London.

The Royal Docks.

Lord Mycroft Ravenport, Marshall of the Kingdom, Protector of Albion, stood in the dreary drizzle, browsing newspapers held up by his Mage Hands, shielded by a barely visible umbrella of mana.

To his left levitated the Sun and the Telegraph, each with purposeful images of the girl, not in her crow-skin combat suit but eye-catching casuals, out and about on the Isle of Dogs. The Sun had a paparazzi shot from January, with the girl showing far more leg than necessary for winter. The Telegraph sported a headshot of her mid-speech to the dock workers, with her mouth contorted mid-syllable. Behind both cut-outs loomed the latest images from Auckland—that of an all-consuming, ocean-devouring, Mermen mangling Shoggoth shucking a worm from what looked like a floating oyster shell.

"USURPER OF THE SOUTH SEA," the Sun prophesied in garish red—though the implication was firmly set on the girl rather than the monstrous worm. Besides, in bold black, "AUCKLAND DEVOURED" was the Telegraph's fighting words. Both ran enough truths to remain within the good graces of the Middle Factions, but the implications invited the reader with pretty flesh, then foretold doom and gloom.

Comparatively, the truth-promising METRO had produced a six-page special on the "AUCKLAND'S TRIUMPH" celebration special, together with a picture of the girl standing in the centre of a group photo with Auckland's Te Wherowhero, Esther Hildenbrandt, and much to Ravenport's surprise, the Militants' highest-ranking representatives.

Mycroft rested his eyes briefly to conjure a vision of the Shoggoth as he had witnessed through Morrigan's secretive parcels.

That the Shoggoth might be deployed was within the expectations of Gwen Song's Magisterial trials, even if Mycroft had anticipated a better resolution. After all, Shalkar had been such a successful demonstration of skill and subversion that the Imperial College seriously considered its inclusion in future textbooks.

"Lord Father!" came a vibrant Message from the general direction of the enormous Ice Breaker Barge in the No.2 wet dock. "We're ready to receive _The Lord Marshall_. Please come to the forecastle."

Quickly, Mycroft stowed away the newspaper by passing the enfolded broadsheets back to the aide who had purchased it from an urchin at the dock's entrance. He had no wish for Charlene to witness his curiosity, for a good father would never allow his child to suspect a greater interest in someone else's child, worse if that child was her contemporary.

Stepping into the air, the Duke of Norfolk cast a grim silhouette as he stepped into the dock's highly-restricted airspace. Though the weather had warmed, his signature winter coat, gunmetal-grey but for the embossed orichalcum buttons, remained the Duke's unchanging uniform.

Below his perfectly polished boots, the three hundred-meter Breaker Carrier, the HMS Royal Raven, sat like a splayed bird, with all its side ports open for loading and renovation. Among the milling masses of men and machines, Mycroft could spot the figure of one of his contemporaries, the disgraced-then-redeemed Eric Walken, the Grey's factional pawn in Oceania, being worked to the bone in a high-visibility vest. The Conjurer was dutifully going over the manifests, six Mage Hands holding data slates while shouting a mixture of Dwarven and common, back-hunched like a hag who hadn't slept for days.

Was Walken's appointment a reward or penance? The man had failed his Faction and enraged the Kilroy loyalists—and yet, had weaselled his way back so that he now stood on the node of power that was the Isle of Dogs. Few Factions now trusted the Magister, yet, he was living as large as ever, more intimately involved in London than he had ever been in his career as one of Oceania's Ten.

His eyes followed the line of rails encircling his old subordinate. Across from the Bunker's warehouses, the stand-alone Invincible-Class Carrier was a floating city converted for traversing the Black Zones of the Arctic Circle. However, this time, its mission would be in the Antarctic. Of the stout crewmen and the squat Construction Golems milling about the ship's vicinity, there was one sight that Ravenport had not expected to see in his lifetime.

Dwarves on a boat.

The idea was absurd, yet the Dwarven Battle Golems being loaded into the hull were an undeniable reality of a new world unfolding before his eyes.

Shamefully, Mycroft's thoughts once more wandered to the girl, one indirectly responsible for the loss of his child.

The Norfolk part of him applauded the fortunate outcome that Edgar had failed and died. The fatherly part of him proved a little more sentimental. Thankfully, the thought of Charlene, a motherly raven commanding flocks of the lesser families' chicks among the crew, quickly extinguished his doubts.

Nevertheless, he did not hurry. He was here as the Lord Marshall of England, auditor and inspector of the budget assigned to the Royal Raven.

Turning his attention back towards the Dwarven Golems, the Duke passed his learned eyes over the machines tuned for what the Dwarves called the _Himmseg_. In readiness, the combat units were remodelled for ice and snow, conditions to which the armies of Red Peak were well accustomed.

His attention rested on the mat-wrapped arms of the Golems. The Spellswords mounted on the Dwarven machines were smaller, more compact—yet more efficient and powerful. Unlike man-made Wands, Dwarven weaponry was limited to Elemental Earth and its various Elemental Shifts like Mineral, Mud and Magma. However, their unique architecture meant each machine held at least two under each arm-manipulator, while the artillery variants held up to four additional modules on their backs and shoulders.

What also drew Ravenport's jealous admiration was the Elemental Exo-Plating, more casually known as Golem Suits by the rank and file of the Militia. These were personal armours owned by individual pilots, akin to a Mage Knight's heirloom plate mail. These could be worn inside the Golem Units while piloting the war machines and, in typical Dwarven fashion, came armed with individual Spellswords.

Compared to the Mageocracy's colonial Militias, a Hammer Guard Battle Group with a full complement of war machines possessed the firepower of six similarly-manned Mage Flights plus their hundred-strong Militias—and did not tire so long as the supporting Fabricator could drop anchor and draw mana from the Plane of Earth.

From Charlene's manifest, he knew that somewhere in the Royal Raven's belly sat the Fabricator Crawler, the pulsing Cores of a Dwarven city, loaned from Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth to grace the interior of a floating castle.

Anything was possible with the Fabricator and its crew of Runesmiths and master Engineseers. If the expedition ran short on fuel and supplies, the engine could produce small amounts of HDM fuel from ley-lines nodes. Should they require metal and parts, the same machine could cannibalise broken Golems or even the Royal Raven to fabricate what its Engineseer desired.

The latter was why the ship was undergoing extensive renovations, converting its Kraken-Core Ether Engine into one that meshed with Dwarven Runic Magic, vastly increasing its power output and reliability in a Black Zone without dry docks or supply lines.

Likewise, the Breaker Carrier's exterior was being remodelled to hold and deploy Dwarven Golems en masse. Additionally, the hammer-bow had been re-clad in Dwarven Cold Iron, the surface reworked with Runic Glyphs to shatter the thickest ice in a single blow.

On paper, though the HMS Royal Raven was an "unarmed" carrier ship, it may eventually possess more firepower than any other ship in Her Majesty's Royal Navy.

What would Gwen—no— _Charlene_ encounter on that stark continent of snow to need so much firepower? Would the combat potential of a multi-Flight, Magister-class Expedition field-lead by a Void-empowered War Mage be enough to resolve the obstacles in their way? The Northern Expedition had already confirmed that Spectre and the Elemental Princes of Fire and Water were in cahoots against the Elves—

But what had given the girl enough confidence to move heaven and earth to invest so much, and was she expecting to profit, or was this all a haphazard gamble?

Or—was her confidence a product of her Patron, the Mythic Serpent of Australis?

Or was the girl's paranoia of what she called "Climate Change" a secretive legacy left by Kilroy to his Apprentices? The old Mage had cast a long shadow, one with too many unresolved secrets.

For this reason, it made the Duke uncomfortable to know that he had to allow events to play out to gain hindsight rather than face the future with foresight.

"Lord Father! Welcome to my home for the next few months." Now that he was close enough, the emerging Charlene was exuberant. "Ask us anything, go where you please. All is laid bare for the Kingdom's Lord Marshall."

Ravenport chuckled. His daughter had been very happy of late, especially after her marriage had been indefinitely put on hold. For this, Mycroft was of two minds, for more heirs meant more alliances, but he also wanted his daughter to fulfil her potential and be happy.

Unlike his miserable ingrate, an Icarian boy spoilt by Everleigh unto death.

"You have been busy." He made a show of inspecting her work. The Duke nodded at the awe-struck dockworkers and addressed the junior officers assigned to her cause. Once done, he returned to his child. "Is the Royal Raven on schedule?"

"Ahead of schedule." His daughter walked him down the inner gangway beside the forecastle until they entered the ship's interior. Inside, long tunnels pierced the dividing bulkheads. "It's all thanks to Master Bronzeborn."

Charlene rattled off a list of statistics while Mycroft counted the steps within the ship's lengthwise bulkhead. Closer to the mid-ship, the Duke's nose wrinkled instantly at the heavy scent of industrial-strength alcohol, which after a moment, he recognised as the thick, oat-coloured dregs the Dwarves drank as a part of their lunch meals.

Inside the cargo bay, the stratum bulkheads had been removed to create a vast space capable of housing the Fabricator Crawler and its support Golems. Among constant showers of sparks, Dwarves in their personal Golem Suits were manhandling molten sheets of steel or carrying materials by the ton like dockhands with crates of fresh fruit. To Mycroft's senses, it was a chaos of noise, Dwarven swearing, and judgemental accusations from Masters to Journeymen. Still, the learned part of him saw an order to the anarchy that no human workforce could replicate.

" _Hi-ho…hi-ho…_ " there were also the strange mutterings of a work-song among the Transmutation magic.

"You've made extensive modifications..." The Duke remarked. "It's just as well our House paid for the ship in full. Her Dwarves seem well motivated."

"They've been at it for two months since installing the Fabricator Crawler in March." Charlene's face contorted with uncharacteristic compassion. "Some of them work around the clock, stopping to get plastered on beer, after which they're rested. Originally, we had planned our schedule around human hours. Until the Dwarves complained that too much time off was unsafe for their mental wellbeing."

"An admirable and Protestant work ethic." The Duke sighed with appreciation. "They must be keen to repay their _Debt of Haj-Zül_."

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

"Aye, such an opportunity would not present itself so easily," Charlene agreed. "I wonder. Gwen is very confident that we shall be pushed to our limits. She even acquired seeds from Tryfan. And then there are those gentlemen from South East Asia. We were supposed to pick them up on-route—but they came to us instead."

"Oh yes. Have those Frontier Mages from Manipur settled in?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, they're extremely obedient, almost to a fault." Charlene furrowed her thin brows. "I told them to rest—and they did that for two days until I went in to check up on them. They hadn't eaten or drank in that time, just meditated..."

Mycroft recalled the reports provided by Morrigan.

"Is that so? I believe troops under the Geas-dominion of a Dragon tend to do that," he advised his child, glad to be of aid before her feathers were fully grown. "They will die for Gwen without question. They have been forbidden from overt individual needs and will attend to every order with absolute conviction. So take care with their use—if they should perish, it shouldn't be by your command, but hers."

"Understood." His daughter was quick on the uptake. "Still, I have a question for our Lord Marshall. Three Mage Flights of Magus-class assassins, half of which are aligned with Elemental Smoke. Isn't that dangerous for anyone to possess so... casually?"

"No more dangerous than her shadow-hopping Rat-kin," Mycroft smirked. "Curious, no? Gwen's putting together quite the strange force for her future Tower. Her Master, the late Lord Kilroy, was comparatively a purist. It's an interesting dynamic, don't you think?"

"And unpredictable, if you ask me." Charlene invited Mycroft to land among the workmen, slipping around the Golem suits to direct the attention of an indistinguishable Dwarven labourer. Once the helmet retracted with a hiss, the uplifted visor revealed the fierce face of Hanmoul Bronzeborn, whose facial profile Mycroft knew well.

"Boss Ravenport. Yer art here. Will yer be giving us ter authority ter get floating?" the Dwarf also recognised him from their initial meeting when the Dwarven delegation first arrived. "Yer also here earlier than expected. Does the lassie need us?"

"Not exactly, not yet—" Mycroft looked around the chaotic cargo space. Finding no papers from the morning, he used a Silent Message to beckon an aide to Dimension Door beside him. "But your _lassie_ has been doing God's work down south, paving the way with Mermen bodies. Here—allow my aide to produce a copy of the METRO, Master Bronzeborn—there's a great deal to know about Gwen's present whereabouts and a great deal to discuss regarding your month-long voyage, first to Auckland—then south to the Seat of Frost."

Auckland.

The Sky Tower.

Behind stacks of folders taller than her head, the Devourer of Shoals worked hard at balancing the financial affairs of a near-fallen city. Her liver-busting dedication was to Auckland and herself, for though Pyrrhic victories were acceptable, Gwen had no desire for Auckland's aftermath to mar her impeccable resume as an up-and-coming Tower Master-in-waiting.

Outside her team's private Pocket Dimension window, the city was a buzzing hive of demolition and construction, with ships arriving from every port from Brisbane to Melbourne, encircling the whole span of the inner bay. Unlike before, each new boat slowed as they passed what was once the Great Barrier Islands of Aotea because an eerie silence now haunted the uncertain sea between the island and the headland of Leigh.

It wasn't so much that a million or more Mermen had perished here—but that the island and the headland had been reduced to an extraterrestrial landscape resembling wind-swept crags on the Elemental Planes of Dust, devoid of all life.

Once, the Barrier Islands had held a host of ten million sea birds of every form and size.

Once, the isle's shores were dense with seals and other quasi-magical mammals basking in the sun.

Once, its shores were home to countless tonnages of coral and a kelp forest so vast as to contain a unique ecosystem.

Now, each seafaring Captain had only their memory to remind them that this was once a vibrant Frontier rich with life. Now, bare rock devoid of even lichen lay in shambles, collapsing and falling to the impact of the ocean waves, crumbling in the absence of roots that formed natural nettings.

The sea itself was also a strange matt hue. Perhaps, long ago, the kelp forest had given it a particular shade, capturing light and releasing nutrients to its residents. That was no longer what the seafarers witnessed, for even mindless, floating floatsams avoided the patch of absolute erasure conjured by the Shoggoth's passing, creating a new and undesirable landmark for the recovering city.

The result was a lesson for London's Mages, who had furiously transcribed the spectrometric readings for their respective Magisters of the Colleges. All had wondered how the Shoggoth would fare in its first foray—many felt that if the Shoggoth had fought Nyrlesvinyr alone, it might have been banished. The titanic contest, lasting half a day, was a testament to Nyrlesvinyr's Draconic vigour. However, with several million victims feeding it from below, Nyrlesvinyr grew eventually exhausted, allowing the Shoggoth to penetrate, enter, and hollow out its main body from its meteorite home.

And once the Shoggoth was done with Nyrlesvinyr, it allowed the shiny, pitted shell of the island to fall into the sea.

After that, it began to move toward Auckland.

As with her earlier experiment, Gwen had admonished it, compelling the creature through the contracts formed via the Planar Ally spell, threatening its very existence. When it got too close, the Tower opened fire, burning another hundred-thousand HDMs through Yue, Lulu and its supporting Mages. The Shoggoth… understood, or at least, it chose to halt. However, it had continued to feed, wiping every mote of algae from the sea, distending its tendrils dozens of kilometres from the Aotea until parts of it had mounted Auckland's northern-most headlands.

The Tower once more admonished Gwen's pet.

Unfazed, the Shoggoth's patience-testing plundering had continued for several more hours, with the city's leadership grimly observing the consequence of their choice.

Thankfully, Mid-morning the next day, Gwen notified the others that her Shoggoth had begun to recede.

Three days later, she compelled the skyscraper-sized creature to return to its Elemental Plane, slipping into the crack from which it had arrived like an octopus sliding between the gaps of a ship's gunwale. Golos made unhelpful remarks of mockery toward his colleague, boasting that "The Mighty Golos" could play as long as it wanted—to which Gwen acknowledged by sending the bored Wyvern back to its brother's bachelor pad.

Dede had offered its sympathies with a quack.

What's left was a workload no less taxing than the Shoggoth.

Within the month, trade between the city and Australia's east coast had to be resumed.

The shattered Militia had to be replenished and reorganised.

The shipping lanes had to be remapped as safe passages.

The Mermen who invariably made it to shore had to be banished or put down.

The rebellious Mer-folk native to Auckland's coast was another diplomatic can of worms only Caliban could wrangle.

That and Auckland's dire financial straits had to be addressed.

For the latter, Gwen's position as the Director of the Isle of Dogs was more precious than all her capacity as a War Mage. In her time split between IoDNC and Tonglv, she had filled her Pokédex with power-holding managers connected to many of Mageocracy's infrastructural institutions.

Of her top picks, she knew several corporations that would go ham at the news that a small island of precious metals had fallen into Auckland's lap—even if Auckland lacked the means to retrieve it from the bottom of the Firth of Thames. As a guarantee, she had Te's Divination department produce certified readings consisting of Mithril, Orichalcum, assorted Cores and most importantly—a collected mass of raw Adamantine. From the unusual composition, it would appear that one of Nyrlesvinyr's abilities was to consume, purify, and then add these mineral compositions to her home—which in hindsight, made perfect sense for a primordial scion from the Para-Elemental Plane of Mud.

Therefore, forsaking her signature percentile stake out of the unimaginable goodness of her heart, Gwen had sent out feelers to her choice of England's BHP Billiton, Shanghai's Sheng-Hua Minerals, and The Hong Kong Shanghai Banking Corporation, a key stakeholder in GlenCORE, the American mining giant. In this world, where money "grew on the ground", few corporations were as obscenely wealthy and in possession of liquid capital as the mining conglomerates.

Her message was simple—she was looking for a partner corporation to purchase "more than your competitor" a volume of Reconstruction Bonds offered by Auckland's government, either through themselves or their network of financial institutions, to boost the Bond's stock value.

Once accomplished, she would give up her "spoils of war" so that "a" lucky companies might turn a super profit through mining the mineral island. Should no buyers invest to her liking, she would wait out her Dwarves and pay for the island to be dredged. Then—with the help of her Dwarven allies, who can refabricate the mineral island into ingots, the IoDNC alone would profit from the city's reconstruction profits.

Together with the carrot and stick, she also offered a nailed bat. With great politeness, she had explained in her letter that having herself transmute and sell the ores would be a calamity. In her haste to help Auckland, there would be no choice but to undercut the market with a flood of precious metals, unwittingly impacting the bottom lines of everyone involved.

To the awe-struck Wherowhero, she had then rationalised that the mining corporations were only boosters for Auckland's "initial IPO offer".

From London and beyond, Lady Astor, The Marchioness of Ely, the Norfolk Fund, and her Dragon-partner at the House of M would guarantee another twenty-five per cent purchase of Auckland's released bonds.

After their friends make the initial purchase, the mineral corporations would make theirs, and thereby, new Bond Stocks would inflate—drawing investors from the true chopping block—London's greedy nobles and others from around the Commonwealth.

And once Auckland's futures began to circulate, it would stabilise the city's credit strategy, meaning they could borrow more HDMs and resources from London.

Thereby, her allies would profit.

The mining corporations would eventually profit.

And with careful management, Auckland would not only rebuild—but turn a profit from the act of borrowing money itself.

The illustrious image her Illusion School of PowerPoint illustrated was shocking enough for both Te and the Tower Master to inhale breaths of frigid air—and regard the "Profitess" with more fear than they had felt for the Shoggoth.

Concurrently, Gwen had also offered Auckland the possibility of Chinese investment—though both Te and Hildenbrandt grew wary at the prospect of a regional power buying up their debt. No matter how much she explained the irrelevance of debt ownership in a multi-national, globalised human world—her clients remained unconvinced.

And so, with the equivalent work of a dozen Shalkars piled on top of her desk, Gwen had immersed herself in the sorcerous act of financing the rebuilding of a sundered city's coastline, breaking only to stretch her limbs and Purge wayward Mermen.

For weeks on end, never had Auckland's ISTC burned so hot, nor had its three-decade-old systems required so much maintenance from Petra and the Tower's resident Enchanters.

Working six days a week, Gwen held enough meetings with creditors for Auckland to ease the Tower into expending whatever funds it had left, rapidly establishing a supply chain from Sydney and Melbourne, attracting talent of all stripes. The winner of her Bond-selling competition, GenCORE, went as far as sending in a team of Magisters specialising in retrieving shipwrecks to slowly displace Nyrlesvinyr's island onto the barren shores of Aotea.

On advice from Eric Walken, she then extended a gesture to Elvia's folk, the Ordos responsible for the Mageocracy's wellbeing. The Ordos did not refuse—nor did they send Elvia as Gwen had hoped. Instead, the powers behind the Knightly orders sent her manpower in the form of migrants and refugees with magical abilities, retired men from the military, and other bodies that would rapidly refill Auckland's depleted Militia. When she did ask for her Evee, Elvia's Abbess kindly informed her that Elvia, like Gwen herself, was occupied saving the world in insignificant but important ways.

Unable to unify the trio in her spare time, Gwen spent her Sundays picnicking with Yue, which meant the pair and their bodyguards went about looking for Yue's favourite trouble, Crab-kin in butter and garlic. It wasn't how she had imagined her future with Yue while studying in Blackwater, but it was close enough to temporarily fill the gap of her five-month separation from the absence of their cherished No.3.

Day after day, week after week, even as Nyrlesvinyr's home became a Commonwealth-famous attraction that drew national debate on privatising public wealth—Gwen worked tirelessly in what she deemed the "true" work of a Magister.

Auckland's Greys, on order from their superiors across the sea, swallowed the wand tip and stood down their stubbornness, opening their relations to facilitate trade openly. The Militants, on orders from a stock-tipped Thomas Benedict Holland, likewise suspended their competition and focused on protecting the shipping lanes and clearing Auckland's surroundings. Outside Wellington, the Halflings of Hamilton emerged in force, piling Auckland's warehouses with countless volumes of preserved and fresh produce, even venturing from their copy-righted hole-homes to aid the survivors of Wellington in their reconstruction.

For almost a month and more, Gwen played the shepherd to Auckland's reconstruction, guiding that rare honeymoon of congeniality in which cooperation overshadowed grudges, allowing hope to flow unmolested.

Then, on a cold day in the ide of July, forewarned but still, a shocking sight—The Royal Raven sailed into Auckland's port, signalling the next chapter—Mount Erebus.


Auckland.

Port Fitzroy.

"BY THE SJU DORFRAN—LADS, WE'VE MADE IT ALIVE!"

Gwen's _WELCOME TO AUCKLAND banner_ , and the Mages who stood by the docks, were completely ignored by a deluge of suddenly appearing Dwarves who spilt from the lowered loading bay to kiss the ground, weeping bitter tears of uncontrollable, existential joy.

Taking a sudden interest in their shoes, her company of Mages from the Shard, together with Te Whereowhero and other representatives from Auckland's Factions, collectively ignored the howling public spectacle until Charlene Ravenport emerged, red-faced and looking like she'd been in a long hangover.

"Is Hanmoul somewhere in there?" Gwen asked as they shook hands, hers warm and Charlene's like a sack of bones. Behind Gwen, ten thousand spectators were lined up, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Dwarves. Instead, they saw bearded men, or women, drunk off their rocks and bawling, kissing concrete and weeping in Dwarven.

"He's making himself sober." Charlene's expression appeared covered by a cloud. "They drank… the entire way."

"Christ…" Gwen grimaced. "Did you run into trouble? Could the ship defend itself?"

"We fended off the remnants from the Shoal you dispersed, I think," Charlene affirmed her worries. "Curiously, alcohol does not impede the Dwarven capacity for war. In fact, the drunker they became, the more fearless and less seasick they were. It's a physiological miracle."

_Ah—seasickness…_ Gwen suspected that was why the entire ship was sloshed. Somehow, the dis-coordination caused by inebriation likely offset the induced nausea.

"I'll enquire no further. Welcome to Auckland, Charlene. It's good to see you." Gwen embraced her partner Ravenport. Once they parted, her nose wrinkled. "In anticipation, I have prepared accommodations and showers… and fresh food."

"It's amazing, isn't it…" Charlene's face grew slightly brighter and hotter when she heard the word _shower_. "We have the best Filtration Engines money can buy, and still, the potable water reeked of alcohol. It's the Dwarven Beer, I think. It even soaks into the metal, bonds with it."

Gwen nodded solemnly as the second loading bay opened, noisily falling flat against the dock.

This time, the crowd was properly wowed, for what emerged to crack the concrete was a handsome Golem Engine of immense size, as squat as it was wide, with brilliant spellswords under both fore-limbs, while on a platform held aloft by four crab-legs, an array of foursome artillery swords refracted the light.

"We could have used some of those for sure." Te sighed with appreciation, golf-clapping along with the jubilant crowd. "One of those could fill in for four of ours."

More Golems emerged until the Hammer Guards formed a wedge facing Gwen.

With a hiss, the cockpit popped, revealing the deep-diving helm of Hanmoul Bronzeborn, son of Dwomrul, grandson of Handrek, Captain of the Iron Guards. Following his lead, the other cockpits also opened, revealing many familiar faces, such as the Engineseer Signerlig Bronzeborn, the Runesmiths Thulgig Flinthide and Danmurim the Glum, as well as the woman responsible for the Fabricator Engine, the Alchemist Yossari Vildrenbrandt.

With great ceremony, the group dismounted and met Gwen upon the city's threshold, placing their gauntlets against the Core seated in their chest, which the Tower had to accommodate by fine-tuning their remaining resonance barriers.

"Esteemed guests from Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth," Gwen spoke in perfect Dwarven. "It is with great pleasure that I welcome you to our tiny corner of the Himmseg. Captain Hanmoul. Master Yossari. And my very good and honourable friends of the Citadel—Welcome to Auckland!"

The crowd that lined the harbour from one side to the next burst into cheers, throwing hats into the air, an act that confused the Dwarves, for a stout mining helmet from a good height could easily crack a young digger's skull.

But OSHA aside, as the Royal Raven was the only distraction from the endless toil of the future, the passions shown by Auckland's people were far too exuberant. After ten minutes, with the applause, whistles, cheers and "Good on yer, mates!" refusing to cease, Gwen had to escort the Dwarves past the crowd with the help of the local Militia.

As communicated by Charlene, the Dwarves had little interest in Auckland, but they were keen on visiting their local cousins—the Halflings of Hamilton. Though their races were thinly related, the popular myth among Hanmoul's folk was that Halflings were Dwarves who were cut off from Deepholm by some unforeseen tectonic shift a hundred generations ago. Lacking access to a Deepdowner and the Hall of the Ancestors, they evolved on their own into a wholly different breed of Elemental Demi-humans, adapting to the Himmseg by changing their innate magic for overland survival.

As one of the rare groups of Dwarves to come into contact with the Halflings of Hamilton in the last century, Hamoul's people were interested in exports. In particular, they wanted to know if their cousin race had developed better food stock capable of thriving in the Murk, with higher yields than the legumes and fungi the Citadel cultivated in the tunnels. That and Yossari would gift Hamilton a marker beacon, useful in an uncertain future where the Dyar Morkk re-opened.

"I'll leave the handover to you and Aria." Reading her friend's desire for refreshments, Gwen held Charlene's hand to affirm her continued support for the Ravenport. "Rest up. Once we return, Hanmoul's folk will need their drinks."

"I'll leave it to Aria." Charlene allowed her hand to be held, affirming their working relationship and continued cooperation. "My organs almost atrophied trying to be polite with their invitations to drink. We Dust Mages and our constitution—but you know how that is. One more thing. Are our supplies ready?"

"Yes, it's ready." Gwen parted from her partner. There was a special pleasure in working with competence, and both of them knew it. "We can sail in three days. Once the Dwarves return."

"Lovely. I'll see you in the Tower then?"

"Aye," Gwen affirmed her friend's anticipations. "Don't forget, you have dinner with the Paladin and the Tower Master tonight. And the Faction dinner is tomorrow. Then we're off."

"You'll introduce me to the Apprentice of the Scarlet Sorceress? Won't you?" Charlene smiled. "I've heard a lot about Sydney's future War Mage."

"Of course." Gwen smiled, even knowing that Charlene likely thought of Yue as a useful cog in the Mageocracy's gears; her gesture was something to appreciate. "Take it easy for a few days. Don't say I didn't warn you, but there's soon to be five thousand kilometres of quaffing between Mt Erebus and us."

Hamilton.

Evening.

After drinking their Halfling cousins under the barn house table, the proud Dwarves of the Red Citadel's promised encounter with their Himmegg cousins concluded with many incidents—but no fatalities.

One such happening involved Sydney's famed "Little Scarlet", who, in her excited, inebriated state, got into an argument with Thulgig Flinthide about the firepower-firepower-FIREPOWER of an Engineseer tuned Spellsword versus a traditional Fire Mage's maximised magics.

A spontaneous contest then broke out, presided by the Halfling's impassioned Headman, which resulted in the loss of an enormous warehouse when the stowed goods a hundred meters away spontaneously combusted.

Once that was under control, the drinking moved to another section of the pastoral municipality, where Lulan fell into a berserker rage after being taunted by "Rori" Vildrenbrandt, cousin to Hanmoul, that Gwen would be safer if nestled within a custom Golem Suit, then Matryoshka-dolled into a Golem Engine, than being protected by a _lassie_ with "twigs for arms". Without the aid of alcohol, Gwen was sure Lulan would have held her tongue—but one swig of the Firewater was enough to activate some terrible talent within her, giving her skin an oxide-like sheen of rust.

To prove that she could best any Golem Engine, she challenged Hanmoul's Cousin. Rori promptly materialised her suit and an intermediate armour from her Storage Ring, and the two duked it out in the middle of the new dining area, unshielded by any Walls of Force.

The second barn was soon lost among cheers and laughter and much quaffing, with Lulan emerging the winner when she managed to drive a Sonic Blade between the leg-joints of the Golem while surviving a gut-punch to the side that left her bruised and bent but smiling wickedly.

After that, Gwen decided it was best the Dwarves leave Hamilton before they burn it to the ground and that any future visits should be in small delegations.

She left the mayor of Hamilton, Ruari Littlefoot, with a generous promise to rebuild the lost infrastructure, then asked Hanmoul to gather his Iron Guards, leaving only Yossari and a squad of Honour Guards to finalise trade with the Halflings.

Upon their return, when the new day dawned, she found Charlene bedridden with ill health from overwork. Though seemingly counter-intuitive, she left her partner with a generous bottle of infused Maotai to improve her delicate constitution, then returned to the docks to oversee final preparations.

At the harbour, she was joined by Aria, who asked Gwen if she would like to address her Shadow Mages.

"My what?" was Gwen's immediate reaction—until her Dwarf-addled brain informed her these were the "help" promised by the House of M, or more precisely, by Ruxin.

Immediately moving to meet her "troops" on the ship's deck, she felt a slight chill upon seeing her new allies. The leader of the Shadow Flight was a middle-aged woman with a jaded, thousand-yard stare called Astha, with no last name to speak of and no expression.

" _Seven_ —would be my preferred title." Her new employee informed her. "And these are Sixteen, Eight, Twenty-Nine, Seventy-Two…"

Numbers for which Gwen later gleaned from Astha, to be their assigned number while undergoing the trials, intended as such so that their "user" won't form attachments. In Manipur, home of the Shadows, only a small portion of candidates can join the austere group, with the competition being a Hunger Games celebrated by the local lords. Against expectation, selected families were very proud of those who survived, and entire Clans built the foundations of their lives upon it.

Of the fifteen odd Mages sent to her, "Seven" was close to the prowess of a Magister, while the rest were Senior Mages or at the tiers of Frontier Maguses capable of hybrid magic. What made them special was that the principle Flight was entirely composed of Smoke Mages specialising in stealth. Comparatively, their second Magus Flight was more balanced in their specialities, while the final Flight consisted of support, with a Diviner, Abjurer, an Enchanter and two Healers.

"I would like to roster you all under my company, the IoDNC," Gwen announced after speaking at length to each member and learning their names and call signs. "You will be paid the same wage as a Mage in the Shard. You will be given time off, and Danger Pay during operations."

"We do not need payment," Astha protested without emotion. "Tell us to die for you, and we shall."

"Nonsense." Gwen sighed after a few more minutes of futile back and forth. After glancing at her ticking Message Device, she realised the futility of further debate. "Whatever Ruxin says, you're now my employees, and you now have rights. That's an _order_."

"Understood." Astha glanced at her kin. Looking at the younger Mages, Gwen hoped she had spied a secret relief of sorts and that the others weren't simply reacting to Astha's mental command to please their eccentric mistress.

"Here's some money." Gwen passed over a Storage Ring. "Go into the city, buy whatever food and drink you fancy. Eat at a restaurant. Go to a park and relax. See how the folk here do things. Come back before tomorrow morning. Oh, and buy something warm, for Ruxin's sake, if not mine. We're going to the Seat of Frost. You're dressed for the tropics."

Astha's face finally seemed to crack. As suspected, monk shawls used to wrap the shoulders and left to trail the floors were NOT the right garb for the southern cold. Charlene had cold-weather magical garments on board, but Astha wasn't one to ask for equipment.

"Go now," Gwen commanded, wondering if Richard could talk some sense into these esoteric warriors. "Auckland may not have too much to offer right now, but by God, we have a wealth of seafood.."

On the promised third day since the arrival of the Royal Raven, the city of Auckland turned out to see its saviour and destructor leave.

Te Wherowhero had originally requested a parade. However, Gwen wasn't sure her pride could survive the event of a whole city turning out to throw rotten vegetables at the woman who took them to heaven, then hell, then heaven, then the uncertainty of a decade of rebuilding.

What she did appreciate was the time the city's stakeholders had taken to meet her at the docklands. From the Middle Faction, the Tower Master made a rare appearance to shake her hand and offer her METRO the corresponding front page photos. The Greys also had sent Magisters who did not completely loath her guts or had recovered enough of their opinions to at least bow and simper in public. The Militants, unsurprisingly, took the opportunity to hail her as one of their own, heaped her with praise, and then promised hot air should she return.

Her most sentimental moment came when finally, she had to say goodbye to Yue and Whetu. For many months and a long-long while, she and her old friend had bonded again over Mermen Purges and seafood, enjoying one another's near-constant company. Comparatively, though her friendship with the gentle giant had grown cool, she knew well why the young man had kept his distance, asking only that time would make the Abjurer more mellow to his PTSD over her taming of Nyrlesvinyr.

Leaving Yue's bombastic, hot-bodied embrace behind, Gwen inwardly sighed.

Her friend would continue a familiar life in Auckland, returning later to Sydney for promotion to more senior roles in Gunther's expanding Militia.

But she was once more off to be a stranger in a strange land.

By the late morning, the inspections were done, and Aria and her crew had embarked or were returning to London via the ISTC. Richard had done his due diligence with Astha, becoming a trusted companion to the Shadow Mages of Manipur after acting as their tour guide. Comparatively, Petra had spent her days snubbing the young nobles who came with Charlene, rebuking their advances by confining herself to the ship's Enchantments.

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

When finally, at noon, the "face" of each stakeholder party separated, Gwen swallowed the slow simmering sentiment eating away at her chest, then waved goodbye at the folk who had worked with her for what had felt like a small, microcosmic lifetime.

Kalimantan.

Samarinda.

Bambang, head Foreman of his canoe, was in the process of gaining a new "religion".

For untold millennia, his tribe of Humanity who had survived the paradise island's shores had ascribed to a simple narrative—that everything belonged to their God King, the fabled Bali aka Balli—Dewa Cawu. Unlike their distant neighbours in Singapore, theirs were a life of endless agrarian toil, producing food they rarely ate, gifting every joule of energy from their sun-beaten bodies to their lord and master, a true friend of the Dragon Bedawangiwiwi.

For the tired men and women of Bambang's fertile basin, their lives were the hard-won prize of their lord and saviour. Legend had it that aeons ago, the Rakshasa, _preservers_ of the Elemental world, had sought to turn Samarinda into a sea of fire. To gain help, the original Dewa Cawu sought aid from the great volcanic Land God, the Magma Drake Bedawangiwiwi, a greedy and untamed being of hunger and lust. Being an intelligent and wise ruler, Dewa Cawu observed the Dragon for many years, coming to know its preference for a rare delicacy—beautiful young girls, especially virgins.

Cawu then approached Bedawangiwiwi with an offer it could not refuse—that he would give the Dragon a hundred virgin daughters of his tribe for the monster's patronage and promise that he would keep the Rakshasa at bay, allowing Samarinda to prosper.

After much blood, toil, and a vow of blood and magma, an agreement was made.

And thus, for hundreds of years, the simple folk of Samarinda had sent their young men into the fields and their prettiest daughters into the palace of Dewa Cawu to serve as the king's adopted children, Bambang's included.

And every decade, on the first hint of the monsoonal season, Dewa Cawu would take his troop of flower-wrapped young women up the hill, watched by their tearful loved ones, so that Bedawangiwiwi would be appeased.

This season, however, an unwitting change had come to an unchanging land.

In February, a great deluge of water had swept Bambang's home, bringing unimaginable misery.

In March, the arrival of Undead Fishmen had polluted the estuaries and ruined the harvest.

In April, the plague which had come with the flood and the Undead had brought an already stricken city to its knees.

Throughout the months, their Dewa had promised salvation—but their bamboo-city could not gather enough healthy young women for his pilgrimage.

Then, uninvited strangers had sailed up the river in a metal city-raft.

Strangers who refused to yield to their Dewa Cawu.

Strangers speaking the trader's tongue, with unfamiliar titles like the _Dragon Slayers of St George_.

Bambang was not a stranger to foreigners, for their Dewa Cawu often sold his slaves to the dark-skinned Sea Captains who came to bid for crew and supplies at the city's markets. These men were frightful fellows with uncouth manners and insatiable appetites for the city's simple fisher folk. They harassed fishers' wives, carelessly murdered the young men who defended their kin and seemed to pay respect only to the Dewa and his royal Mages.

Thus, the fishing folk of Samarinda were greatly surprised when the Dewa's war skiffs failed to stop the entry of these new foreigners with their enormous foreign ships. They became yet more confused when, after landing, fair-skinned Mages with hair the colour of sunbeams emerged, clad in blue or red or white robes and resplendent amour, to deploy not weapons of war but tents with large red crosses.

Healing Stations, the foreigners called them.

And they were _free_.

"Free"—the very word made no sense to the simple fisher folk of Samarinda, whose lives were not free even in the simplest sense of the word. Their bodies were not theirs, nor their homes, nor their children.

Yet, without demanding barter, these foreigners incanted sorcery with the warm light of the morning sun, banished illness from the stricken, and brought new vitality to the sallow cheeks of their stricken kin.

On the first day, barely a hundred attended the tents.

On the second, a thousand souls received new benedictions.

By the first moon cycle, half the city had felt the blessing of the "Ordo", and the local street artisans had sold countless wooden idols of their newly minted Pantang Mayag, the fair-haired Goddess residing within the cross-marked, canvas walls, Dewa Elvia.

By the second moon cycle, Dewa Cawu's palace had been all but abandoned by the people, with the city now operating to and from the giant pavilions set up by the foreign folk.

And so it was that finally, on the first day of July, their erstwhile Dewa Cawu's patience had run short—heralding the cataclysmic arrival of his true friend, __ Bedawangiwiwi.

Like a rolling lava burst, great Bedawangiwiwi had descended the mountain, its bullish neck as thick as its waist, its eight-limbs dripping ash and sulphur, its fish-like tail sweeping aside giant like charred tinder. Down the hills, the great beast slid, a living engine of ultra-violence, transmuting Bambang's family's huts into smouldering coal as it made its way through the abrupt chaos.

From their pavillions, fair-skinned Mages with their crimson cloaks had emerged, their cloaks as red as the setting sun on a hot summer's eve, painting the shallow sea the hue of blood.

Presently, safe in his hiding place behind the pallets of metal-tinned supplies, Bambang heard his new employers speak in the tongue of the traders, their tones cool and unimpressed.

"So that's the _Dragon_. An ancient Magma Basilisk, and not even an intelligent one at that, "the tall one who spoke had his hand on the pommel of the largest sword Bambang had ever seen, an implement almost as tall as the man's shoulder, slung on reinforced, brass-bound straps from his waist. "There's as much Draconic Essence in that thing as a fist-sized newt from the Ying-long's mountain."

"I know it isn't the promised Naga, Mathias, but it _is_ a good accolade for your Knight Companion, don't you think?" The second Knight, whose shield-crest wore a large "X" over a cross in embossed gold, comforted the first.

"You warmongers always say that." The blonder of the knights glanced in Bambang's direction as he spoke.

Bambang instantly transformed into a part of the inanimate drapes covering the supply crates.

"Foreman," the ash-blonde Knight called Mathias and addressed him directly. "It's a bit late to run, so stay here where it's safe. Don't come crawling to Elvia later when we're inundated with the injured."

Bambang nodded furiously.

By now, more knights had sauntered forth from their stations, each bearing spellswords with markings from their "Ordo".

When the Goddess finally emerged, Bambang felt a sign of sudden and inexplicable courage fill his heart. There was an aura about the fair-haired Cleric, something like an invisible halo, immaterial and yet, so substantial that Bambang felt its weight on his Astral Soul.

Unconsciously, his hand slipped toward the idol hanging from his chest, with its rough-hew cutout of her likeness. There was a warmth from the still-green wood, dispelling fear and doubt and filling him with indescribable optimism.

A hope that was oppressed only by the stench of rotten egg-sulphur from Bedawangiwiwi, who was now only a few hundred meters away.

With the knights who emerged, an older man with the look of a scholar made his presence known.

"Elvia," the old man in the regal red robes spoke with a tone of kindness, like a grandfather revealing his child at the Dewa's ceremonies, not knowing that the smiling Dewa was far worse than any Rakshasa. "You may begin."

"Yes, Seneschal Ashburn." The Goddess did not step into the air but instead dropped to one knee. With a flip of her hand, she produced a golden implement inscribed with a rune Bambang could not recognise. At the same time, what looked like a trio of bells began to trail incense smoke, shrouding her petite figure.

Next, she began a prayer.

Strangely, with his hand on the idol, Bambang understood her words.

_"O Living Lord_

_We art thy unworthy lambs_

_I ask to be their shepherd_

_To carry a shield of faith_

_And bear the sword of your words_

_O, Gracious Lord._

_Allow me the praise to be_

_Thy Minister of Chastisement_

_That in our victory_

_Your name be sung…"_

The idol in Bambang's hand grew so unbearably hot that, for a moment, he wondered if the young sapling wood might burst into flame.

Then, just as the rampaging Bedawangiwiwi reached the bottom of the valley, the semi-circle of Knights drew their blades.

"BY THE NAZARENE'S WILL!" The resounding echo from the Goddess' knights filled the valley like a thunderclap.

Bambang's Goddess gave the final word. "MURDER FIEND—BE CONDEMNED!"

The air distorted overhead. Something akin to an enormous glowing cross began to manifest from the havens—from thin air—materialising from nothing, causing no elemental ripple.

A shield? A barrier to halt the charge of Bedawangiwiwi? Bambang's heart was caught in his throat, a faithful hope reciprocated by the hundreds of thousands of his fellow fisher folk in the valley, a captive audience to their doom or salvation.

Soundlessly, as a spontaneously manifesting shooting star, the sky-scraper stake descended, moving to intercept the incoming body of the smouldering eight-legged magma flow. Just before it struck, Bedawangiwiwi moved its torso just so—and managed to avoid the pin-point of the stabbing implement.

Had the Goddess' protectors misjudged? Bambang's doubt stung him like a wasp and filled him with shame.

"GUARRRRRAWK—?!" As if in mockery of Bambang's lack of faith, a howl of agonised surprise escaped from the monstrously-legged viper, loud enough to shake the valley.

The cross had continued its penetration into the earth until its left arm caught the creature by the mid-section, driving the monster deep into the ground until Bedawangiwiwi was wholly pinned. The force of the impact was such that an eruption of magma—or whatever an ancient Elemental had for body fluids, splattered in every direction, creating such a heat wave that buildings near the impact burst into brilliant flames.

Try as it might, even tearing its charcoal scales and cracking bone, Bedawangiwiwi managed only to extricate a single limb.

"Kiki!" came a call to arms from Bambang's Goddess, her voice far colder than Bambang had heard. At her bidding, a thousand tendrils suddenly erupted from where Bedawangiwiwi had fallen, each as thick as a sail ship's riggings. And like riggings, these prehensile tentacle-ropes threw themselves into a frenzy, then snared the sizzling Bedawangiwiwi like a carp in a hemp net.

"GUWWWAARRK—!" The tempestuous Bedawangiwiwi roared, transforming the ground into magma to loosen its bindings. Its aura flickered as some latent, innate ability triggered, transmuting the closest ropes to stone—only for the stone to crack and new vines to form within split seconds. Still, thanks to the momentary loss of tension, it slipped one foot free—pulled itself up by the claw of another—then—

"SEN-SEN!" The Goddess glowed like the golden sunrise, her aura so rich with intangible energy that the air began to drip with resplendent dew.

From Bedawangiwiwi's blindspot—a fact made possible because of the creature's blind panic, a Goliath grew from the ground, a faceless humanoid that looked to be comprised of knotted old ropes and roots.

A Rakshasa of the Man-eating Potato? Bambang's mind flashed to those terrifying moments when he had to hide from the men-eating Mandrakes. Just when he thought the tree would punch Bedawangiwiwi into submission, a dozen and more tendrils split from the root-man, joining the floral vines already enmeshing the Basilisk.

"Proceed, Knight Companion." The ash-haired old Mage's confidence cooled Bambang's panic. "Three is the number of your trials. Make haste to complete your last. Let it not suffer, lest more innocents are caught the Dewa's immorality."

"Yes, Seneschal. Sen-sen! Kiki!" Bambang's Goddess nodded adorably, her face as grim as it was heart-achingly beautiful. A few seconds later, following the opening of what sounded like a benediction of compassion, her aura grew momentarily solid.

Nearer Bedawangiwiwi, the Goliath released arresting tendrils the likeness of golden ropes of molten metal, but these did not burn the Basilisk,

Instead, the creature's injury began to mend.

Bambang's eyes grew wide. Were these foreign Mages hoping to tame the Rakshasa like their Dewa? Did this mean that his people would soon have a new master?

Bedawangiwiwi, like Bambang, grew confused by the warmth suffusing its body. It even ceased its struggles to gauge what its opponents had in mind.

Bambang held his breath and waited, one hand clutching the idol of the Goddess.

Not far, the knights who had stood guard shifted into battle stances.

" _Guwrr—GWARARRK?!_ " As the arresting golden cross began to dematerialise, Bedawangiwiwi's aura of magma grew suddenly unstable. The golden ropes, which had held it immobile, were suddenly sinking into the scales of its flesh.

Bambang quickly rubbed the ashen dust from his clouded eyes. It wasn't that the ropes were biting into the creature—but that the beast was rapidly enlarging! It was expanding unnaturally, like a frog that the village's naughty children had cruelly bloated with a pump.

And like those unfortunate amphibians, even as the creature grew increasingly confused by its fate, its flesh continued to engorge, cracking its previously impervious armour of shale-like scales, making it once sleek and predatory figure so rotund that its eight legs could no longer properly catch the ground.

With a guttural howl, a part of it began to shift—for Bedawangiwiwi could change its shape when it willed—but the golden energy infusing its body seemed to ignore the commands from the monster's body.

Now in a renewed panic, Bedawangiwiwi began to roll and thrash, becoming comical as the tragedy of its ballooning belly continued.

"KNIGHTS! LOCK BARRIERS!" came the command from the ashen-haired old scribe, his voice rolling across the valley as lowering thunder. "CONJUGATION OF FAITH!"

The different uniformed Knights moved in as one, manifesting a multi-shield array that formed a semi-dome over the top of the mewling stone lizard. Below the creature, molten magma was oozing from every orifice on the Basilisk, forcing it to gag and cough. Its burning eyes glowed so vividly in pain that they resembled a pair of mercury beads in clay kilns.

Then—as anticipated, something gave from within the Basilisk's body. As the root-Goliath and the floral vines dimmed, a stream of bright orange magma, mixed with what looked like flesh and offal, jetted from Bedawangiwiwi's flank. After the initial spurt, the pressure release quickened like the pressurised deluge from a newly opened dam.

A dozen breaths later, even as Bedawangiwiwi's orbs rolled into its skull, the stream continued, turning a whole portion of the shielded arena into a magma pool with an explosive gust of sulphur and heat—one thankfully impeded by the Mage Knights' efforts.

Bambang wasn't sure if he had breathed the whole while, though he was aware of the idol in his hands pulsing with warmth.

When he recovered, Bedawangiwiwi's inert body had cooled, transforming from magma into brilliant boulders that, when cracked, would consist of priceless Dragon Glass.

The semi-circle of Knights sheathed their swords as though they had practised the rite a thousand times.

"Check the surroundings for survivors, bring them to the triage tents," Senechal Ashburn commanded the others. After a pause, the man stepped beside the Goddess. "Elvia, do you have enough Faith to continue your work at the clinic?"

"I do," the Goddess exhaled, tired but in high spirits. "Please don't turn anyone away."

"You're as tireless as always." The man appeared to study her. "Well done on your third trial, child, though none of us had doubted your faith."

"Thank you, Seneschal." The Goddess bowed her head. One of the knights, the ash-blonde, reached her side. "To have found so much support from the Ordos… Mathias and I could not have prayed for more compassion from better members of the Mageocracy."

"You still speak as if we are not Companion and Commander." The old man, incredibly, laid a hand on the Goddess' head, then patted her in the same way Bambang would comfort a crying fisherwoman's lost child. "Don't push yourself so hard. When we reach Tianjin… you will have our support. The Ordo isn't what it used to be in the epoch of Victoriana, but the CCP and a corrupted Mythic—we can still chastise."

"It's not the Mythic that worries us, Seneschal." the Goddess' smile was as sweet as it was disquieting. "In this Brave New World, we must ensure there will never be another Elizabeth Sobel."

" _Brave New World?_ " the old man shook his head as he seemed to ponder the worlds, seemingly enjoying how the sound rolled off the tongue. "Another one of her Gwenisms?"

"She's full of them." The Goddess' laughter was like pealing bells on a clear cold morning.

"The cost will be high…" the old man's melancholy was palpable. "You may yet pay the dearest of prices. And if you survive, her hatred shall be a fate worse than a clean death. As your elder, I must question your wisdom in exercising your passion. Her pride and misjudgement is, after all, not your cross to bear."

"Seneschal.. are our Ordo not the Poor Soldiers of Christ?" The Goddess appeared unyielding in her conviction. "Isn't dying for others' sins our motto?"

The old scholar laughed, shaking his head as he did so. "You're worldly, child, too wise for one so young and sheltered. Had the Yinglong's famed Divinations seeded those words? Or are they your own?"

The Goddess said nothing, but her eyes seemed to drift toward the sky as her mood grew reticent. With a finger placed on the golden broach that fastened her cloak, she spoke as though to someone far and distant. "There will be an end. And I know there will be agony—but for her goodness to remain, Seneschal—I shall be glad of another death."


"Magister Song—"

"Good morning, Magister."

"A moment of your time, Magister…."

"May God's grace be with you, Magister Song."

Strangely, in the microcosm of the ship and its crew of youthful Mages, the oldest of whom was in their thirties and the youngest just twenty, Gwen finally felt less like a cuckoo egg.

Charlene was their official leader, respected for her charisma and her associations. Comparatively, the respect she commanded was different, for hers were based on the promise that her Shoggoth possessed more destructive potential than all the Mages on the ship, rivalled only by Hanmoul's mechanised infantry.

On the sea map, the voyage to Ross Island, the seat of Mount Erebus, would take ten days, nine if the seas are fair, and twelve should the weather encourage detours. Charlene had taken great care of the voyage's potential misadventures, however, and had brought along one of the aspiring "genius" Diviners from the Queen's College, skilled in clairvoyance and steering the Royal Raven away from mishaps.

When Gwen asked about the paradox that Mayuree had prescribed, the Diviner intimated that she divined minor aspects of the journey, such as the conditions of the ship's parts as _canary_ objects, as well as the health of certain members of the crew who loved or hated certain weather conditions—then pieced together something akin to a data field to plot the ship's course.

For a "foretelling" Diviner, the young woman had explained, talent in foresight wasn't necessarily a good thing—for the details of progress were far more important than the end itself. This "Big Data" approach was a genius form of circumvention Gwen had not at all expected—and thus, could only nod and marvel at the methodologies of Cambridge University's elites.

On the first night out of port, she, Charlene and the young nobles, together with the Dwarven leadership, convened at the castle to discuss matters moving forward. Together with her new favourite, the Diviner Magus Marley Dixon, they mapped out the threats ahead.

The first and foremost threat to any shipping into the Black Zones was the giant sea monsters that made their home in the cold waters of the South Sea. Krakens, despite their reputation for being homely lair monsters, often ventured from their Pocket Dimension sea homes to attack ships, arguably out of beak-clenching reflex. Ningen, the whale-monsters with wing-like arms and operable digits, also made their home in the Antarctic, though these were known to be docile, with the rare "Priest" capable of reason and communication. The worst-case scenario was an encounter with a _young_ Leviathan, one exiled from the Elemental Plane of Water by competition or curiosity. These simple-minded island-fishes are usually enslaved by the upper-class Elementals of the Seven Kingdoms, becoming living pleasure barges or siege beasts for their underwater wars.

"The region is sectioned to the Sixth Swell," Charlene explained, appending that a "Swell" was the corrupted translation of what the Mermen termed the tears into the Elemental Plane. Each of the Seven Kingdoms, dotted in unknown depths in the North and South Pacific, was home to such a "Swell". Some Magisters argued that the Swells were moving, living entities tied to their Ancient Mythics. Others compared them to the World Trees of the Elves. The current conjecture, however, was that none of that mattered as no human being had seen one, much less studied a "Swell".

What was known was that the reigning monarchs of these Swells were old beings of the Elemental Planes who had chosen to stake their claim in the "New World". A monarch now well-known to Gwen was Miommiriorthyr, the ever-slumbering Dragon Turtle of yore, tagged by Charlene as the lord of the Fourth Swell, controlling the regions from Fiji to the Coral Sea east of the eastern Australian coastline.

The South Ocean was the domain of Odidi Vel, the Supreme Seat of the Sixth Swell, a title that sounded as intimidating as it was alliterative.

"And?" Gwen asked, sipping her Maotai in contemplation.

"There is no _and._ " Charlene's grey eyes remained puffed and watery from the wafting alcohol permeating the ship. "We only know of him or her from the traders who traffic Mermen through the Grey Market. There's nothing this far south for us to be interested in, and the Sixth Swell rarely gets involved in the war with the Commonwealth, unlike the First, Second and Fourth Seats."

"Hmm…" Gwen sat back. She was a classic landlubber, and her maritime knowledge consisted only of lessons taught by conscripted instructors in Auckland, not personal experience.

"Don't yer worry, lassie." Hanmoul was optimistic as always, trusting only in firepower. "We'll blast 'em right back into the Elemental Plane of Water, come squall, Kraken or maelstrom."

Gwen nodded. Of that, she was confident. With the Dwarven mercenaries on her side, their ship temporarily possessed a repulsion Core that could rival a Tower for several days. Additionally, her Diviner had already predicted that no catastrophic danger would threaten the integrity of the Core's functions. And should a creature brave the destruction of its Core to assail the ship, the barrage of the Mages and the Golems on deck would transmute it into grilled calamari.

The concern that remained, therefore, was their limited information on their destination—the southernmost volcano and one of the largest on Terra, _Mount Erebus._

When Charlene had promised to bring every shred of data the Mageocracy possessed on the volcanic island-peninsular, Gwen had anticipated topographical maps with illusion-empowered overlays, information on the beasts and monsters, as well as routes and lanes for both sea and land.

What Charlene instead showed the crew were reproductions of hand-drawn maps from 1909.

"The last harrumph of Ex-Meister Shackleton," the Ravenport heir spoke with reverence, her grey eyes twinkling with remembrance. "According to his biography, Sir Shackleton survived there, in that sunless Black Zone, for six months while waiting for rescue, battling Frost Howlers, hunting the Ivory Seals for meals, wearing their skin and eating their gut-linings to keep his surviving crew fed."

"Final harrumph?" Gwen remarked. "The biography didn't sell well?"

"The expedition ruined him." Charlene sighed wistfully, fingers caressing the running writing that Gwen could read through her Translation Stone. "If I were born a century earlier, I would have funded him personally, but the Royal Geographical Society wasn't so keen after he lost the most expensive sail ship ever equipped to an Ice Elemental maelstrom. After which, over the next six months, he lost five Mage Flights in a time when a single Flight could hold down a regional colony."

Gwen felt a twitch from her right eye, hoping their expedition would fare better.

"It didn't help that several of those Mages who died were the second-sons of their households, who went with Shackleton out of love and respect for his spirit of adventure and discovery. In that disaster, almost a dozen bloodlines were diminished, and an Earldom was entirely extinguished once the heir was forced to participate in the Great War in place of the spare."

"And all this—"Gwen swept a hand over the maps. "Is what remains of his legacy?"

"Yes." Charlene gazed over the replicated parchments printed on enchanted linen indestructible by water or fire. Gingerly, her fingers brushed by what looked to Gwen to be a family crest. "This is all that remains of House Shackleton. __ Nonetheless, _By Endurance, we Conquer._ "

" _Endurance_ ," Gwen said drily, taking from her parallel history. "The name of Shackleton's ship."

"Yes. I wanted to call the Royal Raven that." Charlene laughed. "But father said it was an ill omen."

"As opposed to ravens?" Gwen scoffed. Did this world have Coffin Ships?

"What's wrong with ravens?" Charlene raised a brow.

Gwen said nothing. Instead, the group refocused their attention on the maps.

"Holy hells." Her eyes fell on the topography. "I knew Erebus was big—but is that for real?"

"Fret-not, lassie. Tis a wee-little hill." Hanmoul, who had seen his share of mountains, was only mildly impressed. "Four thousand human metric units? We'll scale it no problem."

"With luck, I don't think that would be necessary." Gwen quickly performed her best PowerPoint(™) sorcery to transform the map into a three-dimensional projection plotting the points on the hand-map through her mind. As a Lightning Mage, her spatial awareness was already leagues above the average sorceress. Dimension Door, with its higher demand for cognitive analytics, was a very stern teacher.

A few minutes later, a crude map of Mt Erebus, or more accurately, the island peninsular formed by the lava from its dome, made itself evident.

Their navigator, a Viscount-in-waiting named Able Burton, helpfully adjusted her misreadings.

"We will cut through the ice sheets. Here and here." Charlene pointed to an alcove just below the mountain's saddle, where the slope was steepest. "Our journey inward isn't so bad, according to the Meister's notes. September is the period of peril. If we cannot leave by mid-August, we'll be locked in until the spring melt—around January."

"We might just do that." Gwen slowly turned the map. "I don't know what we'll find, but if we are to beat back the Fire Elementals, I don't think it'll be a single battle. Add in logistics. It'll take time."

"You're confident about that, I see." Charlene motioned for their navigator. "Bertie, if you could?"

Bertie could indeed. With great gusto, the man added to Gwen's geographic details, such as a four-kilometre lava lake called the "Hole of Terror."

Unfazed by the name, Gwen continued to plot the dangers.

"And here, we have the Saddle of Ice Horror—and this would be the Valley of A Thousand Cuts—"

"Hold up." Gwen waved her hand through the illusion, halting Bertie. "Who came up with this stuff?"

"Sir Shackleton's cartographer, ma'am," the young man replied. "These are quite literal, I fear. The saddle, we can assume, would still be home to Frost Horrors—degenerate Frost Giants more beast than man, cannibals who hunt and kill anything that moves, while themselves are hunted by the Lava Wyrms from the Hole... and so on."

"I see." Gwen allowed her imagination to do the leg work. Certainly, Auckland Tower's library hadn't prepared her for such a literal and dynamic Black Zone. "Carry on."

Bertie continued, slicing their destination into six major sectors. Taking up bits of the journal, he explained that Shackleton's landing, a relatively newer portion of the peninsular, was an uncontested beachhead with a sheltered cove of breakable ice to the northwest. This location would be their sector one, where they aim to land. Sectors five and six were the mountain itself, one for the ever-smoking peak and the other for the lava lake to the peak's northeast.

Sector three, east of their landing and west of the peak, would be their presumed goal—for that was where Shackleton had recorded his encounter with the fabled Rime Wardens of Illhîweth.

Bertie cleared his throat, then read the exert attached to the paper map.

" _We met strange and alien Elves, with faces of delicate beauty, each an ice sculpture from a master's hands. These sported an upper body both lithe and regal, akin to their cousins from Tryfan. Their lower bodies, conversely, distinctly deviate from the norm. The Frost Wardens were the strangest of all, sporting arachnid limbs from a sleek hip, gliding over snow and air with a grace that would put the Royal Ballet's prima donna to shame. The priestesses, conversely, were humanoids, though their complexion would appear near-transparent as if the clearest glacial ice."_

Shackleton's stricken crew had lost several Mages to the Frost Wardens before the Frost Flower of Illhîweth, a Demi-Goddess Shackleton named _Illhîwenthiel,_ spared them. __ Later, on the plains overshadowed by the eternal plume from Erebus, the Meister witnessed the Frost Wyrm Illaelitharian's grand battle against the encroachment of a Lava Drake.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

After the titanic, mythic-class conflict, the hapless adventurer had begged for aid from the Elves. Perhaps his presence had caught the interest of the Lady or her Wyrm, or maybe the effort of helping the lost Humans was lesser than the effort of slaughtering them—Shackleton was able to safely return to base, after which his subsequent treks no longer violated the sacred region he dubbed the Pillar Grove of Illhîweth. As for the grove, the explorer wrote thus:

" _Different to the brutalism of Erebus, the Grove of Illhîweth stands as a forest of fumaroles, as the Society would label them—but each a pocket dimension upon itself. The smallest of these ice trees stood taller than our tallest buildings—some kilometre high, while in the distance, my men and I spied such a structure as human eyes could not conceive. A TRUNK of Ice that seemed to hold up the heavens itself and lend support to the very reality of Elemental Space in its surrounds! So enormous was this construct—so immeasurable that we chose to give it the name of 'The Pillar'."_

After Bertie finished the reading, the meeting room took on an atmosphere of contemplation.

"So... yes. We are following the steps of Meister Shackleton himself," Charlene broke the silence. "We're making history, Gwen, Master Hanmoul. In more ways than one. We'll be the first Dwarves and Humans to set foot on Erebus and Ross for almost a century."

"Officially." Gwen decided to douse Charlene's fire a little. "But I reckon some enterprising fellows would have come here or drifted here by chance or purpose. If I know my Humans as well as you, I wouldn't doubt that."

"It doesn't count." Charlene's smile grew crooked. "Unless you bring back a map and a trade route. Most, I'd imagined, died here."

"Well." Gwen returned her attention to the map and its notes. "I sure as hell hope we live to tell the tale…"

On the third day, the crew spotted their first bit of self-fulfilling prophecy.

A Kraken, its burning-orange elongated shape just visible under the noble-green waters near freezing temperature, could be seen pulling alongside the ship, staying just far from starboard that the gung-ho Dwarven artillery could not purchase a formidable impact.

For hours, the Kraken and the Royal Raven sized one another while Gwen, Lulan, Richard and their best Mage Flight circled the ship from forecastle to poop, anticipating the Kraken to make a move.

By evening, with the Dwarves blasting lumen flairs that lit up a kilometre of the sea, the Kraken and its Shoal thought better of antagonising the Royal Raven, electing to return to the depth. Their path, their Diviner, had later explained, had been a Goldilock's zone inspiring indecisiveness, straying somewhere between two Kraken's lairs.

On the fifth day, the ship side-swiped a storm and detoured by sailing perpendicular to the weather phenomenon.

As the torrential pour blasted the ocean, turning the bean-green waters white, they saw a flock of Thunder Birds frolic in the kilometre-thick clouds. At once, sensing its desires, Gwen released her Ariel, who sailed into the heavens to join the joyous flight with gleeful cries of "EE-EE!"

A few minutes later, Ariel returned with a dead bird the size of a horse, its limp neck still bleeding liquid electricity from her Kirin's bite-holes.

Immediately, Charlene ordered the Resonance Chamber to be set to a seventy-five per cent threshold—though there was no need. Sensing Ariel's Draconic lineage, the birds dispersed, ending the thunderstorm and the detour.

_Were the birds the cause of the storm?_

_Or did the storm summon the birds?_

That was a phenomenon the Cambridge scholars debated but lacked the evidence to ascertain. Away from the familiar climes of the northern hemisphere, the South Ocean was a place with unpredictable everything, at least by the standards of Human Magecraft.

On day six, an albatross joined the ship.

Immediately, Richard and Lulan began to salivate, boasting that the lone bird was great practice and a source of income.

Knowing her Romantic Poetry, Gwen grew instantly wary. For one, this was no Albatross that a simple bolt could strike down. With her spatial perception, Gwen guessed the creature to be somewhere between twenty to twenty-two meters from wingtip to wingtip, making it a contender for Golos. On that account, Gogo's absence made great foresight, for she recollected how easily the Wyvern attracted the Da-peng in Amazonia. Had Gwen brought her ally, Golos would have attacked and eaten the Albatross without a word.

And if such a noble bird died, Gwen was sure that some otherworldly God would make the Royal Raven pay a tax in suffering.

"A Chasm Chaser Albatross," one of Charlene's lackeys, a zoologist Conjurer by trade, named the bird after filming the thing for several hours. "Extra-planar beasts that hail from the Elemental Plane of Air. It's likely looking for a way home. They're related to the Big Birds of yore, the ones your Magistership met during the IIUC."

By the late afternoon, the Albatross had attempted to come closer to the ship several times. In response, one of the Magus nobles asked if they could open a "path" to the Elemental Plane of Air with a Maelstrom.

Charlene gave an affirmative order, and an impressive, dozen-meter wide hole was made manifest into some unknowable portion of the Elemental Plane of Air.

With a shriek, the Chasm Chaser transformed into a shrieking arrow, shot through the vortex, and then was gone, leaving only giant feathers as souvenirs for the Mages.

"These make excellent ingredients for implements of Flight." The zoologist Dimension Doored from the sea just as Gwen wondered if the man had signalled a death flag and was about to be eaten by a giant fish. Charlene berated her junior officer, though the happy scholar was happy to compose a ten-thousand-word reflection.

"Do you think it knew?" Gwen asked her crew.

"It seemed to know what it was doing." Richard stared coldly at the door where the happy Conjurer had gone, eyeing the enormous feathers cradled in the man's arm. "It knew too well."

"I'll be down below." Lulan walked away with a bored expression. Charlene's nobles, who could not at all penetrate Petra's crystalline coldness, had elected to pursue the exotic Sword Mage with praise and gifts. As an answer, she offered them one path to getting horizontal—harrowing Mage Duels.

When she had asked for the same, all politely declined.

Gwen watched her companions go, then returned her attention to her Omni Orb. Intelligently, Ruxin's priceless gift sparkled in the sun's dying light. Her miraculous device was as much of a navigator as their collection of Diviners. The furtherer they travelled, the scarcer the sun became. By the eighth day, the Diviners had anticipated that there would be no more light and that the crew would have to utilise their low-light vision implements and enchantments to avoid the ship becoming a beacon of disturbance. In August, the Diviners had said, the Royal Raven may not see the Plane of Radiance at all.

This far south, the air had also grown frosty. Were it not for the strange conversions the Dwarves made to the ship, there would be hoar frost covering the barge's decks.

At the same time, the giant icebergs passing by were making her Cameron-inspired PTSD flare. However, Gwen had been assured that there would be no "Titanic", certainly not with Mages like Richard aboard who could drain a dozen freight holds of water without breaking a sweat.

Together with their Dwarven companions, who could repair the ship so long as it remained in a single piece, their only worry would be that which was unknown.

Day Eight.

The unknown.

First came the clouds, so dense as to have substance.

Then came the darkness, an absence of light so total that even low-light vision, perfect for starlight, had reached its limits. The arrival of the Antarctic winds had likewise defeated the mechanism put in place by the Dwarves to radiate the residual heat from the Fabricator Engine, forming slippery ice deposited by clattering squalls of sleet. After that, the drift ice, the long-promised menace of the South Ocean, made its presence known in the form of screeching scraps and crunching groans against the barge's side.

Progress, which had seemed fair for the last seven days, slowed instantly to a halt. The Walls of Force that reinforced the hull flickered, offering hysterical bursts of light as the heavy-duty Ether engines thrummed, adding to the effect of Shatter spells used for deep excavation. In addition to the weight of the ice, the Royal Raven's Militant Faction Captain had to keep the ship in perpetual motion, for the ice became living things of constant dynamism. Though the Raven could arguably free itself, a moored Breaker Barge more than likely found itself ensnared by ice up the sides of its hull, which, if significant enough, would make them sitting ducks for predators from the Elemental Plane of Ice.

Once the weather fouled, the Mage Flights scouts were wholly withdrawn, as the darkness made anything other than clairvoyance futile. Even the Diviners unhappily reported that Elemental Ice and Air were so thick in these parts that any monster of these Elements would be undetectable as long as the weather continued, making the ship arguably blind.

Ergo, they were up against the unknowable, undetectable, and unseeable.

Of course, Gwen still had the Omni Orb to correlate with the Diviners, meaning they couldn't be lost for long. Ergo, focusing only on avoiding dense ice, the Royal Raven barged its way south, negotiating for Humanity's re-entry into the South Pole.

Day nine.

Gwen saw nothing but snow, glimmering in the perpetual twilight from bow to stern. White as linen and limitless as the horizon, the snow spread in every direction, with only the trail of broken ice left by the Royal Raven as evidence that they were in motion. Then, to the steam-exhaling crew's amazement, their Magister opened the double-sealed doorway—then stepped into the fresh morning ice, her hair billowing in the cross breeze.

And while the others wore magical garments of warmth like armour against the chill, she wore only her crow-suit.

After a moment of circulating her Almudj-blessed mana, Gwen affirmed a hypothesis.

As suspected, she was impervious to cold, at least in terms of climate. She acknowledged the bone chill, but the adverse sensation was temporary. Instead, she felt akin to Bondi in autumn, where the first few minutes spent in the sea made one's teeth chatter, but quickly, after dozen waves, the wetsuit voided the cold, and activity only made one cosy.

"You're insane." Charlene arrived beside her, wearing an attractively silhouetted armour built for the extreme cold, shivering despite the HDMs invested. "Your armour has only a Tier II Weather Seal."

As the young woman spoke, her breaths turned to mist, making her criticism comical.

"I'll be fine." Gwen smiled back, seeing that she was joined by Richard, Petra and Lulan, who had all come to observe the spectacle. "But let's inform the teams. We'll start our acclimatisation training now, and let's see if we can find some locals to test our mettle."

Day Twelve.

Hours before arrival, the crew gathered to survey their future landing.

The leadership of the Royal Raven stood on the forecastle, forming a reverse V, each with grim expressions as they surveyed the path ahead.

Their ship had yet to arrive at the destined cove, though it was now close enough for the Mages to marvel at the glowing furnace of a mountain dispelling the fingerless dark.

No longer did they rely on their low-light vision, for only in the brilliance of a thousand Day Light orbs fired from Dwarven Spellswords could the scope of the catastrophe be ascertained.

"What the hell is this?" Richard half-leaned against the rails with Lea hanging overhead, arms wrapped against his body to keep her Master warm. "That doesn't look like soil."

"It's Soot." Gwen touched a clawed finger to Ariel's fur after her Familiar retrieved a paw full of mushy snow. From the looks of things, there was more ash than powder, with the slush-pack instantly melting in her hands, staining the boat's grey dock and her dark gauntlet with the stink of old sulphur.

"Weather's not particularly frigid." Charlene opened the collar of her protective suit. "I can even feel my fingers."

The Ravenport's observation was answered only by the moaning of the unseen wind, carrying a scent that was both rotten and foetid, dredging up memories of Shenyang.

"It's winter," Gwen murmured, her blood cooling more than the others, knowing that the implications of what she saw held a far larger impact than volcanic pollution. "It's dark as well. Yet, it isn't freezing here, and everything is covered in soot. The weather—the Elemental Balance is completely off the charts."

"SHAA—!" Caliban, playing the role of an impromptu measuring stick, slithered up the ship's side.

A few of the Mages, joined by Hanmoul, ran to her mewling fiend and ran what looked to be a measuring implement across its lower body.

"Himmseg above, lassie. It ain't looking good." The Dwarf returned with the bad news. "The Elemental Ash reading is over twenty times what yer Meister recorded on his visit."

Her Cambridge staff confirmed the Dwarf's finding.

Gwen gulped. But even as she tried to digest the direness of Hanmoul's words and read the writing on the wall, her Divination Senses gave no quarter.

_DING!_ Several Message spells bloomed at once.

"SHAA—SHAA—!" Caliban contorted itself, pointing its faceless head toward the distance.

A few pinpoints of light, bright orange and with the likeness of fireflies, appeared and disappeared like air traffic signals on top of desolate skyscrapers.

Gwen focused both mana and essence on her eyes, forcing her vision into a strained state of hyper-clarity.

She saw… long necks, a hound's jaws, wings… no tail, culminating in a flock… of fiery things, half the size of Golos, but more than making up for the loss with quantity.

"Charlene, tell the crew to prepare for battle," she gave her recommendation at once. Whatever these flying lizards were, they were not approaching the ship to trade or demand tea. "Wyverns, likely Chimeras of sorts. They look like bats, but with a protracted torso."

"Ashworld Wyrmbats, your Magistership." The zoologist interrupted her flow of consciousness, holding a magical looking-glass in one hand. "We should be careful. The ash they spread is highly corrosive, and burn wounds cannot be cured with non-magical means."

"ALL HANDS—BATTLE STATIONS!" Hanmoul was suit-clad and clattering down the ship's metal deck before Charlene had finished giving her human crew the orders to crack up the shielding and the Resonators. With a roar, a dozen War Golems on the foredeck began to steam and thrum, their backs opening to reveal the receptacle for their Golem-suited pilots. Elsewhere, the sides of the ship, heavily modified by the Dwarven crew, began to blossom like an iron flower, revealing gunning platforms, each housing the Iron Guard's artillery units.

Gwen shouted into her Message device, telling her Shadow Mages to protect the ship and crew in the instance of an unlikely boarding, advising that they leave the ranged fighting to the war machines.

"Master Hanmoul!" Charlene's voice came over the shared intercom channel for the commanding officers. "Do we hold our position?"

"Nay—lassie!" Hanmoul's gruff voice was aflame with battle passion, mixed with the distinct clang of cranking shafts slotting mana crystals into micro-furnace chambers. With a hiss, the Spellswords on the backs of his artillery squad grew erect. "FULL STEAM AHEAD, lassie! Let ter Iron Guards show yer how us Dwarves defend a Citadel!"