Tianjin Tower.

The ISTC.

On the second evening of the third day of the invasion, the Regent of Shalkar finally found time for a cat nap.

In a private chamber reserved for VIPs, she took up the lotus pose, circulated what was left of her Essence, and began the deep meditation that high-tier Mages substituted for sleep.

Soundlessly, a jet-black shield of Elemental Void descended around her person, delivering total serenity for the two hours her Party waited to make the jump through space and time.

Richard and Petra, together with Lulan, had proceeded immediately to Shalkar and oversee the preparations for a potential northern expedition into the Black Zones eastward of the Ural Mountains, where Yekaterinburg once stood.

Elvia had also left, taking an excursion to London to take responsibility for Sir Kass and Reginald's death and report on the tragic success of her quest to Senechal Ashburn.

Her uncle Jun was still sleeping, and she did not want to disturb the man over a guilt-ridden hug. Besides, once his health was restored, he would be the epicentre of a political hurricane, and Gwen had no desire to be the one to explain to her defender-of-the-people uncle the actions of his abducted nephew.

Equally occupied were her guilt-ridden grandparents, who needed to answer to the higher powers of the Party. She also didn't wish to face Secretary General Miao, whose career may be tottering after the revelation of Percy Song's involvement in the city's misfortunes. Her only solace was that no one would dare question the Secretary General's actions until after a supply chain was established for Beijing, whose many millions were starved of the largest grain route in the Greater Asian-Pacific region and for whom the shadow of an Undead invasion just became real.

As for Lei-bup—Gwen could only count on the Mermen to keep their word. However, as she had stated to the Tower Master of Tianjin, she had immense "faith" that the self-made Mermen High Priest would not renege on his word.

Finally, she would not be returning to Shalkar immediately.

With Percy gone and Elizabeth Sobel now once more invested in the world's affairs, she must make an excursion to Sydney and speak to her siblings-in-craft, for she dared not proceed with her next course of action without the stakeholds of the wisened Gunther and the unshakable Alesia.

Slowly, within the third eye of her Astral consciousness, midnight descended.

In the liminal space of her Void Egg, her lucid Mage Dream unfolded like an origami diorama, for such was the fatigue plaguing her mind, both from the exhaustion of her mana and the weariness of her thrumming emotions.

One by one, visions of the past few hours flashed through the chambers of her brain, burning themselves into the synaptic networks of her frontal lobe.

Elvia…

Percy...

Elvia...

Percy...

Against a montage of Sobel's sensual, sickly presence looming over her wide-eyed brother, she saw Evee's pleading eyes begging her to choose.

Should it be that Elvia died, and Percy remained to answer for his crimes? Was that the perfect solution to her mental anguish, the cathartic resolution to their Aristotelian tragedy?

As a sometimes-sister, overdue lover and the full-time Regent of a domain, she possessed no answers, no twist of the imagination that could deceive her desolated conscience.

Each time she tried, she saw a snippet of a future foretold by a cunning Dragon:

An ashen wasteland with a looming Kirin dancing amid a gentle dusting of necrotic Elemental Ash falling like powder across a devastated city.

Her uncle Jun, a twisted husk of his hale past, crucified upon soft mounds of ash and debris, his chest sunken, punctuated by a milk-white Jade Amulet.

Somewhere in Shanghai, a grief-stricken Ayxin loses whatever measure of focus she needed to bring about the impossible, resulting in the existential death of a baby cousin that was never meant to be.

Her grandparents—overwhelmed by grief and becoming the scapegoat of Percy's ploys, with no Ayxin and Yinglong to shield them from the ramifications of Tianjin's loss.

The worst was averted—and yet— _should she be thankful?_

Wasn't the city still a confluence of fire, water, despair and destruction?

She felt in her chest the acute germination of something she did not wish to possess—the seeds of a deep-rooted detestation for her friend and, in time, a partner. Elvia's sacrifice was a betrayal of the highest order and a source of un-asked-for salvation that she could not dismiss.

The paradox was so jarring that Gwen felt her joints ache, her mind torn violently between the desire to embrace her Cleric and kiss her on the mouth—and the violent impulse of taking Elvia's shoulders and shaking her until every bone was loosed from their sockets.

Over and over, like frames of a Kodak carousel left on repeat, she felt assailed by her self-induced visions, her mind ever sinking into a quagmire of doubt.

A long time ago.

A lifetime ago.

She stood a distance from her elfin friend in a house by the bay, on a pier, and listened to her angelic voice while a hundred Dancing Lights added dimension to the starlit waters.

It was an epoch where they lacked power.

Lacked knowledge.

Possessed no wealth.

And knew nothing about their futures.

And yet, in those uncertain times, certain certainties felt so assured and unassailable, enchanted and magical.

Now, those lights were just balls of mana hovering over cold, dark waters.

In the recess of her mindscape, snug in the depth of her Astral Soul, Gwen heard the impossible verses of a long-ago ballad sung in the voice of a guileless Evee walking on water in mimicry of her dogmatic Nazarene.

_I walked across… an empty land_

_I knew the pathway like the back of my hand_

_I felt the earth… beneath my feet_

_Sat by the river, and it made me complete_

But there would be no more completion.

Percy had made sure of that.

The river was poisoned, and none would dare to drink from it.

_I came across a fallen tree_

_I felt the branches of it looking at me_

_Is this the place we used to love?_

_Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?_

There would be a tree, a great, incredible tree the likes of which humanity has never seen.

A Tree.

A woman.

A snake.

This tree would be hers and hers alone, and she would be its sole, lonely mistress.

_Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?_

The melancholy lyrics were from an extinguished reality, sad and yet apt and prophetic. From the warmth on Gwen's face, she suspected her eyes might be overwhelmed by a sudden inundation of moisture.

_And if you have a minute, why don't we go_

Where would she go with Evee? That house on the hill was now buried under a Leviathan.

_Talk about it somewhere only we know..._

And where would that be? What else did they share now apart from the tainted past?

_This could be the end of everything..._

Her heart grew deadly silent, its palpitations ceasing as though someone had pulled a sudden plug.

Was that how the song ended?

Like the churning contents of her Void-strewn gut, she felt only the hunger of the Void, within which her Shoggoth slumbered, its belly full of Men and Mermen, Undead and otherwise.

_Oh, simple thing..._

Gwen could no longer recall if the chorus ended with hope, longing, anguish or loss.

She no longer had expectations about Percy, of family dinners with Mei and maybe a little niece or nephew.

She felt disconnected and desolated by reality. Without finding her brother, shackling the little turd-for-brains, and bringing him back in chains to answer his crimes, she could not face her babulya, her Yeye, Uncle Jun, and the rest of her family.

And Hai Song and Helena Huang… she could not summon the strength to consider their involvement, even hypothetically.

She had always known that the complications of her life would be in proportion to the power she desired to wield—but for that reckoning to hit her so hard and so abruptly was a predicament as farfetched as the arrival of Lei-bup upon a colossal lobster.

_DING!_ Her Message Device chimed.

The ISTC was ready for Sydney, and her followers awaited her command.

Gwen wiped away any potential tell-tale traces of liberated mascara.

Her Void shell slipped back into the Astral.

Her face, cold and composed, was ready for the world.

Enough Gwen Song for today. The Regent of Shalkar had places to be.

Gwen's world flared silver.

Before yesterday's revelations, separating from Elvia and her cousin to travel alone back to Australia would be an unthinkable prospect. Now, she felt her solo trip was the most natural exit as her body dematerialised away from her most stalwart supporters.

When she reappeared among nostalgic recollections of "beam me up, Scottie…" She was already in the ISTC chamber of Sydney's yet-unfinished super structural Tower.

"Gwen," the voice that greeted her not only possessed the warmth of a hearth fire but its owner dressed in the same hues of orange and scarlet. "Welcome home, Sister."

" _Allie_ ," Gwen replied, feeling the tension drain from her body like an overfilled dam with the floodgates released. "It's good to be home."

The two women embraced, savouring their bond as sisters and siblings-in-craft.

When they parted, she found Alesia staring.

"What's wrong?" Gwen couldn't help but be curious.

"Your body felt so…" Alesia's expression was worried. " _Stiff_. Sure, we've got some heavy discussions with Gunther in a moment, but you can relax, I promise."

"Yeah." Gwen touched her neck. "There's a lot on my plate at the moment. Will Yue be joining us?"

Her once mentor patted Gwen's stooped back, then kneaded her shoulders with both hands until she forcibly relaxed. All of this was watched by guards whose eyes acutely savoured their moment with the Regent of Shalkar, Mistress of the Shoggoth, the most renowned mass murderer of Necromancers from Sydney to London.

"She's with Whetu in Auckland, rebuilding the city as a liaison." Alesia indicated at the ISTC. "Would you like to speak with her? Might do you good."

Gwen shook her head. "This was an unplanned visit, so let's not bother Yue for now.'

Alesia seemed to understand—but Gwen knew there was no way her sister could comprehend the turmoil post-Yinglong Elvia would strain on their three-person sisterhood. Would Yue side with herself? Or would Yue side with Evee? Or perhaps their friend would be disgusted with them both? She had no answers and little desire to make that discovery.

"Yes. And yes, I heard about what happened in Nanjing." Alesia's face, beautiful as Gwen recalled, replaced its concern with anxiety and undisguised anger. "And the bitch is back, I take it."

"In the flesh." Gwen nodded. "Took Percy as a souvenir with her after trashing Tianjin like she did with our Master. If we are to hunt her one day, we must do something about that Planar Jaunt."

"For sure." Alesia hugged her again, perhaps reinforcing that she should feel at home. "Come, Gunther's waiting in our penthouse."

"Not his office?" Gwen tilted her head.

"And let his secretary cook?" Alesia laughed. "We're going hear your story, Gwen. Not as the Regent of Shalkar, but as our Sibling-in-craft."

"Right." Gwen finally found the energy to smile. "Then I shall leave nothing out. The details will be sordid and shocking. Is that alright?"

Alesia touched her bare shoulders. "You see these?"

Gwen's lips curled.

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"I know they're not as broad as Gunther's, sister," the Fire Mage snickered. "But they're plenty broad enough for you, Regent."

Sydney.

The Tower.

Gunther Shultz, Tower Master of Oceania, was ready with breakfast.

After exchanging pecks and hugs, they each took their seats, and Gunther spooned out egg, SPAM and toast, together with the most godly coffee Gwen had tasted since London.

"If I were to tell the folks at Cambridge that the Morning Star himself served me coffee and asked for how many sugars," Gwen remarked, feeling the bitter liquid fill her with warmth. "The faculty would call me a liar."

"If someone told me that a million Mermen worshipped our little Sister, and would gladly go inland to fight an Elemental Prince of Fire on her behalf, I would have called them a liar, too," Gunther returned her jab with his usual seriousness.

Her brother-in-craft looked notably older, though not in the way of his advancing age, but rather in the air of his authority. There were now visible stress lines on his forehead and the corner of his eyes, which were signs of a man burdened with hard decisions and responsibilities.

It was a look, she knew, that echoed her appearance, one that no longer possessed her doe-eyed formative years nor the ambitious hunger of her alter-world thirties. Now, whenever she washed up and made herself presentable in the mirror, she felt her age—despite her physique being maintained by the immortal Essences of a timeless creature.

With the three of them settled around the kitchen bar like tribals around an amiable fire, Gwen did her best to re-tell her estimation of the events that began with her Uncle Jun's ludicrous idea of aiding her Spellcraft with Draconic Essence to the moment in which the Yinglong played his Royal Flush and swept the board with a single swish of its enormous tail.

"Fuck these lizards." Alesia looked like she could boil a new jug of coffee with her ire alone. "Manipulative fucks."

"I can't disagree with that." Gunther's response was to cooly listen to her story, interrupting only to ask for minor details. "Jesus, Gwen, you've been through thick and thin. Elvia, as well, whatever her faults, and the others. Your grandparents have my condolences."

"Percy isn't _dead_." Gwen found herself rather unhappy at Gunther's cool-headedness.

Gunther tilted his head ever so slightly. "I don't see you rushing off to Singapore like before…"

Gwen had no comebacks.

The three drank their coffee.

"I would like to share something with you," her brother-in-craft said nonchalantly. "I didn't want to say this because your foundations are so entwined with Almudj and the Dragons, but I will now. Will you listen?"

Gwen nodded.

Gunther leaned against the counter, his natural radiance adding a texture to his sonorous voice as it played against her ear.

"We are all aware that our Master trafficked heavily with the Demi-human races, especially the Elves and the Dragons, yes?"

Gwen and Alesia both confirmed their knowledge.

"But our Master dealt with neither here in Sydney." Gunther symbolically moved his cup of coffee away from theirs. "This is a choice, Gwen. Not an oversight."

"Are you saying there are no Elves on this continent?" Gwen's eyes indicated the vista of the newly built harbour.

Gunther did not refute her claim. "Not like Tyfan."

Gwen's mind instantly recalled that living memory of Kalinda, the burning tree, and Almudj's soaring body.

"That said, I _had_ been invited to join this Accord of Tyfan, as Master calls it, with a personal invitation from The Bloom in White herself. It's been almost two decades since, and the offer still stands. However, I do not need Tyfan's blessings, nor am I interested in what their Verdant Lord, the very ancient Tyfanevius, has to say either."

Gwen waited for Gunther to continue.

"But _you_ did need a Dragon's help, sister—and you were played like a fiddle by the Yinglong," Gunther said. "Because the Yinglong is not Almudj. The Yinglong will not ascend to the Unformed Land like your Patron, because it is far too worldly. So long as it remains grounded by its children and domain, its conflicts and interests are each an insurmountable barrier to ascension."

Gwen felt her mood sink somehow even lower.

"Of course, now that it managed to untether quite a few of its concerns thanks to wielding you like a spiked bat, maybe it could."

"Gunther, be nice!" Alesia scolded her husband.

"Gwen, look at me." Gunther reached out and squeezed her shoulder, his darkly stubbled chin both manly and threatening. "What do you think now about trafficking with immortal beings?"

"Not as pleasant as I imagined," Gwen confessed. "I was so certain that I came away with each encounter with a little advantage—only to realise now that every iota of Essence I took came with a price."

"Not to mention you're too deeply invested now to retract yourself," Gunther sighed. "You promised Sufina, didn't you? And there are older, more dangerous Dragons now watching you. According to your admission, I am counting Tyfanevius, Illaelitharian, and Sythinthimryr, who sent you a living Morden, and that's assuming the Yinglong is done with you."

"Elvia says the Yinglong is asleep now and will slumber for some time," Gwen said. "I am still in business with Ruxin… Lulu's probably still tethered to Ryxi, and Golos is a lightning rod for Shalkar."

"Don't misunderstand me. I am not telling you to cut ties." Gunther shook his head. "I am simply asking you what you have learned from being _used_."

"Well." Gwen felt a little impatient with Gunther's patience. "I am pissed, for one. As for the lesson, I shouldn't have taken so much candy from strange Dragons wrapped around dubious trees advertising _Free Essence_."

"A curious analogy," Gunther snorted at her attempt at humour. "To give and take with mutual respect, I suspect, is the lesson I am trying to impart here. What do you think would give you the means to say no and for them to respect that?"

"Raw power." Gwen knew the answer to Gunther's enquiry. "A Tower, Politics, and Spellcraft."

"Martial power you already possess," Gunther partially agreed. "I doubt even the Bloom of a World Tree would openly wish to tussle with the Shoggoth. However, if ever you go to war, the immortals will pay mercenaries to cut down everything you hold dear before slapping you down with an unseen hand. They are THE unseen power of Terra."

Gwen felt a shiver.

"Will your Tower be in Shalkar?" her Brother-in-craft asked.

"More than likely." Gwen nodded. "It's the crossroads between the South-East Asian markets and the European-Mediterranean trade ports. Once I have the Low Ways restored, it will become a new Silk Road. Is that a problem?"

"No, it's good," Gunther concurred. "I only wished to confirm your ambitions. Master Henry built the Sydney Tower for himself because of its isolation from the past. If you mean to grasp the future, it's right you build a Tower at the loci of the world's events as you are the loci of many interests."

"Any advice?" Gwen nursed her lukewarm flat white.

Gunther's lips pursed in thought before he spoke again.

"If you cannot divorce yourself from the interests of these Dragons and their World Trees," Gunther said cooly. "Then you better find a counterbalance."

"Counterbalance?" Gwen asked. "Through what?"

"Not with the Mageocracy," Gunther said. "The ruling class and the Elves are thick as thieves."

"And not the Communists." Gwen grimaced. "They've got a full table as it is. Maybe the Dwarves? But they're inundated with recovering Citadels in the Murk. Without the Low Ways, they won't be much more than an elite military expedition."

"Look further." Gunther tapped the granite kitchen table. "There _are_ Human forces free from the influences of both Tree and Dragon—though I can in no way vouch that they are benign or even friendly. You know of our allied Towers in the New World, of course."

"I do," Gwen recalled her newly recruited consultant from MIT. "They don't do Elves there?"

"No Elves. No Tree that we know of, and no Demi-humans either…" Gunther said. "Take that how you will. It's a different way of life to how you see the world, but it is whole-heartedly Human in all its woes and glory."

Gwen pondered Gunther's words.

_Human_ seemed to be the operative word, for Sydney was also a bastion of humankind and humanity alone.

"The Americans may not have a _World Tree_ problem," Gunther said. "But they do share our _Spectre_ problem, and for those in the know, there's evidence that one of Spectre's chief executives is himself a Hvítálfar. Are you aware of this?"

"Vaguely," Gwen confessed. "It was in the briefings. The ones I've faced are mostly their Demi-human allies, though. The Elemental Prince, the Mermens Dragon Turtles, and now, the Undead legions of _Juche_ as fish. I've never encountered anything that might suggest Elven interference. Tyfan single-handedly decayed the entire Juche legion in the South Pole and saved Illaelitharian."

"I am aware. Still, that one of Spectre's executives is a Hvítálfar is a confirmed fact," Gunther said. "I am sure Tyfan knows, though the details, I fear, are privy only to those who trafficked with Master or are long-term members of the Accord."

"So you think all our troubles are a part of an immortal chessboard?"

Gunther shrugged. "We both know the answer to that. Whatever the case, our Tower friends in the northern strongholds of the Americas are diametrically opposed to the status quo in London, particularly where Elves and Dragons are concerned. For resources, on principle, and in matters of theology, they've held their own against their version of the Yinglong, the Quetzalcoatl, and have never yielded against the Svartálfar from the Woods that Wend."

Gwen felt her head throb.

Gunther did not relent. "You're a morsel stuck in a great web, Gwen. A great many webs. The Dragons have their designs, and they may possess some other purpose as a collective. Beyond that, the individual World Trees have their tame Dragons, meaning beyond the lizards, there's still Elves."

Gwen groaned.

Gunther gave her a minute to gather her wits. "Let's move on to the main topic then. Elizabeth Sobel. Give me your impression."

Gwen recalled as much detail as she could, everything from the cut of Sobel's hair, her strange titillating funeral garb, to every word they had exchanged.

When she finished, the whole kitchen sighed with the softly whistling kettle.

"Doesn't sound like she's gotten any weaker." Alesia absentmindedly chewed on a petal of mandarin. "But I still think you could take her, Gunther?"

"In an ambush, perhaps, assuming she can be killed conventionally," Gunther said as he violently skinned a hapless citrus. "But that's not the point. What Spectre has accomplished costs an unimaginable amount of resources, even if they're taking advantage of existing tipping points. If what Gwen told us is true, I am positive Olly is onto something."

"Olly?" Gwen asked, thinking about receding hairlines.

"Magister Olyphant Gilt. We schooled together in Germany, and our parents were old acquaintances. If you are visiting the States, I'll introduce you." Gunther drew for her a pie in the sky. "Olly observed that almost every successful Spectre assault involved an insider-and-outsider confluence. He thinks that if we can discover then tap into the insider's access to Spectre, we might finally be able to deal a concrete blow to their organisation."

Gilt…

Gwen suspected she had read the name somewhere, but the source escapes her.

"Either way, we'll need to be of two minds from now. We will need to divest our interests from our present projects. I'll keep in touch with my American colleagues who suspect that Spectre is attempting to inflame the Tenochtitlan situation. You should continue to consult your allies in Europe. Since you can no longer extricate yourself from Elves and Dragons, you may as well network."

"Should I join the Accord?" Gwen pondered Gunther's earlier words. "Master was a part of it, correct?"

"Until he wasn't, yes." Gunther palmed another mandarin, then peeled it for his wife. "But you know, maybe that's the break we need."

"I thought you said it was…" Gwen frowned. "What with being used and all…"

"There's that, yes," Gunther's eyes seemed to capture her in a singular frame. "But you're a little special in that regard. With your Shalkar, your Shoggoth, your connections to us and especially to Almudj… I think you're poised to extract as much benefit as you pay into the enterprise—I am certain that Tyfan, at least, is as keen to be rid of Spectre and their traitorous kin as we are to see Sobel finally put to rest."

Gwen pondered her Brother-in-craft's words.

"I agree. But my power base still needs time to mature," Gwen conceded that a city's real-life growth wasn't something a generous divestiture of accumulated wealth could achieve. A fledging region was its people—and her people needed training and time to expel parasites from folk who genuinely wanted a fair go at life. "Thanks to the Dwarves, Phase One will be done in under two years, especially if I can secure the city from Himsegg and the Murk. Phase Two: I am considering inviting Sufina but with the Ural mountains..."

"That's good. Though, another thing." Gunther's tone softened. "When we begin our hunt for Sobel, what do you make of your brother?"

Gwen sighed.

"I don't know," she confessed. "I know Percy is due for treason by all accounts. Ayxin will not forgive him; therefore, no one in my family will consider his return. If he had done this to Sydney, I couldn't hold a grudge against you for vaporising him."

Gunther studied her. "That's… a surprisingly mature response."

Gwen felt a spark of mana zing from the tip of her hair. "Am I not mature?"

Alesia passed over a few slices of deveined mandarins.

Gunther did not answer. "What are your plans for the immediate future?"

"Information gathering, I guess." Gwen slowly chewed the sweet petals of flesh. "There's a Red Dragon "Morden" in Shalkar right now. Gogo will be there as well. I've also got a Druid Hierophant on call, the Dwarves, and the locals."

"And you have the Mermen as well," Gunther reminded her. "This Lei-bup…"

"What about him?" Gwen thought of Lei-bup's many tentacles crawling up her arm. There was a connection between them, one that was as entwined as it was slimy. "It was unintentional, you know."

"Well," Gunther said. "They worship the Shoggoth, not you. Just keep that in mind. This creature you summon is no more under your control than Almudj. To think so otherwise would be beyond foolish."

"I know, I know," Gwen assured her Sibling-in-craft.

"Spectre has always used the Seven Kingdoms," Gunther pointed out. "Lei-bup is a factor that exists so far outside the norm I have no words to describe it. A Greater Shaol, loyal to itself, indebted to a human, occupying an entire swath of the Yellow Sea… I think this is an opportunity."

"To Purge Mermen?" Gwen thought about her Shoal crashing into another, aided by the emergence of a Shoggoth. "I suppose they have to eat…"

"Nothing so bloodthirsty," Gunther interrupted her. "What I mean is, it may finally be possible to establish a foothold in the Deep that's friendly to us. If we can pierce the veil of the Seven Kingdoms, we might finally be able to explore diplomatic avenues and uncover how Spectre is directing the Mermen."

Gwen's mouth made an O. She had been killing for so long that she had completely forgotten uses for her "troops" beyond the obvious.

"Besides, if we can secure Sobel's routes on the land and sea…" Gunther popped a slice into his mouth as well. "Then our chances of bringing her to justice and recovering your brother would be greatly magnified."

"No Air?" Gwen sniggered, imagining a future where Sobel had nowhere to hide.

"If you can find the Mist Dragons, sure." Gunther laughed. "After all, you've managed to wrangle Fire, Thunder and Ice. What's one more?"

The trio revelled in the prospect, though not for too long.

"Right. I'll continue the dialogue with my colleagues in the New World." Gunther wiped his hand, signalling the end of their morning meeting. "If there is a discovery, however, Alesia and I won't be able to keep away from Sydney for long, so you might have to be our agent."

"If Gunther travels extensively," Alesia reminded Gwen. "The Factions will start their bullshit within a month. Of course, I can take care of it, but there won't be many Mages left when Gunther returns."

Looking at the fiery-haired Alesia, Gwen could foresee her taking a flaming mallet to the meetings to stamp out dissent and corruption. As for retaliation—who would dare harm Alesia? The moment Gunther returned, everything and everyone loved by anyone who dared to hurt his wife would evaporate like dew. In many ways, Gunther was the very picture of a benign dictator who could rule by fear and love.

"Understood." Gwen concurrently reminded herself that her Regency's domain was a small city, while Gunther was the leader of an actual continent. The two of them and their standings were as distant as an Acolyte and a Magister. "I'll keep you posted, Gunther."

"Make Master proud." Alesia held her fingers in her own. "No matter who you feed to Caliban, know that Gunther and I have your back."

Shalkar.

The ISTC.

Unlike the Inter-State Teleportation Circles networks used worldwide, the ISTC of Shalkar was situated within the hollow interior of an enormous, fruit-laden tree.

The older residents of the Shalkar all recall the first time they had seen the tree sprouting in a field of willowy grain, beckoned by two seeds from their Regent's secret pod. Since then, the spatial gate used by the ageless Hierophant Sanari had grown into a modest skyscraper that dwarfed its cousin baobabs, tapping deep into the ley-node beneath the golden fields of sun-soaked grain.

The construct was an unfortunate necessity, for Shalkar lay so far from the closest human city that no Divination Tower could reach it. It was only thanks to the tree and efforts made by Sanari that Gwen's city even possessed a means to attain the convenience of teleportation.

The moment Gwen emerged from the circle in a cascade of Conjuration mana, she was greeted by the endearing face of Strun, Captain of the local security forces, a soul-bound companion she could implicitly trust.

"Mistress." The Rat-kin bowed deep, his nose almost touching her shoes. "We are glad that you have returned safely."

"Thanks, Strun." Gwen waited for the Rat-kin to lift his head before ruffling his ears, watched on enviously by his troops. "Are the others here?"

"Master Huang and Kuznetsova are already present in the Bunker. Mistress Li is securing supplies." her Rat-kin guided her toward the exit, bypassing the awed, mixed-race guards. "We have also received a Magus Morden, who has taken up residence in the guest hotel. Master Huang was entertaining him. The Magus said he was a VIP?"

"He is indeed," Gwen confirmed Slylth's identity. "Anything happen while I was away? You've heard about Tianjin and Yekaterinburg?"

"The Militia is armed and ready." Strun straightened his back, rising until he was almost her height. "Cherbi Khudu is mustering an expedition force on the order of Temir Khan. They are very eager to march to war."

"What, gainful white-collar jobs don't suit them?" Gwen could imagine Khudu bursting from his yurt office to round up his warriors.

"There are no more Demi-human tribes to subjugate within two weeks ride of Shalkar," Strun noted sternly. "The Horse-men have taken to an increased incidence of violence among themselves and against others."

"It's in their natures, I guess." Gwen wasn't one to stereotype, but she also had no expectations that a mere two years would blunt the Centaur's innate longing for glory and combat. "How's our supply situation?"

"Bountiful," Strun replied. "The Dwarves are buying everything we're not selling to the Mageocracy, and still, we're expanding our granaries."

As she walked, Gwen tapped her thighs with her fingers. The excess was very good news—but she must not be fooled into thinking Shalkar's climate-change fortunes would remain the status quo. That and the harvests were likely bolstered by the understanding she and Sanari had reached.

Food and travel…

Thanks to Gunther's reminder, she was no longer willing to take these boons from Tyfan for granted. The help she received was not a gift. She could see that now. They were also a means of control.

Outside the ISTC, a four-lane path shot past the wavy strands of spun gold into the horizon. Upon arrival, she and her entourage of guards ducked through a yet-unfinished Low Way Station that punctured through the Himmseg and the Murk. From within, travelling between the ISTC and the citadel was mere minutes.

Strun continued his report on Shalkar's various affairs, from the Mages who arrived via the ISTC to the refugees who came through the Low Way nodes connecting her city to Bavaria and beyond.

Exiting the cavernous central station below Shalkar, she forwent the Teleportation Circle, instead taking the enormous freight lifts of the Dwarves to emerge finally into the sun-lit realm of her home and domain. The upward journey had offered her a glimpse of the citadel's industrious restoration, adding to her confidence.

"Regent! Over here!"

When her eyes finally adjusted, she saw her Chief Administrative Officer, Ollie Edwards, surrounded by a small team of junior Mages.

The two shook hands. "Thanks for looking after the city while I am gone, Magister Edwards. I'll be relying on your wisdom in the future as well."

"That's literally my job," Ollie looked abashed. "Would you like to rest first? It's a long jolt between here and Sydney. A lesser Mage would have been ill for days."

"I'll be alright." Gwen pointed to her casual attire, which made her followers doubt whether they were gazing upon the sole authority of the city or a casual tourist from down under. "Give me a few minutes to change, and we'll start the meeting. I've consulted with Tower Master Shultz and have a general lay of our more immediate goals ahead."

"Very well. I'll come by later to compose the report for London." Ollie bowed his head, then moved beside Strun for Gwen to pass. "Captain."

"Magister." Strun performed a half solute. "Mistress, I'll be returning to my duties. Garp and I have more work to be done in the southern districts."

Gwen waved the Rat-kin goodbye, then motioned Ollie to walk beside her. "Ollie, what do you make of the problem in the Ural Mountains?"

The Magister from Cambridge scratched his receding hairline. He gave her a troubled look. "I am not sure we can accommodate the new refugees and our current ones."

"How so?" Gwen felt better when her heels clicked on concrete rather than the hardened sand ubiquitous to the steppes.

"If we take in the allotment of two hundred thousand, it will greatly unbalance the ambience here in the city. Presently, we have refugees from the South Pacific, central Europe, the African coast, and even Auckland. They've been humbled by their experience, to say the least, and are quite pliant to the common grounds we've put into place. Comparatively, Russia has always been…" The Magister searched for something diplomatic. "Homogenous?"

"Ah…" Gwen pursed her lips. "You mean they'll stick together and form a ghetto? We're prioritising Mages and skilled workers with families, are we not?"

"That's not the issue I am worried about." Olly gave her a side-eyed glance. "Magister, our Russian neighbours have always been religiously Humanist."

Gwen furrowed her brows.

"Even if we were to resettle another two hundred thousand from other parts over the next two years," Ollie explained. "Humans will still be a minority. For the foreseeable future, we are fifty per cent Rat-kin, followed by the Horse Lords, then Humans and Dwarves."

"Humanist, huh?" Gwen kept walking while thinking of Gunther's promise of finding a breaking point in Spectre's Norther American operations. "What's your worry?"

"The Rat-kin may not mind the prejudice, though Captain Strun will," Ollie said. "If there's trouble with the Dwarves… A few refugees might die from quaffing, fighting, or both. As for the Horse Lords… maybe we should file it under suicide."

Her footsteps halted just before their group struck the shade of the towering, Dwarven-made skyscraper clad with glass and runic steel.

From the vista of an open-air lobby, she saw Horse Lords drinking from pewter tankards beside Rat-kin, joined by the occasional human colleague with their iced coffees. Elsewhere, uniformed Rat-kin guards with Dwarven-made shoulder pauldrons and a kit of Mageocracy Shock Wands patrolled the central district with their colleagues. Now and then, Dwarven builder Golems, with dozens of orange hard-hatted Rat-kin riding on top, groaned past the lower intersections, headed for the construction zones.

And above all that, against the reflection of the rectangular building pointing skyward, she saw the multi-coloured shadows of Phalera's Harpy brood, now truly settled into their new home.

_Make use of your resources._ Gunther had said.

"Ollie." Gwen stepped into range of the detector Glyphs, coaxing the enormous glass doors to ascend. "When the refugees get here… introduce them to our head of security."

"Head of security? Magister Song?" Ollie Edward quickly followed into the cool interior. "Do you mean Miss Lulan or Captain Strun?"

"Neither." Gwen waved as she passed, her heels clicking musically upon the tiles. "From now on, Golos will be our Chief of Security and Head Overseer of Public Discipline. Our new friends from Russia will listen to a speech delivered in his true form when they arrive. And if anyone makes trouble within the community after that, they have only themselves to blame for facing the Dragon's court."


_War fatigue._

In a more innocent life in another world, the Regent of Shalkar could never have imagined that death and destruction could become as pedestrian as Mondays.

After Antarctica, the war weariness had taken root in her chest like ivy vines entwined around the grand trunk of a once ambitious oak, sapping the passion, terror, compassion and loathing natural to human beings in a state of war.

Such was why she had to convince herself to care, that there were Russian refugees, men and women and children, who required the helping hand of a compassionate power broker willing to forgo profits for humanitarianism.

Soon, their first mixed-race expedition would set out for the barely mapped Wildlands between her shining city on the hill and the Ural mountains, and she had to ensure her citizens' well-being was prioritised. _And it was the right thing to do,_ Gwen told herself every so often into the endless paperwork, meetings, complaints and compliances needed to balance the unusual mix of sympathetic Dwarves, insensitive Centaurs and neutral Rat-kin.

Additionally, the expedition would be the first field test of Shalkar's military logistics. To prepare the new front, the Dwarves would build a trail of temporary Divination Stations to be manned by Strun's numberless Rat-kin guards. In the event of an attack, Shalkar's Mage Flights would arrive through the combined magics of Spellcraft and Dwarven Low-way runic sorcery.

Beyond that, Gwen had the unenviable task of managing the possibility of new information on the disappearance of Magi Igor Sakharov, with herself as the sole authority to make immediate and drastic decisions.

As the Tower Master holding up the "Iron Wall" between the dormant forces of the underground Necropolises in Eastern Russia and the Ural Mountains' industrial centre, his _death_ signalled the demise of the old status quo. And as the Magi credited with the Spellcraft powering the localised gravity used in the Tower's combat levitation systems, a resurrected Sakharov would trigger an eastern campaign to rival the Great War.

The worst outcome, therefore, wasn't the potential that she had to drop another Shoggoth on Yekaterinburg, for she had grown numb over the death of those too slow to flee or too feeble to take flight. A true catastrophe was transforming her future Silk Road business hub into a forward operating base for a multi-national conflict.

The prevention of such an outcome was the core tenet of her expedition, with the secondary outcomes being Petra's hopes of retrieving her estranged parents and increasing Shalkar's goodwill.

"Regent." A shadow motioned for her attention from the interior of the Bunker's chief administrative office, below the window of which her forces amassed. "Commander Strun report that we await on Master Axehoff's Golem Guards. They will need more time to retool the construction units."

"How long?" She spoke to the Manipuri Shadow Mage in the darkness.

"Two more day cycles, your Grace."

Ollie sat beside her on a separate secretary's desk, tapping through the data slates with a Wand. "May I recommend that we send out the Horse Lords? Time is of the essence, and the Cherbi is impatient."

Gwen considered the urgency of the matter. From the day of her return, it had already been forty-eight hours since she had given the order to arrange the rescue operation. The more they delayed the expedition, the lesser the likelihood of finding hale refugees.

"Agreed, Magister Edwards. Süri, tell the Cherbi to begin the overland march," she informed her Shadow Mage. "The Rat-kin infantry will follow and establish supply lines overland. Strun and Garp will travel below the main force and prepare the new Low-way branches for the Dwarven Engineers. Tell the Centaurs to circle back at the first sign of trouble."

"I don't think the Cherbi will retreat without…er…" Ollie remarked worriedly. "… _having a fair go,_ as your people would say in Australia."

Gwen considered the misused slang. Indeed, a small Tide of Undead was no match for a Horse Lord assault. However, should her Horse-kin get mired in corpses, not even their Shaman magic will free them from a sea of clamouring, necrotic claws.

"Send a request to Golos to tentatively scout between here and the mountains," she concluded that there would be no rest for her undeserving Thunder Dragon. "At an altitude necessary to see and record everything, it should be two hours to cover a thousand kilometres if he flies at full capacity."

"Yes, that would put many risk factors to rest." Ollie breathed out. "As well as clear any unwanted encounters, I'd wager."

"Aye, it's high time our tenants earned their keep. Have a flock of Phalera's brood follow the Centaurs from the sky." She nodded in agreement. "They should report back to the nearest established Divination node or call for their father in the event of a true emergency. Golos should be able to reinforce them within the hour."

"As you wish, Mistress." The voice from the shadow grew faint until the darkness lost its dimensions. "I'll inform Magus Huang and Kuznetsova."

Gwen returned her attention to the table. "Olly. What's next?"

"Development of the residential blocks G12 to G42 on the eastern quadrant." Ollie willed away, then retrieved a new set of data slates from his Storage Rings. "We are waiting on filtration units from Berlin. They should be making their way through the Low-ways as we speak."

"Prioritise the fabrication of sewerage and sanitation installations." Gwen's eyes swept over the Dwarven-made schematics for the civilian district, pausing at the plans for their first hospital. "How are we looking in regards to the Clerical situation?"

"If you mean Healers." Ollie threw forward a few PowerPoint(™) illusions. "We're still drastically short-staffed, even with interim members from the Ordo."

Gwen's train of thought checked in at a station she had previously visited with delight. "Increase the signing bonus to four hundred HDMs for the first year for Senior Mages, a thousand for Magus candidates." she tapped the data slate. "Tap into my Chinese connections and see if we can round up Mages displaced by the ongoing situation in Tianjin. Prioritise Healers and Transmuters. The CCP owes me. If any nationalists dare to interfere, ask Ruxin's family to speak with the local Secretariats."

"I'll arrange it." Ollie jotted down her designs, flourishing his stylus wand.

"How's fares our preparations for the Kirin Core?"

"Master Morden is planning the Abjuration Wards," the Magister informed her. "As you have willed, the Ambassador has consented us to use the abandoned pit mine."

"Good... good." Gwen yawned.

"Regent, perhaps you should take a break? It's been almost ten hours."

Gwen kneaded her brows. Her skin felt dry. Her lips felt parched, and the part of her brain she most associated with Powerpoint magic throbbed something serious.

"Fine." She relented. A little rest could refresh her for better ideas. "Let's hit the Dwarf Bars. I am going to need something strong, vital and frothing. Are you coming, Ollie?"

Her aide's protest withered as soon as their eyes met.

"Yes…" he sighed dejectedly. "But please keep the quaffing under control. Let me remind you, Regent, that we have a Healer shortage."

London.

Westminister.

The Courtyard Garden Cafe.

Charlene Ravenport, daughter to the Duke, had not expected to find a friend in Thomas Holland, a childhood rival, bully, and fellow noble. Yet, in a twist of fate, she had grown uncommonly familiar with her one-time suitor through their common bonds to a certain someone.

She had found the young Holland deeply contemplating a cream bagel in the alfresco dining space attached to the House of Commons' external grounds. Curiously drawn to a Holland alone and unattended by sycophants, she decided to grace the troubled young man with her delightful presence.

They began, as the English were prone to do, with the weather, the tea, then family, followed by light-hearted politics, and finally, the topic of Gwen Song.

The arrival at their final point of discussion was natural, for barely half a year had passed since their mutual benefactor had been sent away from the Mageocracy's seat of power, and she was already making the old men shift in their button-up trousers.

"Your people are _investing_ , dear Thomas," she boasted to the smug Steam Mage, who had professed his support for Gwen's venture in the Black Zones belonging to the Horse Lords. "We Ravenports, through our Isle of Dog Norfolk Corporation, have already _invested_."

The Steam Mage smiled sheepishly.

Charlene could see why.

In a twist not even his family's Diviners could anticipate, the young man had taken a risky excursion away from the Greenland expedition to New Zealand, then had inexplicably returned with a Draconic Spirit of the Steam persuasion, a boon so perfectly tuned that only a handful of Hollands across five centuries had possessed the same privilege. Not only had the Dragon Turtle expedited the growth of his Elemental Affinity, its absurd passives had negated the greatest flaw of Steam Mages: physical defence.

As a direct result, the Arctic Expedition had been resolved, Tryfan's request had met a satisfactory end, and most of the Militant Faction's heirs had even returned to London with their marbles intact.

The war against Zordiam was a vastly more expensive development than her Southern Expedition with Gwen. However, its success, meaning the rewards bestowed by Tryfan and the Mageocracy upon the resource-starved Militant faction, was enough to halt the Faction's financial crisis.

"I'll concede to that." The Steam Mage did not refute that her father had been the first to see Gwen's potential. "But Shalkar's risk had just gone up ten-fold. With China out of the picture and Russia withdrawing its defence line to the Volga, the north is also set to lose Novosibirsk. There will be nothing between the expansion of the Juche Cult and her shining city in the sand."

Charlene could only snort at the Steam Mage's paranoia.

"Something _is_ standing in their way, though. A veritable barrier."

"I doubt the Demi-humans are willing to die or risk _unholy resurrection_ for a human settlement," Thomas answered doubtfully. "Even for Gwen."

"Thomas, what better barrier to stand between Shalkar and the Undead than Gwen herself? With her ties to Tryfan, her Shoggoth, and what the Thunder Dragons owe her, it's enough. Besides, have you seen the Lumen-casts of her new Mermen allies? Or was that not made available to your people?"

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Are you volunteering that information?" The Steam Mage chortled. "Or are you trying to rope us into another loss?"

"We're a bit beyond that kind of pettiness." Charlene exhaled, thinking of the transcontinental chaos now eating up every waking minute of her time. "On a more serious note. What are your plans for Gibraltar? Do you need any aid with the locals?"

"We'll manage," Thomas replied, his tone thrilling and dangerous. "I am done with war for a while. Mine's an audit assignment to secure the Black Sea from Human incompetence. If anyone tries to skim from the humanitarian cache, I will steam them myself and send the remains back to their kin. What of you? I heard that you're headed to Moscow?"

"The loss of Yekaterinburg has left an enormous vacuum." Charlene did not withhold what should be common knowledge among the inner circle of the Mageocracy's ruling elites. "We both know that at our tier, little that can stop you and me from returning to a safe Tower with our Contingency Rings. That Magi Sakharov had returned to a falling Tower—or did not return—is more suspect than the possibility of his misadventure. We both know Moscow has always been a belligerent member of the Tower Treaties, perhaps this time…"

The Steam Mage inclined his chin in agreement.

A long time ago, before the Beast Tide, before the Great War, Moscow had ruled a vast and resourceful empire spanning from icy Siberia to the rich loams of the Balkans. And though it was debatable whether the Communists' murder of Victoriana's kin had progressed or regressed its ambition, the nation's expectations of relevance had only grown with its diminishment.

"I see. So you're saying that if Gwen halts the Undead threat, her real trial for Shalkar will begin," Thomas read her inference at once.

With the Ural Mountains gone, Moscow had to find a quick and immediate source of liquid HDM capital to fund a recovery—and there just so happened to be a convenient target barely a Black Zone away.

What must the elites in Moscow have seen when an Australian-born Magister barely in her twenties was sweeping up the riches of the south like a maximised Maelstrom?

Barely two years ago, the Fire Sea was an uncontested "no man's land". After the Fire Elementals' exit, Charlene could confidently state that Shalkar's soon-to-be-operable Dwarven Low-ways were a morsel many considered tempting enough to disrupt the unspoken laws of mixing one's laborious magic with the land.

Of course, Germany's Dwarves would not labour alongside anyone other than Gwen, more so for the bad blood between the Human purists and the Demi-humans who never forgot a grudge. The problem, as her father ascertained, was that Moscow's kleptocratic _Factions_ might be on a different page, especially regarding the obscene resources Gwen's forces are poised to extract from the abandoned regions of the old Soviet Union.

"Father wishes to put some political padding between Moscow Tower and its parasitic _nomenklatura,"_ Charlene half-whispered. "That way, when Gwen's acts of vengeance come calling, we can sigh and stand back and say _we told you so_."

To contain the unborn hostility was the crux of Charlene's present assignment: to offer an aiding hand to a long-time ally while also keeping a hand raised with a half-manifested Fireball of friendship.

"If you need it." Thomas' voice drifted across the chasm of her thoughts. "We do have assets in Moscow which may be of use. Legislators aligned with our Faction, as it were."

"Without condition? Why so Gentlemenly an offer?" Charlene studied the Steam Mage. After their mutual trips to the opposite ends of the Axis Mundi, they both appeared older and wiser, their eyes no longer possessed of the capricious pride so dearly engraved upon young Lords and Ladies of the Empire. Of course, the same applied to their once naive political acumen.

"It's a way to return a favour." Thomas did not hide his intentions. "To our mutual benefactor."

"Fine. I am willing to entertain the details." Charlene did not read the offer as malicious, at least not from the eager glint in the Steam Mage's eye. "Is there a Message you would like me to pass on?"

"Perhaps anonymity would be best for now." The undisputed heir to Militant Faction smiled sheepishly. "Life is long, as are the conflicts we're embroiled within. I have learned to be patient."

Charlene gave the man a judgemental look, enough at least to make the young fellow add a dash of colour to his cheeks. Certainly, when the Steam Mage had herself in his sights, he had not possessed a single romantic bone in his body. Now, he was willing to freely deliver his family's prized favours that they had spent generations to accumulate for another woman. Bitterly, she felt both impressed and slighted.

"Very well. You may give me the details once I am in Moscow." As a Ravenport, Charlene's ability to shunt away personal feelings was impeccable. "Good luck in Gibraltar, Thomas."

"And a fair future to you in that viper's nest." the Steam Mage had the courtesy to pick up the tab as he withdrew. He bowed his head once again at the glass door, then was gone with the closing chime.

"Russians... refugees and the Undead..." Charlene finished the last of her tea. "Gwen, I hope you're previsioned for more than monsters..."

Hastings.

Battle Abbey.

Under the vaulted, rainbow-hued space of the abbey's monolithic stained mural of the Nazarene's crucified body, Elvia Lindholm, Knight Companion, prayed for the wholeness of her heart and soul. Against the fading sun, her waist-length locks were a fleece of burnish gold, bisecting her petite figure with geometric shards of multi-coloured light.

As a stoic sentinel, she remained kneeling under the benevolent gaze bearing the Crown of Thorns, pondering a future she had not entertained.

_Why am I not dead?_ Elvia heard her tortured conscience like echoed breaths in the prayer rooms.

According to the Yinglong, her blood should have been spilt on the altar to consecrate the salvation of the original sacrifices, Jun Song, Ayxin and their child. Yet, she had succeeded and, inexplicably, lived.

But Sir Kass, who had guided and taught her, had died for her sake.

And Sir Reginald, who had given her advice when her faith grew faint, had likewise perished in her place.

And all those poor souls in Tianjin—

Who should have lived but was now condemned?

Who had died but had been blessed to live?

She had thought herself capable of carrying the sin to term. Now, alive and hale and possessed of a future, the pressure of all those lives smothered her, drowning her five fathoms deep in the blue dark. Every breath she took inhaled motes of cinders, igniting the wool in her chest, spreading the agony like Zodiam's Elemental Fire through her conduits.

The heavy oaken doors announced with a _creak_ that she was no longer alone.

Elvia reflexively turned to face the newcomers, but she had knelt for so long that her limbs had gone senseless, sending her into a sideward tumble instead.

"Elvia!" The ceiling flashed golden. Mathias caught her before she made a spectacle. "You should eat. It's been a day and then some…"

"Mathias is correct, child." The deep and resonant voice of the man beside him belonged to her mentor, Seneschal Ashburn. "What use is there to punish yourself with a fast?"

Despite Mathias' radiance, Elvia shivered. Kass and Reginald were men from Ashburn's generation. They were the Seneschal's friends and life-long companions, brother-in-arms cut from the same cloth. How could she face the Senechal after wasting their lives?

Mathias directed her to the pew, where the three sat in a row, sandwiching Elvia between them.

“Seneschal, I am sorry…” Elvia had no excuses to give. "For my selfishness, Sir Kass and Reginald paid with their lives."

Her Seneschal did not reply but waited until her curiosity forced her to raise her head. Their eyes met, his the colour of tempered steel and hers hot and swollen.

" _Evee._ Most Knight Protectors will meet their end in battle." Ashburn's voice felt warm and alive despite the cold sandstone space of the abbey's cathedral. "To have Faith is to endlessly push against the tide of inhumanity threatening our existence. To halt is to lose Faith, perish, and betray our Holy Pledge. For Kass and Reginald, there is nothing to lament. Do not mourn for men who died well. No tears, regrets, or loss are involved in their sacrifices, save for their company and good humour."

"I should have been less impulsive." Her voice choked. "I robbed them of their old age."

"No." Ashburn's hand reached past her chin and gently cupped the side of her small face. "Child, Kass and Reginald gave their lives for you out of duty and free will, exercising the greatest gift the Nazarene had bestowed upon us. Blame yourself again, and you cheapen their choice, understand?"

Elvia nodded. She understood, not that she accepted her Seneschal's kindness.

"Do you wish to return to your friend?" Ashburn's question, perhaps to distract her from guilt, cut through her mind like St Michael's flaming claymore.

"I do," she replied, though not immediately.

Her Seneschal's rough thumb wiped away something from her upper cheek. "No, you do not."

"I did… something unforgivable," Elvia confessed. "I made her choose me over her brother."

"Now _there's_ a sinner beyond all redemption," Ashburn sighed. "I am very sorry for what you had to do, child. Mathias told me as much as he could, as truthfully as he could manage. Tell me, what does your friend think of her choice?"

"Gwen hates me." Elvia felt the gloom of her mind like a cloak of dense darkness.

"Hate is far too committed an emotion," Ashburn replied. "I have passed much judgment in my years, Evee. Yet, I would not say I hated those I banished, nor did they hate me more than most. Your friend hates herself, Elvia. Not you. Moreso, she is driven by her detestation of Elizabeth Sobel. Thereby, I conclude that your wishful thinking is as far from reality as her brother is from the path of righteousness."

"So… I am less hated than Sobel, and therefore, things aren't as bad as they seem." Elvia surprised herself by finding a smidgen of humour. She wanted to smile, though all she felt was exhaustion.

Her Seneschal took her hand away from their resting place on her lap. With a tap, he coaxed her to open her clenched digits wide enough to deposit a piece of metal warm to the touch. She looked down, noting the Holy Symbol of the Ordo Bath.

From her herbal pouch, the petite figure of Kiki crawled out to stare at the luminous energy so reminiscent of the sun.

"Elvia. The Ordo's exchange with the Yinglong is concluded. Your _ordeal_ with the Dragon is over." Ashburn's tone was one of relief. "I am unsure if the ancient one had expected your survival, but its interest in you has waned. Therefore, allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your formal ascension to the Ordo, Companion Lindholm. Few have accomplished what you have at your age."

Elvia felt the living Faith entwined within the Holy Symbol like the pulsing beat of the living against the chest of an insensible patient, powerful and undeniably full of life.

"Ki-ki..." Her floral sprite cooed.

Ashburn patted the flower on the head, stroking the petals with his thumb.

"As an ordained Companion, you may move the Ordo's resources as befitting your rank, which means you may return to Shalkar or invest in a crisis elsewhere if that's your wish. As for your friend…" her mentor withdrew his hand, sinking her heart. "Know this, Elvia. For our compatriots in the secular world, there exists an unhappy reality. For she who is unguided by benevolent powers, whether mortal or immortal, _vengeance_ always comes before love. Therefore, for our Regent, until her lust for retribution is resolved... there shall be no respite for the wicked and no room for forgiveness."

The Northern Steppes.

Shalkar.

Petra Kuznetsova, Magus Enchantress and aide-de-camp to the Regent of Shalkar felt the crystalline coolness of her usual demeanour melt like spring snow in the harsh heat of roaring summer.

In addition to her scalding anxiety, a part of her felt immersed in guilt. Having received education, benediction, finance and fame via the achievements of her cousin, she had long since consigned herself to a logically sound repayment plan of service and gratitude.

Yet, when the news of Yekaterinburg had descended like the Yinglong from the blue, she could not help but put her regard for her estranged parents before the immediate concerns of her cousin. In the heat of the moment, the request for Gwen to aid her parents' city had seemed natural—but now that the conflagrations were put to rest, she couldn't help but feel like a burden.

Her selfishness was inexcusable, for her cousin had just endured the betrayal of a lover and a brother and the literal loss of that brother to the same monster who had taken her Master.

In the process, a city had been near-erased from existence, millions missing and dead—and she had possessed the audacity to hound Gwen to return to work in Shalkar and to organise this expedition to the Ural Mountains.

In truth, she should have returned to Shalkar alone, found whatever allies she had managed to scrounge up in her academic years, then forayed an individual Path forward, leaving Gwen to properly settle her affairs with her uncle, with the Dragon Princess and with their babulya.

Without Gwen, she could have still saved her parents. Many were interested in her talents in London, and more were invested in more than just her magical skills. With her training from Master Popov, it wasn't beyond her imagination that those in power, men in particular, could be tempted or enticed into aiding her cause.

A small strike unit for rescue operations, a Mage Flight of Translocation specialists, would have been the reasonable outcome, not this northern march beside the Horse Lords. Looking at the dust column behind them, the sheer cost of the logistics alone was enough to make her head spin.

"Petra, still worried?" Richard's voice, like his presence, was a welcome respite to her feverish self-loathing. "Like I said, if _Dyadya_ and _Totya_ managed to escape the city, they'd be fine. Hold onto that hope, for there's not much point pondering the alternative."

To keep pace with the Horse Lords, they rode on a Dwarven Strider—one Petra had constructed as a part of her lessons under the Engineseers. Richard rode outside the cockpit, balanced upon the right stabiliser fin through Lea's supernatural control of Elemental Water. For their expedition, Richard was the second-in-command to Khudu and their principal source of refreshment. As for Petra, her array of Spell Cubes had been exhausted in Shanghai, making her doubly guilty of being useless.

To keep herself engaged, she eased the throttle on the mana engine, adding a degree of slack to the gyroscopic stabilisers.

"Thanks, Dick." She leaned back in the bucket seat. "You too, Lea."

"And don't worry about our boss lady," her cousin, as always, seemed to read minds like a Mind Mage. "You did good. Gwen needed this."

"She needs more work?" Petra cocked her head at the Water Mage. "I would have preferred if she stayed in Sydney. More time with her Siblings-in-craft will do her far more good than with us and with this… work."

"Perhaps." Richard shrugged. "But we all know how focused Gwen can be. With Percy the way he is and with Sobel slipping the noose again, she's like an unstable Spell Cube at the brink of eruption. What she needs more than anything is an outlet for that pressure."

"Like this expedition to the Ural Mountains?"

"Yes, so don't put too much importance on yourself." Richard adjusted his glasses, blinding her with the reflection from the midday sun. "What we're doing here is a necessity and a mercy. A necessity to establish the importance of Shalkar as a conduit point between Asia, Eurasia, and Europe. We also need more Mages, and there are arguably thousands of them now displaced from their homes, with only a fraction capable of returning to a normal life in Moscow. So yes, we are here to rescue _Dyadya_ _Mikhail_ and _Totya Mila_ , but it's truer to say we're here to nab as many able bodies as possible for Gwen's city in the sand. In that regard, the Horse Lords are experts."

"That's an interesting way of looking at it." Petra's eyes drifted to the Centaurs. Each dressed in their leather battle garbs, the entire vanguard was tattooed in the style typical of the Thunderblooded war parties of the _Nayzağay Qanı_. With Khudu as the spear of their combined vitality, the Khesig honour guard was capable of besting any known foe in the northern Black Zone.

"Our Gwen isn't the girl we knew back in Shanghai, not for a while now." Richard's insight made her shiver a little. "In the coming years, we _will_ hunt down Sobel, Petra, even if it takes every form of calculation and cruelty to come. From the Elves to Dragons to dabbling in the fringes of Necromancy, there'll be many trials Gwen needs our help to overcome."

Petra gazed upon her cousin, her eyes hard and serious. " _Necromancy_ , Richard? More than what has already come to pass?"

"We fight Demi-humans with Demi-humans, Dragons with Dragons…" Richard said calmly. "How do you think we should fight Undead Mermen and the Cult of Juche?"

Petra's limbs felt icy. Gwen had spoken often about her Master's magic—of what design he once possessed and what had failed to come to pass for lack of will and political opportunity.

"Don't sweat it," Richard smirked. "A little Soul Tap here, some Essence Tap there, and when we find a use for Lei-bup's Shoal, nothing short of Sympathetic Life-Link will do."

"Christ, it is looking that way, isn't it?" Petra tried to imagine Gwen at the head of a Shoal, riding on a Leviathan helmed by a portly, tentacled Fish-priest.

Besides them, the Centaurs began to pick up speed.

Above, the screeching of Phalera's Harpies indicated they had spotted something of great interest.

The clay markings on the Horse Lord's bodies began to burn, heating the air and filling it with the unique stench of musky horses.

"To cut off Spectre." Richard made a little model of a humanoid with the water gathered in his hand, encircled by a watery sphere. "Our cousin will peel away shrouds of power protecting Sobel like a blooming onion…"

Petra adjusted the Strider's limbs to match their new velocity.

"But as for now..." Richard rose into the air, floating on Lea's water clouds. "Let's see what Lord Golos' children have found, shall we?"