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?"

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"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."