed.
“B-balderdash! You will need an impossible _volume_ , and _quality_ , of staff…” Slylth choked out.
“And to attract them, we shall offer impossible live-in benefits at the World Tower,” Gwen retorted. “Without question, we will serve the best food and provide the best magical residences. Who would want to leave?”
“You’ll just invite wolves into the Den!” The Red Dragon was adamant. “Such a morsel…”
“The Rat-kin will defend this place to the last rat!” Strun stepped forward, his whiskers vibrating with pride. “The _last_ Rat.”
“Thank you, Strun,” Gwen patted the rat on the head. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. After all, Sanari’s folk will offer a guarantee, won’t you? Once I am in the club?” Gwen turned to the High Elf.
The Druid nodded, her body language entirely unsure of herself.
“And our Dwarven friends are also invested in manpower, HDMs, and the stability offered by food and territory. Our partnership has already made incredible progress—though we both know that the way to Deepholm will require an exponential volume of resources.”
“Aye, so long as our interests align,” the Forge Master concurred. “You’ll have our Hammer Guards at your disposal.”
“And the Mageocracy will also have its benefits,” Gwen assured them. “Olly, how would the Grey Faction react if Shalkar could barter Elven, Dwarven, and oceanic materials in one place?”
“They will go mad,” Ollie’s face puffed up as he exhaled. “ _Mad_.”
“That’s why we must reject subtlety and invite as many stakeholders as we can into our fold,” Gwen pointed to the PowerPoint(™) of the ghostly Tree Tower. “If you recall my earlier conjecture, a coalition would have to conquer Sufina to take this place. To do so successfully would destroy the Pocket Space within the World Tower.”
“Then… all of those riches, those people, those great gifts to man and Demi-man…” Richard chuckled. “Pooooof…. scattered into the Astral Plane.”
“We shall make it clear that aggression toward us has only loss as profit,” Gwen explained as she walked among the phantom columns. “As partners and investors, Shalkar can provide _so much_. The alternative is to expend more resources, lives and energy than any singular force the Prime Material can muster—to become the hunted foe of every civilisation.”
“The Undead…” Slylth raised another objecting finger. “They’ll do it.”
“Of course they will, dear Slylth,” Gwen came closer to the Red Dragon. “You’re very negative, but I am glad you said it. However, let me ask you this. Wouldn’t the Undead do _this_ anyway? They’re going to have a go at us regardless of what’s here, you understand? We can be a capital city, a trading post or a village; they will still come. If so, why bother with subtlety? Let them come! Trust me when I say that with Sanari’s Warden on _speed dial,_ there’s no such thing as an Undead horde we can’t handle…”
Sanari looked like she wanted to say something, but after a few seconds, she nodded.
“As for a Lich, well. _I am_ here. _You’re_ here, right? And like I said—if we can attract enough talented staff from the Towers all over—especially wise old Mages with bodies that need time and revitalisation—what’s a Lich or two?”
The inner circle looked at each other and one another. Slylth groaned.
“You say World Tower, but this isn’t a Tower…” Slylth had one more point to deliver. “Not traditionally.”
“It’s a towering World Tree,” Gwen said. “And yes, it’s not a mobile city. That component will be a work in progress. Let’s gather the expertise, the HDMs and the goodwill first, shall we? You’re not expecting me to order a pre-assembled model from Harrod’s Emporium, are you?”
Slylth’s mouth formed a thin, unconvinced line.
“Good.” Gwen felt a stone drop from her diaphragm. The revelation of her plans had been like a blockage in her chest, and now she could finally breathe again. “Of course, we won’t be proceeding today. Now that I’ve made my case, I hope our board of directors can agree on a suitable presentation for our citizens. To begin, I nominate that the day of planting be made a public holiday.”
“A Holy Day?” Strun rubbed his whiskers. “Of no work?”
“I think we will be working double time,” Lulan reminded the Rat-kin.
“Yes, there will be more work for some,” Gwen reminded her guardians. “Hospitality staff, caterers, cleaners, deliveries, and the city’s health and safety departments will all receive ample pay to compensate their labour.”
“We’re talking a full-blown festival here,” Richard clarified further, drawing a circle of water in the air. “Celebrations in every level of the city, from old Shalkar to the new, maybe even involve the surrounding communities. Raffles, lotteries, auctions for our Regent’s Essence Maotai, and other rare consumables. It should be unforgettable.”
“It sounds so complicated.” Slylth seemed overwhelmed by the idea.
“Whatever you need, Regent, my people will manage,” Strun promised. “None will disobey.”
“Thank you. We’ll borrow staff from home as well,” Gwen nodded at her Rat-kin. “Doubtlessly, there will be fireworks and other magical displays. Olly, will that be a problem?”
“Not at all.” Magister Edwards bowed, his face pink with expectation. “I am sure anyone who is anyone would wish to attend. Shall I let our Ladyship Grey issue the invitations?”
“I am sure her ladyship will be thrilled,” Gwen concurred. “I’ll let Charlene also spread the good news to her folk. I am sure our friends from the Holland family can bring up their lot when asked.”
“I’ll let Ruxin know,” Golos offered. “I don’t think he can leave the mountain, though.”
“But I am sure Mayuree and her trading partners will be keen,” Gwen concurred. “Make it so, Gogo.”
The Thunder Dragon agreed by discharging a jolt of dangerous static.
“Alright, Lass, I’ll let the _Deepdowners_ at the Spire decide.” Axehoff also appeared affected. “But don’t hold your steins.”
Gwen gave the Dwarf two thumbs up, then turned to Sanari.
“I’ll be present,” the Elf replied serenely. “I don’t think Arch-Warden Eldrin will make an entrance. However, I believe some of my sisters of the Grove will be very interested in the emergence of such a unique World Tree. Perhaps they can bring some of our lesser inventory to your disposal.”
Finally, Gwen turned to the Red Dragon.
“I… er…” Slylth seemed to consider his options. “I could ask some of the Magisters from the Citadel at Suilven to attend… I don’t think Mother will leave her abode.”
“That would be wonderful.” Gwen gave her aide a pat on the shoulder. “And one more thing, Slylth. Come to my chambers once the meeting is adjourned. I have something to show you, and I fear you are _not_ going to like it.”
“Sit.”
Slylth sat, his polymorphed hands both hot and cold and sweaty.
After the display below the city, his understanding of this female that had garnered his interest had reached a new tier—one that made him understand why Brother Golos, for all his brutal power, did her bidding.
The woman’s _appetite_ , Slylth garnered, was only rivalled by the hunger of the Void.
Therefore, when she asked to speak to him in private, all he could think about was his mother’s warnings on the primary preoccupation of the Dragon-kin—usurpation and cultivation.
That said, the Regent’s private chambers, all things considered, were not very intimate.
For one thing, it was attached to her office in the Bunker, so two rooms across, a host of Humans, Dwarves and Rat-kin were busily stamping files and accounting for the city’s endless transactions.
The interior was also unlike the cosy, treasure-laden halls of his mother’s rose-gold abode. From its minimalist charcoal walls of polished concrete and its enormously vaulted ceilings, the female’s private chamber reminded Slylth more of a sterile temple, where the enormous four-post bed felt like an altar.
“I’ve invited you to make good on a promise,” Gwen began.
Slylth scanned through his recent memories.
She had demanded that the Red Dragon fly “his ass” back to Shalkar.
Was this an act of petty vindication, then? Was the female asserting her control and power? Certainly, he could imagine his mother doing such a thing.
“Tea or alcohol?” the female asked him.
“Tea.” Slylth dared not touch the Dwarven brews. Unlike his well-practised mind, his fortitude was leagues and centuries from Brother Golos’ unassailable gullet.
The female tossed a few teabags into a pot, then boiled the water with an incantation. She materialised the rest of the cups, saucers, and jars from her Storage Ring.
“In the last few months, I’ve done all I can for the city—“ the female began. Her eyes were luminous and hungry, full of wanting. “Now, I need personal improvement. For that, I need something that belongs to you. Something only you can give, or so you’ve stipulated.”
Slylth considered with great seriously if his Contingency Ring was capable of teleporting him back to Scotland.
Slylth gulped down the scalding tea.
“I am deeply ashamed of myself, but this is in regard to my inexperience.” The female’s voice sounded like chiming bells in Slylth’s head. It was all he could hear. When he had left his mother’s side in pursuit of this haughty sorceress, he had not expected that he be a morsel on the plate of an Old One. Was this a test, then? Did his mother know? Perhaps she consented to this? Lord Tyfanevius could speak to his mother on a whim, as could the Bloom. There was also Lord Illaelitharian, who seemed to support the female after her timely service at the South Pole. If so… should he polymorph back to his true form? But she was a human. He wasn’t as large as a Dragon, maybe twice her height? “So here it is, Alex… _for your pleasure_.”
Gwen slid over a data pad.
The sound of metal on marble quenched his fears in the ancient ice of the Antarctic. With relief, Slylth retrieved, then scrolled through the female’s Spellbook.
There were two pages.
Two.
Pages.
Slylth blinked away the buzz in his head.
“…Ball Lighting… Thundering Shatter… S-soul Fire?”
“My Master didn’t leave me notes on conventional magic,” the Regent explained. “Beggars can’t be choosers…”
“… Enervating Orb… Blade Barrier…” Slylth’s eyes scanned the list up and down. “Your highest Abjuration Magic is _tier four?_ And you fought SOBEL?! TWICE? You should have died a long—long time ago!”
The female winced.
“Who knows? I kept things under control. I usually have Caliban do the grunt work,” Gwen explained. “I don’t do close-quarter combat. Gunther’s Shield is fairly sturdy as a backline caster, and I can summon more Void Hydras than I usually need. However, to fight Sobel—to _actually_ fight her, I need you to teach me _Morden’s Blade_ and other means to vis-a-vis the woman who sold my Master.”
Slylth continued to scan the single-page document for details.
“How… how is it possible that you have the Affinity for almost every School of Magic, and yet you only know a dozen arcane archetypes?” Slylth felt his mana-rich heart shudder. Some Mages only focused on certain spells in Suilven, but their lower-tier Spellbook held incantations in the half-hundreds.
“So teach me,” the female said. “We got time.”
“How long?”
“A few months? A year?” Gwen shrugged. “Until I can plant Sufina—then until she’s established. And between that or after, I’ll need to attend to my Mermen and visit the United States.”
“That’s not enough time.” Slylth made a few calculations. “Even with these Affinities, upper-tier spells would take months to learn.”
“So narrow my choices down—“ Gwen said, crossing her legs aggressively. “I need Morden’s Blade. And reliable defence against Morden’s Blade, and finally…”
The female gave her next request some thought.
“… I need to streamline Sympathetic Life-Link and Essence Tap. When I rejoin Lei-bup’s Mermen Shoal against the Undead, I need a true trump card against the Necromancers. To fight the Undead, I need Mermen who _don’t die._ ”
“Life-link…” Slylth swiped through the data slate until he saw the constructs for a spell he knew to be forbidden. “You’re going to fight Necromancy with Necromancy?”
“I am not _raising_ anything,” the female explained. “I need my Shoal life linked to their Leviathan. And I need the important members of the Shoal imprinted with my Soul Mark so that the Shoggoth will identify friend from foe.”
“You’re going to batter the Undead hordes with a Shoggoth leading a Shoal, riding on a Leviathan?” Slylth felt his blood ignite. He wanted so very, very much to be there to witness the single greatest thing he could imagine to happen under the Prime Material Plane. Even in fantasy, the anticipation was already greater than any exchange of magic he had ever witnessed in the battles between the Keepers of Suilven and the Jagged King of the Fomorians.
“Yes,” Gwen answered. “But I don’t need to enslave any Souls or something insane like that. I need to mark them so that the Sympathetic Life Link can keep them hale—and prevent Shoggy from conducting a total and random eradication of a general arena. The magic is already written for tens of thousands—but I need millions…Is that doable?”
“It’s…” Slylth considered what he knew of the invocations. “Its old Magic divorced from the Imperial Magic System. You need to mark each individual or train auxiliaries capable of doing so…”
“Hence, I need _your_ help,” the female looked on pleadingly. “I am not expecting anyone from Oxbridge to come around with insights on modifying my Master’s Necromancy. They can tune it—but beyond that, there are rules.”
“I see.” Slylth allowed his mind to simmer the formulas. As an egg, he had been instructed by the so-called Magi Morden—a Mage who was pure in pursuing knowledge. His own knowledge was framed around the Imperial Magical System, but the mortals living in Suilven should still possess the arcanistry quarantined by the Great War.
“I’ll need to make a return trip home,” he spoke at last to the female. “And yes, I will teach you Morden’s Blade.”
“Thanks, Alex,” the female’s prise pleased Slylth.
“As for the defensive spell,” Slylth considered the Spell List flittering through his polymorphed skull. “Evasion or static defence? Illusion or deflection?”
“Static and deflect,” the female replied. “If a threat can somehow circumvent Caliban and Ariel, I would much rather deal with it myself than allow Lulu or Richard to face it for me.”
“Then there’s not many options,” Slylth considered the female’s obscene Affinities. “I shall recommend two spells. Crown of Thorns, and Force Cage.”
“I know only the latter,” Gwen said. “Can you clarify both?”
Slylth nodded. “Force Cage is an upper variation of Wall of Force in the Seventh Tier. In its usual transfiguration, it is an Evocation-based spell that conjures a cubical array of pure mana, useful for blocking attacks around yourself and for caging foes within it. However, for users apt in Abjuration, its defensive capabilities are multiplied, becoming able to be cast on allies and modified to nullify everything from Positive and Negative Energies to formless damage such as heat and cold. As you are also versed in Transmutation, the _cage_ element becomes far more flexible. A Force Sphere, a Semi-Sphere, a Wall or even crude armour conjured around yourself becomes possible. Of course, the more flexible the manifestation, the greater the concentration and difficulty. Hence, most users prefer the cube.”
"Viable,” the female concurred. “And the Crown?”
“Again, this will be a spell made unique by your talents,” Slylth explained, feeling very much like a lecturer at Suilven. “Taking advantage of your Evocation Affinity, the Seventh Tier Crown of Thorns will conjure exactly _seven_ Elemental _Thorns_ to orbit your whereabouts—usually around your head like a halo, each possessing the power of a sixth-tier Evocation. A dedicated user guides these stars to disrupt a foe’s casting, allowing them the opportunity to maintain other spells or use new ones. As a Void Mage, there are potentials for this counter spell that I am sure you can imagine. That said, you are also versed in Divination.”
The Regent nodded keenly.
“So, I propose that we add the condition of _Reactivity_ or _Seeking_ to the spell. Which is your limit, at least for now.“
Slylth tapped the table.
“If we fight Sobel as we had done that day.” He recalled that battle with a shudder. “I would use Morden’s Blade to both parry and harass. I shall use Force Cage to protect myself and my allies, then rely on the Crown to wear her down. If you can pre-emptively manifest these spells, you can focus entirely on wielding the Blade as concentration, leaving Cage as your active spell, while Crown will do its due diligence without further spell fatigue… and of course, you will have Caliban and Ariel. Oh, and there’s also a Familiar-clad variation of Force Cage, though your Familiars would need to possess a high level of arcane competency.”
“That sounds amazing.” Gwen leaned in eagerly. “When do we start?”
“ _Now_ , I suppose,” Slylth felt very smug indeed. “But I only promised to teach you Morden’s Blade. Remember that these archetypes are unique to Morden’s line at Suilven. You will only find poor, inflexible facsimiles in your Towers.”
“Name your price.” The female’s smile showed a little too many teeth.
“Er…” In all honesty, Slylth hadn’t thought that far.
“How about this?” Gwen extended a hand and arrested his limp digits in a warm embrace. “I’ll gift you real estate— _off the plan_. A chamber with its ownership signed to yourself at the highest reaches of the World Tower. It will be no worse than mine and be unquestionably exclusive. Even if Tyfanevius shows up, he’ll envy your privilege.”
Inexplicably, Slylth felt a strange stirring in his heart. He had never considered real estate a concept. Yet, as a Dragon, he felt it morally wrong to reject the potential of property ownership. Still, he sensed distinctly that the female wasn’t losing much in the exchange.
“Trust me. You won’t regret it, Alex,” the Regent concluded their deal by shaking his hand. On the female, he could smell the scent of the Old One, which was both intimidating and intoxicating. Before he could think it through, she took his wrist and bid them both rise. “Come. Let’s head to the Oculus. I’ve got a new Greater Cognisance Chamber raring to be calibrated. Have you ever been in one? It’s a _wonderful_ experience.”
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