Be swift.
Be unseen.
Be unheard.
Be nothing.

Strun, Shadow Runner of Clan Jildam, hid in the buried rubble, repeating the Pack Mantra taught by his elders. He was near-invisible and scentless, his small, malnourished body well dug into an excavated, breathable chamber he had spent weeks preparing. From a waxing moon to a waning one, he had subsisted on nothing but nuts and drips of water that fed through the ceiling, collected from the frosty dew that melted each morning when the Fire Sea grew warm.

Branching from Strun's burrow were paths, some natural, some excavated, that barely allowed his flexible body to pass. It was lucky then that Strun was skin wearing bones, for his elder would spit blood if their best scout became stuck between two plates of shale because he ate one too many fungi-balls in a single sitting.

Weeks ago, Strun had arrived at the ruins known as Bautino to pursue his rat-napped kin. A moon cycle before that, the hated Djinns had come to the lowlands, rounding up the starving men and women of his tribe like cattle. Unable to escape their troops, their venerable elder had made a difficult decision— to abandon the weak and feeble kin who could not survive hiding in the Murk.

_The MURK!_ Strun's whiskers twitched with agitation. There was no food there and little water, and yet, there was an abundance of pale-skinned, eyeless monsters, flesh-eating fungi, carnivorous Weta, and rat-hating bewhiskered stouts.

_Damned Djinns!_ More than once, when his thoughts turned to his surviving kin, Strun's teeth met so hard that they struck flint-sparks as his metallic enamel met in the dark.

Usurpers and tyrants, these otherworldly demi-Gods had proven to be. Since the arrival of these "Elementals", as the Horse Lords called them, the grasslands had burned to cinders, whirlwinds ravaged the Rat-kin's maise farms, and vast tracts of tableland became roving deserts. Worse yet, the wars with the Horse Lords had meant the Golden Pavilion's taxes grew from crushing to impossible.

Their Elders had pleaded with their Khans for compassion, but the Nayzağay Qanı Shamans had accepted no excuses, only bales of fodder.

Thus rebuked, the Rat-kin could only tighten their belts.
As Tasmüyiz, starvation and suffering was no stranger to his kin. Far from it, hunger had been a fact of life for the plains folk since before the time of Strun's ancestors. What made the Elemental "Masters" different was that their Khans at least acknowledged his seed-bearers and grain-growers. In contrast, the Elementals showed no indication they saw the common folk as deserving of life, hearth and home. From what Strun had observed, his Clanmates were merely material to these immigrant usurpers.

For a whole moon cycle, from all around the lower Steppes, from where the meadows met the Salt Sea, the Elementals herded their kind like chattel the season before the Shamans predicted a cold snap. From Ashbat and Nukus, Shival and Beynue, from every direction his kind had their homes, they were lead by leash and whip to this Bautino, thousands of them at first, then tens of thousands.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Strun had fled from the group and hid, making sound his promise of surviving so that he may tell the soon to be forgotten stories of the damned and deserted.

At first, Strun had imagined that the Elementals were sick deviants trying to breed his kind for some nefarious army to battle the Horse Lords. Within the week, when his kin was neither watered nor fed and began to perish by the hundreds, Strun realised his most wicked imaginings had been grossly naive.

In this encampment, the Wind Elementals, these brass-bound creatures of unnatural air, had made boreholes in the ground, then drove in the starving survivors as a boiling torrent of bodies pleading for mercy. The survivors of that great fall then huddled in the dark, uncertain of their fate, not yet sick enough to eat each other but already tittering on the edge of insanity.

Far from the hole, nestled in the night, Strun endured the slow insanity of the Elementals' ploy, allowing the wails of his kin to slowly creep through the compacted dirt to reach his drooping, trembling ears.

Then the larger of the Djinns arrived, bringing a Centaur Jagun who frothed yellow bile at the mouth. The captured Horse Lord was weak and sick, but still, he fought the Djinn with hoof and teeth, biting at their bangles, kicking at their ethereal bodies, expending the last of its life force.

Strun recognised the illness afflicting the Horse Lord. Blood Sickness! A disease that the Horse Lords themselves always eradicated with extreme prejudice! It was an illness that Strun knew almost too well, for a decade ago when the same disease had ravaged the Great Khan's herds, it was the Rat-kin who bore the blame for spreading the disease.

His elders had told him that the Great Khan gave the command to exterminate every living Rat-kin within lands ravaged by the Blood Sickness. The Jildam scout knew not if this was true— for Rat-kins served in every stratum of the Horse Lord's Golden Pavilion from the fodder-gathers to the grain-growers— but that's what his elders had told. And so began the dark age of the Rat-Clan, whose numbers fell from the multi-million multitudes to the mere million that exist today across the endless plains, hidden out of sight, eeking out life as the Horse Lord's unseen Tasmüyiz.

Then, to Strun's confusion and horror, the laughing Djinns threw the Horse Lord into the pit.

There must have been a moment of complete chaos as the Horse Lord landed in the borehole, his legs snapping like twigs, his monstrously large body crushing Rat-kin by the dozens. All around the Horse Lord, Strun imagined— the starving rats and their bloodshot eyes must have glowed red with hunger while the Horse Lord attempted to stand on his shattered stumps.

The sounds Strun had to endure that night, the whinnying, the chittering, the wet gnashing of teeth, first on flesh— then on bone, made Strun dream of ending his life. He had covered his ears, but even so, the tremors transmuted through the compact dirt told him more than any Rat-kin should have the right to know.

Yet, that wasn't the end.
It wasn't even the beginning.
As expected, the rats who feasted first grew sick.
Then, his kin grew mad.
They attacked their surviving kin and ate them.
Most of his kin perished, or were eaten, or had themselves attacked others, fueling an endless cycle of rat-on-rat ultra-violence.
Some of the rats fed well and grew strong enough to escape the pit. The Djinns did not pursue these but instead pushed back into the pit Rats who had refused to eat the tainted flesh. In this manner, day after day, more of Strun's kin, other rats from Clan Jartas, Clan Qum, Clan Söp, arrived and joined the pit. Moonrise after moonrise, Strun endured until his senses grew numb, and his heart turned the consistency of stone. All Strun could think of was when this horror could end, and he could return to warn his Clan.

Knowing what he had seen, he would advise the elder to take the Clan deep into the Murk.
Damn the danger! The Rat-kin would learn to love the Murk!
It was better to die a dignified rat in the darkness than die a monster, created from diseased horseflesh by these aberrant, arrogant Djinns! In the Murk, they could fight, they could forage, his Clan would die as Rat-kin, unlike here on the surface— where they couldn't even eke out a living as Tasmüyiz!

Paralysed by despair, Strun had hibernated in the crisp, damp dark, praying to whatever Gods that rode upon the stars that the Djinns would soon be satisfied with their morbid task. Strun had melded with the land while he endured, becoming nothing. He became entombed within the earth's bowels, barely breathing, barely moving, conserving every mote of the meagre mana in his hollowed-out frame, bearing witness to the end of his people.

Then, in between bouts of delirium and painful cognisance, came an earth-shaking burst of thunder.

Strun had been crushed by the sudden fulmination until vertigo-inducing bursts of enervation stripped away the debris that had served as his cover, making it easy for Strun to raise his enfeeble head.

Then, he saw it.

Or more correctly, he saw "Her".

A living demi-Goddess of flickering light and shadow, vivid with emerald viridescence, radiating life while encircled by a halo of death.

She was battling the Djinn.

And there, in the split-second between the jadeite lightning visiting judgement upon the hated Djinn, Strun's glassy pupils captured the disintegration of a being that was to his people a living nature God.

In the aftermath, the victors drifted closer to the pit, evidently dismayed by their discovery.

There were two of them, a male and a female, accompanied by a shadowy bird and a white stag, both of whom made Strun's reproductive organ shrivel up inside his belly.

What were they discussing? Strun wondered. Perhaps, the Rat-kin prayed, these avatars of entropy and death would have the good grace to put an end to his wretched, disease-ridden kin.

To Strun's shock, the pair performed the mercy without being asked.

From a dark slit in the sky, the male Mage conjured forth a white worm the likeness of the divine Afaa al-Halak that ruled the glittering Sand Sea of Sawahi; opposite, the Goddess summoned the same in obsidian.

Be these emissaries of the great Deities of Death that dwelled in the desert? Strun's heart filled with impromptu worship, thinking of the old world beyond the rolling knolls, of the badlands his folk once crossed in their Exodus from the frozen north. Who else could command the Lords of the endless sands, Masters of a domain with no horizon?

Gathering his courage, the Rat-kin regarded the female Mage, whose visage and aura was entirely superior to the male beside her. There was something reverent about the female, an unspeakable presence that made Strun desire to kneel at her feet and humble himself. So strong was the impulse vivifying his cold blood that strength returned to his limbs, and he momentarily forgot his hunger.

But before Strun could move, the Goddess acted once more.

With a gesture, she beckoned her eagle of living grotesqueness. Her pet was a hideous thing, the exact opposite of the noble Sky-kin; a faceless fiend with a serpentine neck, while below its crow-black body, stark white fingers extended like pale, pretty blossoms of some midnight cacti flower.

"Cali!" the sorceress gave the command. "Give these wretched beings peace."

In the next moment, Strun's enfeebled, sugar-starved mind rioted.

_O Lord of the Badlands! O Afaa al-Halak!_ The little voice inside his skull screamed. May the Old Ones forgive his doubt! Strun fervently prayed. How could he have known that the sorceress could command a Lord of the Sand in its entirety? His brain grew suddenly feverish with the legends and stories of his people, even as gut-wrenching vertigo delivered liver-blows to his innards with every inch of the Great Worm's materialising body.

With a wet thump, the Afaa al-Halak slithered into the pit, susurrant with purrs of "Shaa— Shaa—", its carapace clashing like tossed shekel-shells collected from the Capsian.

Strun had no idea how many of his kin survived the crushing worm's descent. He only knew that with the Afaa al-Halak's appearance, the wailing of his kin, that incessant, unending chittering, that scratching and scribbling of claws against polished granite soon came to an end.

_Blessed silence!_ Strun wept freely, powerless to fathom the joy of hearing only the sound of shifting sand and sloshing sea. It was like someone had struck a red-hot scimitar into his brain and left it there for a month, and now by the grace of the Great Worm, its priestess withdrew said blade, brain and all, then quenched it in the blue-dark silence of the salty surf.

"Jesus—" the sorceress invoked a prayer to her companion. "Christ Almighty."

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Let's go." The male appeared hesitant to lay hands on his companion, even as a gesture of comfort. Strun chuckled. So he was right; the inferior male was not her mate but a supplicant.

Without another word, the two Human Mages ascended.

Strun watched them go, then reached into his pockets and fed himself as much as three berry balls, instantly feeling energised as the densely packed mana dissolved on his parched tongue.

Invariably, the Djinns would come again.

Mayhap they would gather the Rat-kin once more. Maybe after this, they had given up. But that wasn't something for a peon like Strun to identify.

Gingerly, his chest full of delicate hope as fragile as sand-spun glass, Strun raised his nose to the air and tasted the breeze.
The winds were changing.
He had a feeling the priestess of Afaa al-Halak would soon arrive at the Golden Pavilion to discuss countermeasures with the Horse Lords.
As for him, the humble witness, he must make haste to spread his tale across the hills and warrens.

Too many of his diseased kin had fled into the dark, their minds inflamed with fever and their tongues hungry for horseflesh. What that meant for the war or the Horse Lords, Strun guessed, was that his fellow Tasmüyiz's lives would soon reach new depths of impossibility.

"No way that was all the rats," Gwen flew half a meter behind Jean-Paul in deep thought. "If those Rat-kin prove to be plague bearers, we have to let someone know."

"That's why we're headed for the Golden Pavilion now," Bekker's voice echoed across Taylor's Message relay. "Is your Divi-Orb's course properly set for Aktau? We'll need to rest and meditate, then set out for overland travel in the morning. Finding an encampment of Centaurs, even hundreds of thousands of them in a landscape as flat and vast as the Steppes is fishing for needles in the sea."

"Orb's active," Gwen concurred, reassuring the Meister. "I still can't believe the Djinns did that to those poor Rat-kin. No one, no animal, no living being deserves a fate like that."

"I am sure you can bring it up with the Khan," Bekker's tone grew sardonic. "They say he's a great listener, at least when he's not out conquering."

"Have you meet the Khan of the Centaurs?" Gwen replied. "I don't suppose you've been to the Steppes before, Meister?"

"Not me, but Taylor's our resident expert— he was assigned to the Steppes twice. Why not ask him since he seems to like you."

Gwen turned to look at their Diviner, who needed no visual confirmation to ascertain her hunger for knowledge.

"The Khan you refer to—" Taylor confessed his deference for the young sorceress. "Isn't just the Khan, but the 'Khan of Khans'. Tomorrow, when you address him, make sure to add the prefix 'Great' or use his formal title, Temir Khan. His hoof-name, Temir Khitan Tengri, must never be mentioned in front of his lordship, lest you profess to be a member of his patrilineal line, or if you wish to be the Horse Lord's foremost Consort—"

Bekker chortled. "Knowing Gwen's history of charming Demi-human leaders, I wouldn't be surprised at all if such an event was to occur. In merely a year, she was hand-in-pocket with Norfolk AND the Tree of Tryfan, and word has it that she and a Deepdowner have become famous chums."

"Having charm is a curse sometimes," Gwen replied with a hint of sarcasm, unappreciative of Bekker's suggestive presumptions. "But yes, Meister. I'll do my best to refrain from 'charming' the Khan."

"All jokes aside, you should hold your horses," Taylor's retort took on a more serious tone. "The Centaur Marauders under Temir number about a hundred thousand, with at least ten thousand trained warriors— though the Beastkin Demi-humans are unique in that most of their population can arguably contribute to their combat potential. The Khan's Nayzağay Qanı, his Thunderblooded Shamans, empower his rule with fascinating sorcery. For example, when charging toward a foe, the stronger members of the tribe can draw vitality and strength from their lessers. How interesting is that?"

"Just like vampiric Life-link," Gwen drily remarked.

"Exactly!" the Diviner appeared delighted by her clarification. "Their magic makes for in-depth anthropological papers. For example, did you know that the pyramidal structure of their social stratum is the reason why the Golden Horde was untouchable before the advent of Spellcraft? Let me explain. Imagine a pyramid— yes? Now the broad base is made up of basic calvary; free horsemen called the Nokud, ruled by an Arban, commanding ten Nokuds. Above that, a Jagun draws strength from ten Arbans. A Mingat reigns over ten Jagun, and beyond that, the lauded Tumen takes his power from the Jagun under his command. Finally, the leader of an Ordu, lead by an Orlok who draws strength from his Tumens. At that tier of power, an Orlok can challenge other Orloks for power and control of their Ordu. When several Ordus form into a Great Herd, their leader is called Khan..."

"Nokud— Arbanu— Jagun— Mingat— Tumen— Orkok—" Gwen rapidly processed the nomenclature, understanding the general gist that Centaurs warriors grew exponentially more robust the more warriors they held under their control. With what she knew of Sympathetic Life-Link, or shamanistic Blood Bonds, a herd leader could arguably be near-immortal, provided his pyramidal base of "supply" remain unexhausted. If so, there was little wonder the Elementals had to raze the Centaur population from the ground up.

"… and when the Khans meet to deal with an external threat or go Marauding for resources— you get a Great Khan or the Khan of Khans." Magister Taylor finished with a flourish. "Any other questions, Gwen?"

A few of the others, also first-timers, thanked Taylor for the information.

"Ask anything, don't hold back," Major Kott, their hired Abjurer and her tutor, unexpectedly cut into the silence left by the others. "You and Jean-Paul are the only persons here for whom all information is freely given and without the burden of future favours. Opportunities like this will not exist after you graduate, so use this time wisely."

Kott's helpful prompt immediately put her back on track.

"Yes, I do have a few more questions," Gwen confessed. As Kott said, she needed more anecdotes to digest the book learning she had carried out in London. "If you don't mind, Magister Taylor— Can you explain how the Tasmüyiz, and the er… Şöpter factor into the hierarchy of the Golden Pavilion?"

"Not at all; these are valid questions." Taylor's tone remained patient as he continued. "Though there are no simple answers, I am afraid."

"Sorry to be such a Neophyte," Gwen apologised. "I found scrolls on the Centaur of yore, but virtually nothing on contemporary Steppe states."

"Nonsense." The Magister laughed. "You deserve to know if you're going to be of use in our subsequent operations. Let's begin with the Tasmüyiz, shall we? There's a curious word root for the Beastkin diction— originally meaning 'leashed' or 'bound'. The title is itself a corrupted maxim descended from ancient times, referring to the servant population living under the Horse Lords of the Steppes. During the apex of their history, all manner of races, Elves included, were subjugated by the Golden Horde and dubbed the 'Tasmüyiz'. Most were conquest slaves, but some willingly positioned themselves to avoid destruction, such as the Han Chinese, who bore the brunt of the Horde's conquest for a whole century. These days, Tasmüyiz refer principally to the Demi-human serfs that gather under the Golden Pavilion— such as the Rat-kin, the Kobolds, and occasional tribes of Greenskins. They're all refugees of the Tide, races that fled from their original habit-zones, hoping for a slice of the Steppe's grasslands."

The Diviner paused while checking Gwen's Orb for bearings against his mental map. Once satisfied, their guide continued.

"Comparatively, the Şöpter are, I suppose, as the Träälvor to the Hvítálfar or Svartálfar. Demi-human Beastkin to the Centaur nobility. These are bipedal Beastkin, whether the Goatmen of Aktobe, or the Ram-kin of Zabol, or the Fauns of Kokand. What unites them is their servility, I suppose. The Şöpters share an existence that the Horse Lords have subjugated since the Old Dynasties rose from the Nile. They see their subjugation as natural, a part of their culture and history, something bred into their bones."

"There's an interesting saying in Khitani," the voice of Angela Hughes interrupted Magister Taylor's. "If a Khan cannot trust his Şöpters, then he has no allies at all. Sad, no? Imagine being born into slavery and never experiencing freedom or free will."

"Angela isn't wrong, but she's misconstruing things as well. It isn't as though the Şöpter are without power," Taylor explained. "As you shall soon see, the vast majority of Temir Khan's Thunderblooded Shamans are bipedal Şöpter. I suppose the stranger thing is that each Şöpter possesses little to no regard for their Clan or herd. Each individual, tasked with raising the young of the Horse Lords, follow their Masters for life and offer their entire existence in devotion. It isn't unheard of for a Horse Lord to prefer the company of their Şöpter servant over that of their wives or children. Therefore, within the Golden Pavilion, the more potent a Horse Lord's achievements, the more significant his Şöpter entourage. The Şöpter servant of a well regarded Orlok could command Mingat without protest from the proud Horse Lord. At the same time, the Şöpter of a Jagun would think nothing of maiming or butchering the Şöpter of a Nokud for the slightest perceived insult."

"It's a horse-eat-sheep-eat-goat-eat-horse world?" Gwen felt her head had grown to twice its usual size. Social observations such as these were absent in the lore and statistics of her college's prized scrolls.

"It's a world where pure power reigns," Bekker simplified the proceedings for her with a longing sigh. "An unsullied world without half the complications of politics, backstabbing and betrayal. Prove your mettle to the Khan as a War Mage, and you'll fit right in."

"But on that front, do refrain from incensing the Khan or his rank and file, or their Şöpter followers," Taylor added.

"I am to fight... but not fight hard enough to piss them off?" Gwen furrowed her brows.

"No, not that," Taylor's speech grew hesitant. "Let's say you will see Humans in the Pavilion serving as a Tasmüyiz or Şöpter. Whether they serve willingly or otherwise, it's not YOUR place to intercede."

"My place?" Gwen cocked her head. "What does that mean?"

"It means Magister Taylor's mission, in addition to securing the alliance of the Golden Pavilion in our common suit against the Elementals, includes the possibility of extracting wayward Human labour unwittingly wrapped up in the war," Bekker said. "Assuredly, there'll be Necromancers mixed in as well, appearing as they do in the manner of vultures and vermin. If Jean-Paul knows you half as well as I think he does, some of us are going to have to keep a scroll of Hold Monster handy and not for the Horse Lords."

"Our War Mage is a pacifist?" Magister Pietersen, Bekker's Abjurer, made his incredulity known. "You're telling me, Meister, that the Devourer of Shenyang is a Humanitarian?"

"That's wonderful. Someone should have passed the Juche Necromancers that memo," Angela Hughes, their Fifth Cabal observer, provided a sliver of dark humour. "From what I've heard, what remains of Shenyang couldn't even grow moss. Not even microbes remained where our War Mage's anger passed."

"That's…" Gwen found that she didn't have a retort— at least not without giving away Shoggy's mystique.

"Look, rest assured you're going to see some shit," Taylor emphasised the expletive to placate what Meister Bekker promoted as her impractical ethics. "BUT— don't lose your shit. Agreed?"

"Okay," she said. "I'll do right by the mission."

"No— you'll do what's _best_ ," Bekker reinforced the point with a hint of steel. "IF you're incapable of staying cool-headed, do the bare minimum. Shut up, stay quiet, do nothing. The consequence of failure this time isn't an issue of diplomacy— it's the collapse of the Kazakhstani Frontier and every flesh-and-blood being within it. On this mission, Magister Taylor and I alone determine what will be the best practice. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am!" Gwen assured her instructors with as much confidence as she could muster, glancing at her glum student-partner as they neared their destination; she saw an able role model. "I'll be as quiet as Jean-Paul!"

Aktau.
Once upon a time, the City of White Cliffs possessed the name "Aq Jarlar Aktau", a name given by the wandering Faun bard, Kobzar Taras. Even during the heyday of the Mageocracy, Aktau was a city predominantly catering to the Horse Lords. In antiquity, it was founded by Scythian Demi-human Centaurs. In the aftermath of the Golden Horde, the town became a way station for the Steppe's folk traders and a place of poetic beauty. Then, as with every region touched by the Elementals, it fell into ruin.

Now, with the Fire Sea so close, its white cliffs grew scarred with the charred remains of its sister cities to the south, their carcasses washed up by warm currents to dash against Aktau's abandoned shores.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we've arrived," Magister Taylor announced with relief after following some localised Divination beacon only he could see.

Gwen followed her superiors, landing atop a host of Soviet-era Brutalist structures that seemed to have defied the elements, resting now as skeletons of a once-thriving port, made desolate by the eternal dusk.

As before, Mages stationed within the way-station received the august party of Maguses and Magisters, settling them into furnished rooms deep underground for a few hours of meditation before their journey continued.

Their present residence was once billed as the jewel of Aktau, a bunker-cum-hotel built for the Mageocracy's bureaucrats to socialise. The Grand Majestic Riviera Palace, it was called, once an ivory wonder of monolithic sandstone clad over a concrete skeleton— six storeys tall and six deep, with thick, warded panes staring straight into the cobalt depth.

Two storeys down past the basement, most of the Hotel's amenities, such as the ocean rooms, the kitchens, bathrooms, filtration engines and boilers, remained intact.

And it was in one of these rare rooms that Gwen found herself arrested by an unexpectedly awkward prospect— listening in to her superiors' magical equivalent of Netflix and chill.

"Frank! Here? NOW? What would the others say? "

The voices were barely audible, but Gwen's hearing while meditating commanded Almudj's bodily boons.

"They'll say nothing—" The assurance of Frank Taylor quickly followed Angela Hughes' protest. "Why do you think I put Gwen and Jean-Paul next door to us? Those youngsters must be tired to death, and with their rooms as buffers, the others won't hear us."

"You've been planning this—"

"I've set this ploy in motion the moment I saw your name on the list…"

"You hand-picked the list, Frank…"

"Such a smart songbird you are..."

"You're not interested in the girl-next-door? She seemed plenty interested in you."

"Be careful, my dear— I wouldn't describe a tier VI War Mage as a girl, much less a woman, whereas you, my beautiful Angela..."

"How do you even kiss your wife with that mou—Mmmnnn—"

Miss Hughes' protest abruptly grew muffled.

Gwen exhaled, clearing her mind and purged herself of all external thoughts. Heedless of the adulterous distractions playing out next door, she pictured in her head the Golden Pavilion, at the centre of which, Temir Khitan Tengri, Khan of Khans, a monstrously large Centaur with the strapping body of Conan the Barbarian and the lower half of a platinum-maned Percheron, dreamed atop a golden chaise. There in the Khan's pleasure dome, beside the white waters of a sacred river gushing into an emerald chasm, sat the Khan's favourite Şöpter, a pretty Faun with Mithril-dipped horns, cradling an Elven dulcimer, her clawed fingers strumming the strings while wailing at a flaming sea.

"Ah— AH—" the Şöpter sang, her throat-song deep and long. "—Ah— ahh— AHHHHHH—! "


After daybreak, the party set out. Gwen could only marvel at the stamina of a fifty-year-old Diviner who must be either taking "vitality" pills or happen to be a Vessel like herself. She was ambivalent that the handy dandy with a radio host's voice had outed himself. Knowing her inclination for suave father figures, she really wouldn't have minded sharing a few drinks and a story or two with the cad.

Her disdain was immature, she knew, but now that Doctor Monroe was dimensions away, there was no wrangling her aversions.

On the one hand, as a modern woman, she understood that just as pigeons mucked in the fountain and rabbits bucked in the mountain, consenting adults bumped unmentionables. Likewise, had her Negative Energy not diminished particular appetites or the Void victualed her voracious cravings, she was sure that either sweet Evee or some square-jawed lad between her two universities would have become a local legend.

On the other hand, her brain refused to unmount from her high horse, not when Magus Hughes had galloped Magister Taylor across half the Steppes. Yet, she couldn't rationalise why she felt personally insulted. In neither of her lifetimes, it wasn't as though her father or mother had an ounce of respect for the institution of marriage.

In the end, she commanded her busybody-brain to swallow her sadness, rationalising that she needed Taylor for what was to come and that their affair was none of her business.

And so— like all good girls with Hai as their fatherly role model, she zoned out, then focused on the middle distance.

Now that it was mid-morning and the party was a hundred kilometres inland, the endless horizon turned from an amber seascape into a flat prairie with an unending sameness that inspired madness. Unlike Gwen's British compatriots, who marvelled at the vast expanse and remarked dourly on the rolling badlands, Gwen grew sentimental for the waterless vistas of Australia.

"Which way is her Orb going now?" Bekker requested an update from below.

"Excuse me." Magister Taylor drifted closer, handsome and amicable as ever. Gwen responded by smiling serenely while the man uttered his report. "— South-South East. It looks like the Pavilion might be encamped somewhere between Kaplankyr and Urgench. The Great Herd requires a fresh source of water, so we're aiming at either the Sarygamysh basin six hundred kilometres away or the Amu River that runs from the Dushanbe Highlands."

"So, between eight hours and…?"

"Eleven," the Magister apologised. "Even with Gwen pointing us the right way, the distance isn't going to shrink. At best, we'll find the Pavilion set up near the northern edge of the lake."

Gwen had no idea what these places Magister Taylor mentioned were and so resigned herself to be held by the gentle hand of Ruxin's Omni-Orb for the foreseeable future. Now reminded of her platinum-haired corporate partner, she couldn't help but wonder if a distance of half-a-continent was an issue if she required aid from Russo's big Draconic guns. Arguably, if Golos could be conjured via her Mandala to South America, surely, Ruxin could send his CFO a helping hand in the name of mutual profit.

"That's fine." Bekker motioned for silence. "Children, ready yourselves for deployment. We're now officially in a Black Zone. Your skills are not going practice themselves."

Gwen's lips twitched. She felt Bekker's euphemistic allusion to child soldiers was not a product of endearment but habit.

Moving away from Taylor, she distracted herself by thinking of the Elven seed satchel burning a hole in her pocket, not to mention she was still in possession of a trans-dimensional Message device in the form of the Llais leaf. If shit hit the Elemental fan, she wondered, could she ask Eldrin to drop in and show her how Vessels from pre-history dealt with threats to the Prime Material?

As for the supply in her Storage Rings, she was ready to deliver some significant infrastructural change to the region or contribute significantly to stabilising the status quo. According to Bekker and Taylor's conversion, the Mageocracy's official stance is for the Centaurs and the Elementals to butt heads for as long as possible. Even in its diminished, post-Tide era, the Golden Pavilion remained a formidable power bloc in the region, securing the Steppe's planar thresholds in the manner of a marauding, militant lodestone. Ergo, a macro aspect of the Mageocracy's objectives was to ease the path of the Khitani Khanate— so that the Centaurs and the Elementals may expend their excess energies in a mutually exhausting war.

Taylor's Divination halo rapidly pulsed.

"Heads up, eyes down," the Magister informed the party after an hour. "There's a large assemblage of Centaurs congregated in between those plateaus, probably sheltering from Wyrms."

The "plateaus" mentioned by Taylor were stunted sandstone formations worn down by wind and water. From the altitude preferred by the party, they appeared minuscule from a distance but then rapidly grew in size and scale, ranging from hills of twenty to thirty meters to monolithic ranges some half a kilometre high. In between the water-worn gorges, bursts of greenery added much-needed splashes of colour to the sun-washed Steppes.

Half a kilometre out, the Mage Flights drifted into a meandering holding pattern. Landing would allow the Mages to regain mana, but as Taylor forewarned, God knew what lurked underneath the shifting sands of these badlands. Even as unchallenged rulers of the plains, the Centaurs had to contend with moisture-sucking Strangle Vines buried underground, while on a bad day, their hoof-falls would attract the apex predator of these parts, the world-famous "Mongolian Death Worm", or "Afaa al-Halak", as the Elementals called them.

To Gwen's knowledge, these once-worshipped "Land Gods" of antiquity were local variants of the Earthen Wyrm she had the pleasure of encountering in the Murk. Like their cousins in the Elemental Plane of Earth, these semi-terrestrial creatures grew anywhere from tens of meters to a kilometre long. In the eastern reaches of the Sawahi Desert, one regularly found "larval" variants in conic pits attempting to trap unsuspecting travellers in the manner of sand-based Bobbit Worms, dragging prey into their transmuted burrows. Conversely, adults "swam" through the Sand Sea, spinning their bodies like a titanic, self-propelled drill, breaching the surface only when their tremor-senses picked up herds of prey, at which time they would scoop up acres of sand, like giant whales sieving for krill.

"They've become a menace, those Sand Wyrms…" Taylor's lecture continued. "With the Fire Sea polluting the surrounding region with increased planar instability, they've become far more active. Where an Afaa Al-Halak ventures, destruction of the underground aquifer turns even oases into rolling dunes."

"Weren't the Wyrms always a part of the landscape here?" Jean-Paul was a man who liked his worms. "What's the problem?"

"They're terrific terraformers, and there are now too many of them," Bekker clarified for her favourite. "If we get an opportunity, we should Purge one to gain the respect and favour of the Khan. That's what the locals do as a part of their honour trials. A Mingat has to survive an Afaa Al-Halak's visitation, while Orkoks' must have at least one Wyrm-kill notched on their pelt."

Gwen tried to imagine such a thing. How could a Horse Lord stab a Sand Wyrm four storeys tall? What would such an attack do? Tickle it?

Once in range, Taylor and their Translocation Magister, Eli Hill, ventured atop the ridge to meet with the indigenous inhabitants, who had also sent out a representative.

Gwen quickly circulated mana and Essence into her eyes; this was her first Centaur encounter, and she would not miss any details.

Sure enough, bounding through the desolate plateau, the Horse Lord emerged, effortlessly leaping from precarious crag to impossible cliff. Once her eyes adjusted, Gwen noticed that the Centaur wasn't a "horse" at all, but an enormous ibex.

Her passion cooled, but that didn't make the Ibex-kin any less impressive. Atop the sandstone plinths, the Goat-taur stood well over three meters, discounting the most macho pair of horns Gwen had ever seen. Earthen was the leather-wrapt warrior's muscular frame, composed of an offensive lineman's barrel-like torso atop the lower body of a long-limbed ibex. The Goat-taur's fur, a two-toned burst of black and brown, was the same tone as his lower body's colouring, making for a pleasing aesthetic. A dozen pilums sat on prominent display in the goat's saddlebags, their dark-iron heads fanning out behind the goat-man like a pair of wings. Simultaneously, her eyes became drawn to the leather shield etched with indecipherable rune scripts on the man's left arm, which made an impressive pairing with the stunted glaive the ibex wielded as a balancing aid.

With a frame like that and those outrageous horns, Gwen conceded the "Ibex Lord" was very cool indeed.

"Human Lords," the Goat-taur conversed through the dialect of the Beast-kin. "What marks your passage through our lands?"

Gwen was glad their Diviner shared both sight and sound with their lesser members.

"We are en route to grace the court of the peerless Thunderblood Khan." Taylor dipped his chin to demonstrate respect from a superior position. "May I ask if the Golden Pavilion lies this way?"

"Your path lies true." The Beast-kin relaxed. "The Pavilion passed here the last moon cycle."

"Be they resting at the vast expanse of Sarygamysh?"

"Nay." The warrior pointed in a direction Gwen could not discern. "Venture northward toward the ever-flowing Amu. There, you will find the Khan of Khans, inuring his troops in preparation for the reclamation of our south lands."

"Be they at Nukus?" Taylor summoned a topographic illusion with a wave of his hand.

"Between Nukus and Turtkul, where the snowmelt is fiercest," the Goat Lord affirmed Taylor's projections, impressed by the visualised landscape.

"Thank you." Taylor nodded a Hill. "As a sign of our support and friendship, please take this. Have you experienced any incursions of late?"

Hill materialised a bound crate of what Gwen recognised as self-expanding, self-heating food rations with a theatrical wave. These were the dessert variants, absurdly rich in calories and amazingly fortifying when the weather's cold. Choco-banana was her favourite.

"Only the unimportant loss of a few far-ranging Tasmüyiz hosts." The goat warrior licked his lips at their gift of sugar and spice. "The Sons of Аkk thank you for these gifts, may the Afaa Al-Halak spare your steps, outlanders."

"May we meet again in the south-ward crusade," Taylor offered the Centaur a hand, simultaneously positioning himself to levitate at the right height to receive the Ibex-kin.

The two shook, then parted without further sentimentality. Returning to the party, Bekker nodded in satisfaction at her colleagues from the Shard.

"If that Ibex's words hold, then we should be clear of Elementals from here," Bekker affirmed Taylor's return. "The weather's warmed, the wind's down— let us make haste."

Nukus.
The Heavenly Steppes.

Beside the sacred waters of the roaring Amu, Temir Khitan Tengri, Khan of Khans, mustered his Thunderblooded riders to repel the latest visitation from the worshipful "worms" of the Sand Sea of Sawahi.

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Khudu, Cherbi of the Khan's elite Khesig Honour Guard, sat naked to his waist, his muscles oiled and gleaming, so defined as to be the envy of the Khanate. Upon a silver-adorned chaise, his well-honed lower body sat, flanked by his horn-headed Şöpter servants.

"Honoured Cherbi." The Şöpters' bleating voice irked Khudu. "Is the fitting of your barding to your liking?"

"Leave it," Khudu grunted, his long mane bristling with undisguised impatience. "Where is Lady Saran? We must soon be away. Does the Shaman not know that a Cherbi must always ride in front of his Khan at all times?"

His Şöpters lowered their heads, too fearful of either party to comment.

Khudu's complaint was met by the sound of soft laughter from outside his yurt. A white hand pushed apart the leather veil, revealing an ageless and exquisite face alive with taunting mirth. Khudu's brows furrowed further when the intruder soundlessly entered without his permission, parting the entrance so that her priestesses also entered, each bearing the ingredients of the Sanguine Rite.

"You must forgive this lowly Saran, worshipful Khudu, champion of champions," the Faun who spoke had a voice like lifting silk, inspiring un-warrior-like instincts in the Cherbi that no respectful Centaur would wish to entertain. As she moved, the curve of her hips teetering forward, her jewel-laden horns refracted the light from the Daylight Globes. Around the Şöpter Shaman's neck, a string of Afaa Al-Halak teeth, each the size of a thumb, were dipped in Mithril then made ornate with Sanguine Scripture of the Thunderblooded Clan. In the uncertain light, the woman shone with a sheen of perspiration made refractive by the jasmine oil massaged into her skin and fur.

The scent from the woman quickened Khudu's heart. He felt an unbidden longing for the woman's touch, a desire that even the lowest Nukud understood to be a shameful weakness.

Cracking his neck, the Cherbi forced his mind to focus. This woman, the Lady Saran, had ceased being a Şöpter slave long ago. To his knowledge, she was old enough to be his grandmother. Within the Golden Pavilion, few could afford to truly irk the Dinï of the Shamans, for she had single-handedly raised the Khan from a colt. Even Khudu himself, brood-kin to Temir Tengri, had once drunk milk from the Şöpter's heavy bosoms. That was why the Great Khan treated his troop of Khesig Marauders as his brothers— for all of them had passed by Saran's hands in their youth. All of them were made siblings by their shared wet nurse. As for why the ancient Şöpter would appear so youthful— Khudu could only discern that the woman's mastery over the Sanguine Rites must be unimaginable.

"Is milord unwell?" Şöpter asked.

Khudu's obsidian eyes averted the Shaman Woman's sunlit-irises that pierced past his thoughts and stared into his soul. "Make it quick. This yurt is stifling. A warrior should always have one hoof on the grass, bow-in-hand and spear in the other, filling his mane with the wind."

The woman laughed. "You're forever the rash one, Khudu. You should learn from your brother, the Great Khan."

"I am Temir's Spear." Khudu deflated, unable to speak harshly to the Shaman. "And his Shield. Shame me not with tardiness, Dinï Saran."

"Altani, Alaqa." The Şöpter appeared satisfied with his capitulation. With a wave of her jewelled hand, she commanded her handmaidens, who took up positions beside the Cherbi. "You may begin."

"Yes, Matron." The girls obliged. From their sacred receptacles, the girls produced obsidian-bladed scalpels brimming with necrotic mana. "Lord Cherbi…"

"Spare the milk of paradise." Khudu paid no heed to the women. "Anoint me. Take as much as you need."

One woman packed away the milk skin while the other made quick incisions across Khudu's chest, waited for his massive pectorals to relax, then collected the ruby-like drops of blood. In their mystic vessels of rare earth minerals, herbs and sacred alchemy, they then expertly formed the admixture into Sanguine Ink.

"Leave me the smaller of the vessels," Saran commanded her Thunderblooded neophytes, then approached Khudu with the sacred container. Dipping a finger into the rusty ink, she began to reform the familiar Sanguine Scripts upon the Cherbi's massive body, tracing the same patterns that had adorned his skin hundreds of times before.

Khudu's jaw clenched as the blood script kissed his dermis like glacial ice, then burned like True Fire plucked from the Fire Sea.

"You'll ruin your teeth like that." The Şöpter woman paused so that Khudu could breathe. "Must you bear on so heavy a burden? The other Orkoks do not give half as you do to the Khan. And my Milk of Paradise leaves little to no side effects."

"Temir is my brother and my kin," Khudu said as the script-writing continued. "As the heavens are wide and the plains without limits, so a Khan's Cherbi shall perish before his Khan may falter. Besides, I need to set an example for the Khesig."

"Sigh— you're all such giant fawns." The Şöpter worked with a swiftness that was second to none. "But that's a good thing. Temir's father lacked that kind of camaraderie."

"You will not speak ill of Grandsire Tengri," Khudu said. Saran was a unique existence, but she was still a Şöpter.

"Don't waste your ire on me," the woman concluded by using her claws to frame the final script, that of entwined life— known to Khudu as the Mark of Ulzii, on Khudu's forehead. She then gingerly touched his lips, leaving a finishing dash of Sanguine Ink on his chin to mark the final touch. "There."

In an act that would have sent the Cherbi into a rage like no other, the Şöpter slapped Khudu on the buttocks, something only a mother-mare could affect on their colt or filly.

Khudu rose, strongly desiring to be beside his brothers and be away from this female.

“Take care of Temir, Khudu.” The Şöpter gathered her tools and ingredients.

"I shall." The Cherbi's mind turned from this woman for whom he felt an inexplicable and confusing longing and toward the outside world. "I am his brother, unto death and beyond."

Saran turned and left.
After several more minutes of meditation to absorb the agony, Khudu parted the leather threshold and entered into the world of light and sound. Already, an Ordu of the Thunderblooded Clan had mustered outside the camp and was awaiting their Orkok. Where the inside of his tent was a silent world of meditation, the clamour of iron-shod hooves, grinding mail, jingling pilums and rattling quivers of heartwood arrows adorned with Eagle-Harpy feathers became a solid wall of sound.

In neighs and whinnies, Mingats Captains with their gold-braided manes kept order as Tumens in True Silver barked orders for the men to remain in their hundred-horse formations. Among these robust bodies of martial perfection chomping at the bit were the scuttling shadows of the Tasmüyiz, doing their best to avoid being trampled as they dressed their Horse Lords, polished armour, sharpened the glaives and waxed the feather-shafts.

Upstream, where the Great Khan's Pleasure Dome touched the heavens, herds of young mares bid their budding Nokuds farewell with wreaths of wildflowers gathered at daybreak. These, Khudu's daughters among them, were tended to by Şöpter servants of the saraī, a veritable silk-clad army waiting on the fillies as they twisted their braids in excitement. The hunt for an Afaa Al-Halak of the Sea of Sawahi was no small feat of strength. At least some would not return— but for those who would prove triumphant, the most beautiful, long-limbed girls with the most generous dowries would be theirs for the picking. Just as well, the most noble-blooded filly would have her pick of the next Mingat, Tumen or if they dared dream— a future Orkok.

"Hail!" A screech from the sky heralded the arrival of Cirina, Khudu's chief scout. Folding her wings, the Eagle-Harpy skidded to a halt. "The Sand God is close. There are wyrm signs in the eastern reaches of the Sawahi. My eagles have reported seeing the drovers driving their fear-maddened herds back toward Nukus."

"Has it breached the Sand Sea's surface?"

"Nothing that could be verified, though the wildlife has scattered as far as they're able."

"Good." Khudu made up his mind. "It must be formidable, then. Warn the Ordu! Inform the Great Khan! Tasmüyizs— bring me my armaments!"

A dozen bipedal Tasmüyiz, Rat-kin, Deer-kin, dog-faced Kobolds and few Rabbits among them appeared from around his yurt as though materialising from thin air. In a second, The Khesig Captain's quiver bags grew gravid with the stoutest arrows crafted by Cirina's Harpy-daughters. In pieces, the stronger Tasmüyiz held his heavy mail in place while clambering, swift-fingered Rat-kin threaded the straps with buckles, locking Khudu into his Marauder's plates. These would tap into the Sanguine sorcery tattooed into his skin, making the armour light as feathers and yet near-impenetrable.

"Khesig—!" He howled, his throat-song rising above the clamouring war camp. "Your Cherbi calls!"

"HWAA—OOOH—!" Came the collective cry of his hundred-strong Marauders. Of his Khesig, most of the free riders were Jagun, while even the weakest were elite Arabanu whose blood sorcery drew from ten or more Nukud.

"THE HUNT IS ON!" Khudu reared, shaking off the Tasmüyiz that fell from him like snow off a stout oak. "WE ART THE GREAT KHAN'S SPEAR!"

"WE ART THE GREAT KHAN'S SHIELD!" His men answered.

Beside him, Mungke shot into the air with a screech and a single flap of his steel-plumed wings.

"HWAA—OOH!" Khudu hooted, turning to face the Pleasure Dome, where even now Temir Khan was being clad by Saran in his Golden Mail. "RIDE! WE WHO ART THE GREAT KHAN'S BLOOD!"

"My God, it's breathtaking…" Not even Jean-Paul was immune to the majesty of distance and scale when applied to a landscape so vast as to show the curvature of Terra in every direction.

Conversely, Gwen was pleasantly surprised that the desolate tundra could possess such mutability in landscape and flora.

After only two hours of maximum velocity Flight from the Goat Lord's stone grot, the plinth-strewn badlands gave way to pools of snowmelt, then transformed as if by sorcery into endless acres of virginal wildflowers.

"That's good eating for the Centaurs and their army," Taylor remarked when his team audibly announced their appreciation. "After the grazers pass, there'll only be roots left."

"But it'll all grow out again," Gwen said. "Renewable fodder, right?"

"In better years perhaps—" Taylor pointed to the endless rows of small bodies bent over a field of flowers nearer the horizon. "The roots can be very nutritious, and when dried, they keep well. In a bad year, between conserving their resources and preserving the lives of the Great Herd, the Khanate will always choose the latter."

"But what will they do for food next year? Or the next?" Jean-Paul appeared confused. "Centaurs don't engage in agriculture, right? And the rivers here are too unpredictable."

"They raid. That's the Horse Lords' ancestral employment, after all," Bekker explained with patience to her Apprentice. "And also, the Rat-kin will always find ways to sow the fields— else what use would they be to the Centaurs? The Khanate doesn't exactly keep useless extra-mouths around. Resources, materials, and infrastructure are one thing, but there is nothing more pivotal than food security when maintaining a kingdom. In our diplomatic negotiations, we'll be touting our ability to supply grain from central Europe. If you want to be of help, pay close attention to how the Khanate is dealing with food and water scarcity."

"Food security is the first step to stabilising the region," Taylor said. "We should be glad the Centaurs lack it. Without it, there would be no leverage to our negotiations."

Gwen agreed wholeheartedly with the serial adulterer. No matter the human endeavour, no matter the better intent of the First World, the struggle to maintain food security remained a sore point for all negotiations with the developing world. As much as the west touted tourism and sustainability, no foreign demands mattered when the locals struggled to eat— conserving White Rhinos when malnutrition ran rampant in the local village? A first-world saviour could dream.

In her alter-Earth, farmers in Belize did not have to worry about Shark-men raiding their fishing sheds, nor did the Caspian fishermen have to contend with fire-flinging Titans capable of melting a factory-freight ship to molten slag.

In this world, before the arrivals of the Elementals, the Centaurs had thrived on the Steppes since before the dawn of human history. Humans empires rose and fell, as did Khanates, but both had endured. Now, Human habitation in what some had romantically dubbed the "Cradle of Empires" was all but extinguished by the Elemental Sultanate, and it seemed that the surviving neighbours of the Humans were next.

Presently, the lynchpin of the Human-Centaur alliance was the changing climate in the immediate region north of the Fire Sea. Whether this was a stratagem laid out by the Elementals or if it was mere coincidence, the Mageocracy did not know. Either way, the spread of the Sand Sea of Sawahi in the Eastern Steppes summoned the Afaa Al-Halak, whose presence increased the rate of desertification— which invited more Elemental imbalance and thus, perpetuated the life cycle of the Sand Wyrms. Therefore, the promise of food sustainability was the Sword of Damocles that the Mageocracy held over the Horse Lords of the Steppes.

In the sombre silence that followed, the party continued their flight until the green vista met an abrupt end at the stark white edge of a blue-green lake.

"Beautiful—" Gwen breathed in the salty air. She had seen Lake Eyre, but this was a whole other kind of other-worldly beauty.

"That's a dead lake." Taylor shot down her worshipful tone in the next minute. "Portions of it can be transmuted with sorcery to produce freshwater, but on its own, its four thousand kilometre squares of liquid death."

"How come?" Gwen squinted against the glare from the water. "… Ah— Salt?"

"Yes," the Magister affirmed her observation. "After the Tide, the region's weakened fabric collapsed. The lake had the unfortunate fate of playing host to several portals into the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Salt. The streams that feed the lake still contain untainted water, but the closer one ventures toward its centre…"

"So nothing lives in it? What a waste."

"I am sure there are adapted life-forms from the Quasi-Elemental Plane thriving out of sight, where the salt is densest— but don't anticipate anything from our world to live there."

As the party approached, Gwen saw that there were roving herds of livestock. These were the mundane kind— scattered cattle, horses, and copious, meandering flocks of Edilbay sheep, all non-magical fauna bred for food. These drank from the various estuaries flowing from the highlands or grazed on surviving patches of grass. Yet, impressive as the herds seemed, they were white specks against the monochromatic grey salt plains and the ochre badlands that hinted at the beginnings of the grasslands' transformation into fine silica.

She wondered if the folks here knew about topsoil erosion, or bio-diversity, or the need to maintain plant life even to begin to preserve the fertility of their tablelands. But then again, every endeavour in her old world, a place without portals into the Quasi-Elemental Planes of Salt or giant Sand Wyrms, had failed at reclaiming even the most meagre of habitats.

Her hand unconsciously wandered to her waist.

Once more, the Druidic Bag of Holding pulsed against her hand, its seeds throbbing with borrowed vitality from Tryfan.

Had Solana foreseen all of this? She wondered. Or was this as well, merely ploys that stemmed from the Accord?


Gwen tasted the tar-like Essences permeating the horizon as a metallic tang playing on her tongue.

The sorcery empowering the Essence was familiar to her. It was arcanistry she owned thanks to Brown and Wen, through whom she had Frankensteined Greenskin Shamanism, contemporary Spellcraft, nouveau Void theory and Soul Flayer Necromancy to accomplish Essence sympathy through Essence Tap. By all logic, somebody should have died and the researchers arrested— but thanks to the elasticity of her mana conduits and the pliant nature of her Void-abused body, her Frankensteined Signature Spell lurched to life.

No doubt, Wen and Brown would shortly publish a paper on the matter, after which they would receive standing ovations from their British and European cabal-peers for pushing the boundaries of Spellcraft. As for herself, whatever the implications, she maintained her stance that her dalliance with Necromancy was a necessary pitfall. After all, the vitality she had managed to share with Gracie had enabled a way for less fortunate Void Mages to attain Affinity-parity and thus life. As for the cost, Gwen could only say that upright and Soul-tapped was better than dead and dusted.

As for the Essence soup bubbling over the horizon— she wetted her lips.

How would it feel to tap Caliban into that? Assuming she didn't pop like an overzealous gender-reveal balloon, would she wield power like an apocryphal angel visiting vengeance upon her enemies?

"That must be Nukus— I should also warn you there's an active War Host ahead," Taylor's voice came through the Divination halo, his tone wane from the constant travel. "From the density of their mana signatures, I'd say an Ordu. Likely the Khan is on the hunt. There's a monstrous Earthen mana signature among them."

Since leaving at daybreak, the party had flown for almost ten hours, with the only rests being Gwen and Jean-Paul practising on local fauna and stray Elemental monsters to stock up on vitality, and when they ran into an oasis too tempting to gloss over.

Finally, in the afternoon, with the Amu in view, the Caspian behind them and the glittering sands of the Sawahi beyond, they reached the Divi-Orb's final destination.

"… I do believe they're hunting an Afaa Al-Halak, dangerous as they are; only prey of that size can feed a war host. But I digress—" Taylor paused half-sentence, for there was no more need for clarification.

Down below and near the horizon, some distance past the river Amu and what looked to be an enormous city of yurts and pavilions, a roving cloud of dust and sand blew past concentric circles of rolling cavalry. From their vantage, Gwen could see that the "riders" were fighting something in the dust cloud. The scene was astounding, not just because of the scale of the combat— which must involve what looked like almost ten thousand Centaurs, but that the Horse Lords' formation resembled an animated Mandala.

"Gwen, Jean-Paul, holding pattern—" Bekker halted the party. "Taylor, take Hill and present yourselves. Tell them we have arrived and that we shall await the Great Khan's pleasure for an audience."

"Understood." Taylor signalled to the Transmuter, who followed his flight path toward the largest structure in the yurt-city below, what Gwen assumed to be the Golden Pavilion.

With their Ambassador gone, the rest of the party settled in to enjoy the show, proffering mana-rich rations and self-warming mugs of tea via cantrips of levitation.

"Here." Jean-Paul handed Gwen a slathered piece of re-inflated curried-egg sandwich. Gwen noticed her friend's irises were awash with obsidian mana, a testament to his excitement. "There it is, the Mongolian Deathworm— they grow up to a kilometre long and use vibrations on their carapace to displace the sand. The largest of them are land Leviathans! They can tunnel between the Prime Material and the Murk. Some even say the Dwarves appropriate their passage tunnels to make the Dyar Mokk!"

Gwen chewed on her sandwich; her buddy's passion for worm-like things was expected but unsettling nonetheless.

"Here it comes!" Jean-Paul shouted; in the next moment, a bone-throbbing drone drowned out the Void Mage's voice.

_"ARUUUURNNNGH—!"_

Emerging from the dust cloud like a breaching whale, the infamous "Mongolian Death Worm" made its debut.

"STREWTH—" Gwen near-choked on the reconstituted egg. Her brain could scarcely comprehend the monster's scale. "That's a bloody BIG worm!"

In her mind, Gwen had envisioned a mega-fauna variant of the Earthen Wyrm she had consumed in the Dwarven Murk. She had even entertained the idea of subsuming one so that she could ride her Afaa Al-Cali through the sand, Fremen style.

But this thing was a whole other tier.

With her Essence-enhanced eyes, Gwen could see the Centaur warriors milling beneath it. These, she understood from her encounter with the Goat Lord to be three meters tall. Among the rush of brown-clad warriors, she could also see the Horse Lord's officers, their mails flashing gold and silver, their huffing bodies clad in blood-dyed ink. Whether because of magic or breeding, these Centaur Centurions sat almost four meters tall, with great big hooves the size of car tires churning up great big clods as they passed.

Yet, set against the emerging Afaa Al-Halak, these Centaurs appeared mere aphids trying to climb the stalk of a robust, sun-seeking serpent vine.

Heedless of the Horse Lords' harassment, the Sand Wyrm hunted, its skyscraper body twisting through the air with the force of a seismic eruption. As its great head roved, a three-part maw opened like the petals of a carnivorous flower, revealing undulating rows of teeth sieving sand between the gaps. Horrifically, she could see Centaurs and bipedal Beast-kin leaping from the lifting jaws.

A football field-sized bite attack? Gwen trembled at the thought of trying to fight such a thing. Was this how Alesia felt when fighting Almudj in the Royal National? What would a Void Orb even do to a being of that scale? How did the Centaurs hope to fight it? Even if one survived the Sand Wyrm's nip or avoided it, there was still the net mass of the worm's body slam to take into account.

As if in answer to her uncertainty, the Centaurs began their counterattack.

"There!" Jean-Paul pointed to a spearhead formation emerging from the mass of horses below, his eyes alive with excitement. "That's the Khan of Khans!"

Gwen did not need her companion's guidance, for she had sensed the gathering of Essence and vitality visibly forming a ripple across the battlefield, centring on a Centaur wrapt in the Thunderblooded Clan's Sanguine scripture.

Temir Khan, Khan of Khans, stood some four meters tall and clad from head to toe in golden mail, a heavy pilum in one hand hefted overhead. Like the vortex centre of an unfathomable maelstrom, the Essence taxed from his followers amassed upon his arching body, transforming his hair and fur into vivid hematite. Rearing on his hind legs, the Khan tensed every muscle, transferring every mote of power into the singing metal of his lance while scarlet mist fled from the gaps between his armour and barding.

Above, as an impossible sand sculpture, the Afaa Al-Halak arched into the air, propelled by its titanic body, poised to roll over the Centaur herd.

The Khan waited for the Sand Wyrm to reach the zenith, then launched his pilum.

Gwen crushed the curried sandwich with one hand as the pilum made a resounding BOOM, tearing through the sound barrier, leaving ignited air in its wine-red wake.

By this time, the Sand Wyrm had begun its descent. Turning downward, it aimed its colossal body at a troop of Centaurs who presently held its aggravation.

The pilum struck.
Something akin to thunder fulminated. As a Lightning Mage, Gwen knew all about thunderbursts— but even so, she felt shaken by the sound of the pilum's impact against the Afaa Al-Halak's armoured side. To her dazzled brain, the result was like the unstoppable force meeting an immovable object.

What manner of Newtonian exchange must be involved to shift the inertia of a falling skyscraper? Her organs rioted from the awe-inspired adrenaline. Just how much Essence was needed to turn awry the titan's trajectory?

" _GUUUUAARRRRRR_ —" The Sand Wyrm's cry was like ten-thousand Oliphants trumpeting in disharmony.

"Christ above," one of the Maguses swore beside her. "No wonder the Horse Lords can fight the Elementals to a standstill."

"I don't think any of us is going to abjure that." Major Kott made the exact observation that flashed through their heads.

"How do we deal with it then?" Gwen asked her tutor.

"By not dealing with it." Kott exhaled. "That attack harnessed strength from the entire Ordu. I don't know how often it can be employed— but when your opponent commits his entire force, don't stand in the way."

"… So we cut our losses and then hope to attack back with enough power to return the favour?" Gwen gritted her teeth.

"Allowing such an attack to occur is already enough of a misstep," Kott informed her, his blue eyes growing hard. "To then hope for the best would be the height of naivety. Not planning to soak up losses and return as good as they've given is then unforgivable stupidity."

"Well said, Major." Schoeman, the Magister serving under Bekker, gave the Major a thumbs up.

"I don't see why it's impossible—" Magus Hughes, Taylor's nightrider, disagreed. "Misdirecting the attack is your best bet. Just make the Centaur shoot anywhere you're not, and they've wasted their efforts."

"Unless you can manifest Illusions at the speed of sound, I would hope our Contingency Rings holds up." Pietersen, another crew member under Bekker's domain, did not appear to think highly of their Fifth Cabal observer. "Besides, it is naive to think the Khan lacks countermeasure against Illusion. Elemental Marids are born weaving mirages, and their range and scale far exceed the limits of Spellcraft."

The atmosphere grew tense, though Meister Bekker remained apathetic to the competition brewing between their two factions. Following her instructor's example, Gwen kept her attention focused on the titanic struggle below.

From the writhing body of the wyrm, Gwen could see that the attack had been strong enough to send organ-shattering shockwaves up and down the creature's body. Where the wound had erupted like a volcano, an enormous hole had formed, a concave cavity within which she could see shattered entrails spurting gallons of purple blood— a fact exacerbated by the worm's crash landing. Even now, the stunned titan was projectile vomiting from its tri-petal maw, indicating that a significant section of its digestive tract was in revolt— or in tatters.

Around the Afaa Al-Halak, the Horse Lords continued their assault, peppering the Sand Wyrm's head with arrows. Just as she wondered what good such small pin-pricks would do, the four cavalry circles split into separate Mandala-shaped formations. From each loop, a mighty Horse Lord emerged, carrying six-meter pilums that resembled vaulting poles.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Gwen's eagle-eyes spotted the barbed tip and the hooked weight at the haft. "Holy shit! Is that a harpoon?"

The closest Horse Lord, his armour clad in Bronze, Gold and studded in coins of Mithril, usurped the Essence from his warrior circle.

Gwen held her breath, anticipating the ultraviolence to come.

Not to disappoint, the Horse Lord launched the missile with the force of an ICBM, breaking the sonic barrier at a hundred meters as the projectile became a booming, red-hot lance of destructive energy.

_—CLANG!_ Even from a few kilometres away, Gwen could hear the sound of the harpoon-spear penetrating what must be a meter-thick wall of chitin.

Without stopping, the Horse Lord drew another pilum.

Their audience collectively produced gasps of scalp-itching dismay. The damn Centaurs could rapid-fire these things?!

"That settles that." Kott's face blanched. "That said, there must be a limitation to their Shamanism—"

"Poor longevity," Jonke observed. "Vitality isn't infinite, after all, even if it naturally regenerates."

"What if we alpha-strike the leader?" Jonke proposed.

"That or collapse the lower base of their vitality-pyramid," Bekker remarked, glancing at Gwen.

Streaming companies of Horse Lords rode past the dazed Sand Wyrm.

"What are they doing now?" Jean-Paul stared confusedly at the scene, his expression showing undisguised sympathy for the mighty worm bullied by an army of brutal, relentless ants.

"They're catching it, I think." Gwen could see that the other riders passing the wounded and dazed Wyrm was expertly throwing arm-thick ropes onto the hooked ends of the pilums, securing their barbs in the manner of bee-stings. She imagined the Horse Lords harnessing the Afaa Al-Halak, Fremen style, then riding the sand titans for thousands of kilometres through the Sand Sea. "I wonder how they'll feed a pet that size."

Within the minute, despite the imminent danger of the wyrm rolling over the roving calvary, the creature's back became a criss-crossing mess of overlapping ropes that looked like spider-silk from above. These, Gwen supposed, both stopped the animal from twisting to dive back into the sand and to secure it so that the Horse Lords could continue to tame it without being pulverised by its whale-maw.

"I don't think…." Jean-Paul's voice grew full of doubt.
In the next moment, both of their mouths fell open.

The Centaurs' formation parted. The mightiest of them began to race away from the Sand Wyrm while pulling on the tethered harpoons.

The Mages from both the Shard and Pretoria grimaced and cringed, gritting their teeth as a flower of unimaginable carnage blossomed into bloody life.

Like tearing the shell off a hapless crayfish, the ropes grew taunt; then, with a mighty surge of Essence that manifested as a pink haze, the Horse Lords split off an entire section of the Sand Wyrm's hide.

Gwen's balled palms had by now compressed her curried egg sandwich back into its satchel form.

" _SHREEEEEE_ —" An unexpected and piercing shriek from above signalled Gwen and the Mages to a flock of Eagle-Harpies awaiting their turn.

On cue, like a swarm of obsidian locust, the flock descended, aiming for the most vulnerable aspects of the Sand Wyrm's exposed flesh, tearing at the visible tendons and vessels. At the same time, the lesser Centaurs converged, rapidly reforming into streams of pilum tossing strike teams.

Gwen looked away, feeling physically ill. There was violence, and then there was the live degloving of a creature that only moments ago was full of majesty. Beneath the armoured sections of the flopping worm, she could see its glistening flesh growing paler with every pulse of purple ichor.

Unfazed by their brutal labour, more of the horses engaged in the same gory act of glory, quickly turning the ochre sand of the badlands into a scarlet swamp. At each triumphant gallop, hooves churning the blood-stained sand transmuted the earth into bloody pudding.

The wyrm's vitals were failing. This much Gwen could tell without needing Caliban's aid. Thanks to her ever-hungry Astral Body, her natural Divination could perceive the absurd volume of life seeping from the Afaa Al-Halak's rapidly deflating body. It was a waste— but the wyrm was the Centaur's bounty, and even if the escaping Essence and life were to soak the sand, it was the Khan's to waste.

"HWAA—OOOH—!" Came a cry from the marauders from below, announcing their victory. The feasting Eagle-Harpies from above echoed the bellow below, their screeches like hysterical violin-strings.

Gwen felt strangely shaken.
Rarely since coming into her rightful talents had she felt so helpless in the face of overwhelming power. The hunt she had just witnessed demonstrated the prowess of a warrior culture millennia in the making. Mighty as the Mongolian Death Worm was, a creature of brute elemental strength was no match for a civilisation that had once reigned over the largest land empire on the Prime Material.

A horn blew, its soulful drone touching every corner of the battlefield.

From the direction of Nukus and the main camp, great caravans of bipedal Tasmüyiz surged from the yurt-city. Urgent trains of carts pushed by Beast-kins tall, stout, large and miniscule made for the burping carcass of a worm almost a kilometre long.

Gwen touched her face— she was sweat-soaked from the collar of her combat suit to its interior.

She inhaled deeply, then sighed deep and long.

Who would have thought, the Devourer of Shenyang solemnly acknowledged, that Centaurs were harder to straddle than Necromancers?

By the time Taylor and Hill returned to guide their party toward the Golden Pavilion, the colossal work of portioning the Afaa Al-Halak was well underway.

Of the piles of ingredients harvested from the mighty carcass, chitin plates were stacked sky-high to one side, accompanied by a hill of translucent flesh, then an enormous pit of rendered, jade-white lard. A second crater meter deep and tennis-court sized was excavated by the Tasmüyiz to dispose of the Wyrm's shattered organs. Segment by segment the bipedal Beast-kin laboured, knee-deep in blood-silt, each worker transformed into abstract figurines of gore. Already, she had spotted a few Humans among the work slaves.

"Gwen…" Jean-Paul nudged her as they slowly descended, watched by thousands of curious Centaurs and Beast-kin. "Check out that Core…"

Gwen's gaze drifted to a Creature Core the size of a cargo van, shaped like a fossilised heart.

Titanic creatures like Mongolian Death Worms did not reach an extraordinary tier unless they acquired enough Draconic blood to supersede their base ancestry. Nonetheless, their Cores provided essential materials for Shielding Stations and other infrastructural installations. As the Centaurs had no use themselves for such a thing, the Creature Core would likely be exchanged for wheat and other supplies on the cheap. According to Taylor, the Khanate possessed scant patience for economic management, leaving most of the work to the Şöpter servants, whose awkward social status made ergonomic trade arrangements near-impossible. Ironically, though Tasmüyizs skilled at trade and barter existed, no member of the Khanate cared enough to gift the slave races the necessary autonomy to improve their economy.

The Horse Lord that received them, "The Cherbi Khudu", was one of the praetorian specimens that lead the raid on the Afaa Al-Halak. Visually, the Horse Lord was an astounding spectacle of masculinity, his upper body twice the circumference and height of Andre the Giant, sporting the bullish neck of a pro wrestler wider than Gwen's waist. Impressively, the Centaur's lower body was that of a roan Clydesdale taller than Gwen even if she wore her most painful heels. Like his peers, the Khitani Centaurs' face was chisel-jawed with an eagle-beaked nose and iris colours matching his elemental Affinity.

After a final round of reminders from Taylor, the party landed. As Bekker had ordained, Gwen's role was to play the pretty and silent doll until the moment Taylor brandished her as their War Mage. After the show and tell, she would then be excused to explore the compound with Jean-Paul.

It was just as well that Gwen intended to heed her superiors, for else she would have already complained about the smell.

Now that they were in the "thick" of it, fur-musk, sweat, and the sharp tang of tanned leather was omnipresent. There was also the sweet stink of melons and other vegetables, some fresh, some half-eaten and some rotting in carts waiting to be hauled away. Worse still, near every yurt clustered toward the "city" and its centre, roving herds of smouldering chattel made her eyes water.

Understandably, a race that was always on the move had little use for infrastructures such as plumbing or trash management. Sans extra-large Storage Rings, there was no way to haul the refuse-disposing Magi-tech engines that serviced man's NoM Districts. Though here and there she could see Tasmüyiz sweeping the streets, there were far more sheep and pack animals than labouring Rat-folks. At the same time, it wasn't as though the locals were bothered by the heady scent haze.

Closer to the Khan's tent, the streets grew broad enough for six Horse Lords to pass abreast. The structures that prefaced their approach— Gwen noticed, grew more prominent the closer she got to the city's epicentre. Likewise, their Centaur entourage grew in number until she felt positively sandwiched between flanking walls of oiled barding.

At the entrance to the pavilion, two Şöpters manservants with the heads of bulls opened the pavilion's enormous drapes, revealing the perfumed world within.

Unlike other members of her team, whose eyes were drawn straight away to the visage of the Khan of Khans in the centre of the pocket plane of the tent, Gwen's eyes fell on the pillars holding up the entrance.

Totem poles! She recognised the twin columns at once. In her study of her Masters' sorcery, her curriculum reading included an outdated section on Totemic Shamanism of the Greenskins and Beast-kin. The footnotes had stated that the learning and teaching of Shamanistic mysticism was a verbal affair, with spells passed on as chants and songs. Simultaneously, as a companion art, the esoteric spiritualism that empowered ancestral sorcery was transmitted via ancestral Totem columns.

From the looks of the Totems presented here— two at the gate and six more in the further reaches of the yurt holding the superstructure together— the history of Clan Khitan must be vast and long indeed.

Gwen gulped.
Taylor had said that Horse Lords tended to live fast and die young— the Khan himself was barely past his forties and his father scarcely seventy when the Tide took his life— but these Totems must be thousands of years old. If indeed the Khitani Centaurs predate human history, then these relics must precede Egypt's First Dynasty.

Gwen fought down an urge to touch the sacred wood.

When her eyes finally lifted from the Sanguine Scripts that formed the basis of the Shamanism used by the Centaurs, her party was bowing before the big horse himself.

"Welcome, Mage Lords from the north," came the voice from above. "You have come at a time of plenty, allies of the Khitan."

Gwen lifted her eyes to steal a peek at the being who had earlier king punched an Afaa Al-Halak into kingdom come.

"The Mageocracy thanks you for the welcome, Khan of Khans, Lord of the Steppes, Scion of the Tengri's Thunder-threaded Golden Blood…"

While her betters exercised boorish diplomacy, Gwen scanned the interior of the giant yurt. The most notable feature was the acres of carpet, some overlapping, some placed in patterned rows covering the ground. Compared to the red flooring, the yurt's walls comprised patterned, criss-crossing beams adorned with intermittent drapes of spun wool.

What was most impressive to her was the skylight, an enormous opening that allowed the sunlight to be gently filtered by shrouds of silk that resembled floating clouds. At the centre of the skylight array, a zodiac depicting a sun and moon constellation bathed Temir Khan in holy luminescence.

The Great Khan himself, much to her surprise, was smaller in stature than his guards, chief of whom was his Cherbi. Seated upon the dais, the Horse King was a spectacle of gold-etched plate mail threaded with spun Mithril and engraved with True Silver. The most striking characteristic of Temir Khan Tengri was the inner light pooling in his depthless irises, a feature that immediately made Gwen think of Solana.

A Vessel? She wondered— then refuted her initial impression.
There was Essence in the Khan, a great deal of it— but it wasn't Draconic.
What the Khan possessed was the Essence of his Khitani Horse-kin and their slave legions.

"Meister Bekker, your presence among us is an unexpected boon," the Khan's diplomacy continued, his timbre deep, measured and confident. "With your aid, I am assured that our Elemental enemies to the south will soon retreat into their brass-bound fortress…"

While her superiors conversed, Gwen's gaze slid from the Khan once more.

Beside the deified Horse Lord's dais were three empty divans, likely indicating the positions occupied by his generals. Assuming these were seats usually laid out for his Orkoks, Gwen estimated the Khan's military expedition at forty-thousand horses, excluding the auxiliary forces of bipedal foot troops and their Tasmüyiz fodder.

Curiously, Gwen noted, she had failed to spot a single mare or filly. Servants aside, the Khan's pavilion was a raging stud fest.

What did this mean? She wondered. Do Centaur women not have a place in the Golden Pavilion? There was certainly no shortage of long-legged, flax-maned mares on their way in, many of who wore rich and vibrant fabrics and had brigades of Tasmüyiz servant scurrying underfoot.

Gwen's suspicion remained until her eyes landed on a dark corner behind the Khan, where she detected a well-endowed feminine figure.

Instantly, she sensed a slight tingle in her Divination Sigil. It wasn't a call for danger— but rather the feeling of someone probing her with their mind.

In response, Gwen sent out mental feelers of her own.
Their thoughts soon touched.
Besides the Great Khan, a pair of amber eyes stared into Gwen's own.

It was a Şöpter Faun dressed in richly hued diaphanous silk, marking her as no mere servant. Around the woman's neck, just covering her ample bosoms, sat a semi-circle necklace of threaded teeth— the emblem of a senior Shaman. Unlike other Şöpter slaves adorning the place like decor, her goat horns were polished and manicured, curving handsomely so that the Mithril-dipped tip and its hanging jewels framed her exquisite face.

There was a familiar air about the woman.

The Şöpter was undeniably a bipedal Beast-kin. Yet, from the Faun's confident shoulders, bright eyes, and sensual mouth, Gwen observed the same aura possessed by Lady Grey, Lucy Astor, and Elvia's gentle Rectrix. Though she stood in the shadow of the Khan, power and influence came as naturally to her as the air she breathed.

Committing to her hypothesis, Gwen smiled at the Faun, offering a premeditated olive branch.

The Şöpter smiled back, her expression amicable and inviting.

Inexplicably, she felt as though the two of them stood alone and vis-a-vis in the throne room.

Only when Gwen refocused could she once more hear the forced laughter from Bekker, Taylor and her sorcerous crew, inflating the fantastic yurt with flatulent puffs of diplomatic flattery.