In her early twenties, Gwen had been extremely popular with middle-aged managers. Thankfully, the men that now came to see her were future employees and not suitors.

Even better, when the veterans of the Militant Faction arrived, Gwen was happy to discover that her candidates were of sound mind and skill, as opposed to the frayed folk found in Sydney's infamous slot machine farms.

It was a spectacular sight that instantly conjured the Chief Editor of the Sun Herald, who had assumed that a new protest was in the works. When his bleached blonde reporter asked questions like: "What foul grievances have Magister Song committed this time?" promising that " _The Sun_ will be your voice!" The hopeful veterans were ready to drown the witch in the dockland's polluted waters before the Bunker's Dwarven sentries intervened.

Their anger was understandable; over the yesteryear, the collapse and subsequent restoration of the Veteran's Pension had left many Militant patrons greatly dissatisfied with the outcome. It wasn't so much that they had lost capital—rather, it was the case of their friends and families in the Grey and Middle Factions seeing their pension double due to investments in the IoDNC. The disgruntlement was further aggravated by veterans in the Norfolk Fund having boasted that their nest eggs were magnitudes larger than their peers.

Therefore, the news spread like wildfire when Thomas brokered her offer under House Lancaster's authority. The lower rank and files heeded the call, and a perfect cocktail of envy and greed grew their ambitions far beyond vague promises of loyalty.

Her unforeseen popularity empowered Gwen to warrant full-page spreads in the METRO, offering the same terms to civil employees looking to fortify their pensions. The same offer had also been delivered to the refugee camps. However, quantifying qualifications in the absence of degrees and documents made the discovery of "authentic" talent a long-term affair.

Nonetheless, she could relax a little, thanks to the influx of human bodies. As an upper-tier consultant, Gwen knew that a city's administration was not something a paper general like herself could handle.

She would be the Viceroy of the Mageocracy's authority—but the true actors of her municipality would be her Assistant City Managers, hand-reared by Walken and then delivered to Shalkar. She would also have to borrow a handful of experienced administrators from Gunther's Sydney Tower so that her city would have its triumvirate of Factions.

The _Militants_ would handle communication, police, fire and rescue.

The _Middle Faction_ would manage the permits, inspections, planning and developments.

And finally, the _Greys_ would regulate general services, commerce, and trade.

She would head the Administration Bureau and, most importantly, keep a claw on the budget.

As for the city's auditing, she was thinking of handing over her Flights of Shadow Mages to Richard, creating a "Chief of Staff's Office" to oversee a cross-sectional evaluation of the various departments. Combined with the light of the London auditor's office, the shadowy use of the Manipuri Mages' unique talents and their Ruxin-inspired loyalty would leave no account unmolested.

As a pragmatist, Gwen welcomed corruption, theft and exploitation in constructing her new city. Such liberties were necessary to keep the gears of progress oiled and moving forward. That said, she would also make a public spectacle of those who overstep the boundaries of greed into willful destruction. For these men and women, be they Rat, Horse or Men, she possessed means to make them confess to every sin.

Sincerely, Gwen hoped she would never come to the use of _that_.

The reality, Gwen knew, was seldom so hopeful.

That was why she would have the city's mission statements contracted in bold black fonts. All participants would express consent and willingness to follow agreeable tenets of mutual profit before they embark upon the journey.

For those whose greed would not produce even an iota of public good—may Yog-Sothoth savour their souls.

Despite the promises of grandeur sold by Magister Song to the three Factions of the Commonwealth Mageocracy, London's refugee crisis continued to decay. By October's end, the House of Commons could no longer keep a lid on the simmering sentiments of the nation's citizens. At every level of society, from the Lords and Ladies sick of seeing the refugees to the common man fearful of having their work snatched up by itinerate labourers, all _vagrants_ were relocated from the Mageocracy's capital.

Even the Isle of Dogs, singularly responsible for handling the majority of resettlements, had to shut down its charity operations as all non-Magically gifted refugees were exorcised from London proper into camps on the rural east coast. To Gwen's knowledge, the Tories' only charity was that the region was long pacified, with monsters few and far and the Magical Creatures long domesticated.

As for herself, the stress was giving her split ends.

Between Elvia's operation leaving the city for Suffolk and her catching snatches of sleep between magical lessons and preparation audits, her sanity was growing threadbare. Yet, rather than fighting the local authorities or trying to bribe the administrators, she channelled her growing irritation into organising the legal logistics of the Commonwealth's displaced citizens. As Walken had advised, whatever feelings the capital might possess for the diaspora of their Frontier folk, the duties of dominion had to be demonstrated to its citizens and their critics looking from the outside.

Between her myriad errands, she took out a few hours to luncheon with the work-worn body of Magus Williams, the American _Technomancer_ , a title that was as good as official nomenclature.

Gwen had read the man's report—or rather Gracie had—but the results were positive enough for her to want to hear it from the horse's mouth.

With a glazed and greedy look, the academic poured over the Ilias Leaf like a father over a sick child, tracing his fingers along every vein and node.

"We _can_ make the photosynthetic Essence work." The NoM erudite turned the leaf repeatedly as if every flip offered new bouts of inspiration. "We can use Dwarven Runecraft to construct artificial thylakoids by forming micro-pillars of chloroplasts, but the framework still requires Essence to activate. Mana, or what we have of it, is far too rude an energy source."

"Please don't speak in tongues." Gwen dug into her beef Wellington. "In layman's terms, what does that mean?"

"We can make the conduits, but we don't have the fuel source," the American explained. "Magister Brown tells me you can produce Essence yourself as a Vessel? There are other Vessels as well—and I am sure the New World will have its share—but the energy you're looking for, Magister Song, is on a magnitude unimaginable to any individual, even Dragons."

"Would it be _imaginable_ for a World Tree?" Gwen asked. She fondly thought of Sufina, who would probably wink at William, driving him wild with longing.

Williams gave her words some thought.

"I am sorry." The Technomancer's brows furrowed. "I don't have access to that branch of classified data."

Gwen's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. She had worked so often with so many others with knowledge on the subject matter for so long that she had forgotten that everything associated with the Hvítálfar was shrouded in mystique.

"But it IS possible to mimic the Ilias Leaf's design?" She asked. "On paper."

"I know we can, but it is neither cheap nor convenient," Williams had barely touched his food lest he spent a few minutes away from the priceless specimen. "We can reduce the size, cost and scale over time if you choose to industrialise the process, but for now, we're looking at something the size of a building."

"How big of a building?" Gwen asked.

"The exchange unit is at least the size of a hay barn." The man illustrated the size with his hands. "Excluding service buildings, parts storage, tooling sheds. The receiver unit will be barely man-portable—but that's beside the point. We have nothing to power the pair, even if we make it. The nodes cannot work with mana. For all we know, the whole thing will shatter, instantly vaporising the porter of the receiver unit. If the exchange unit blows up well, it could do real damage—"

"I see." Gwen acknowledged the future lawsuit. She took a bite and a sip. For Soho, the Beef Wellington was quite good.

"Well?" William met her eyes. "Do you still want to sink… HDMs into this?"

"I do." Gwen was already glad the idea was possible. "Essence-wise, I can spare a dozen _cubes_ now and then, though these will be Essence mixed with my mana. The next stage would be exploring the possibility of utilising this type of hybrid fuel. Am I correct to assume you will be coming with us to Shalkar?"

"I am." the Magus nodded eagerly. "I've contacted a few interested parties from home as well. My colleagues from MIT also wish to see your work first-hand and speak to you regarding the communication network. As you are aware, high-sorcery Demi-humans are far and in between in the New World. The absence of the Hvítálfar and the rarity of Dökkálfar constitutes a significant gap in our access to ancient magic."

The man finally took a bite of his Beef Wellington. The American frowned. "What a waste of a perfect cut. Give me charcoal and good basting any day."

Gwen waited for the Bostonian to continue.

"Do you wish me to continue the work even in Shalkar?"

"I do," Gwen replied. "Working proofs of concept are an important part of my forecasts."

"You should take these blueprints to the Boston," Williams said seriously. "There are better scholars there than I. Since our nation's founding away from the Mageocracy, our Magisters have worked with workarounds so much that it's become an institution unto itself. What you've asked of me can become an amazing magitech, Magister Song, for Mages and NoMs everywhere. However, in London at least, I don't believe building a proof-of-concept model is possible."

Gwen raised a brow. "Not here in London? The heart of Spellcraft?"

"Not to disparage our cousins of the far green isle." William looked sheepish. "But did you notice that they're very… traditional?"

"Not at all," Gwen smiled sardonically. "But do go on."

"There's a certain… rigidity? Something baked into the formulae of the sorcery and the way it's taught here. Especially at the tertiary institutes, there's a reverence for the craft of the Demi-humans, whose theories they had inherited while neglecting _Human_ potential. Likewise, there's a parallel rigidity regarding Mages and NoMs. If your _Essence Repeater_ would work, would the Tower help or _impede_ its implementation? I would guess the latter."

"Is that an official statement from Magus John C. Williams of MIT?" Gwen teased the man, making his cheeks bloom a dark scarlet. "I am a Magister of The Shard, you know? And a research fellow at Cambridge University."

Stolen novel; please report.

"Tis the ramblings of a drunk." The American pointed a fork at the untouched red wine. "I am sure London has the capabilities to do what you wish, though the New World could do it faster, better, and at a fraction of the cost and complications. Our Magitech manufacturing is second to none, and you'll need far more than the Dwarves are willing to spare for the coverage you envision."

Gwen considered the man's limited hypothesis of what she had in mind. John was a good investment, though the man gave outlandish advice. Things might be harder in London, but here was her base. Here, she had tentacles across the Mageocracy's various estates. The New World might offer incredible opportunities, but she would have to pay a steep price to pinpoint the cost of business. If she _were_ to build a base in the New World, it would manifest as a Direct Foreign Investment, a direct acquisition of a local Magitech firm.

The two exchanged more hypothesises. Luncheon ended, and William received orders to gather his research to be ready for transportation via the ISTC in a month or two.

As for the new Viceroy, she returned to her labours. For a freshly assigned demesne, the Shard would provide the lion's share of the budget through a bond. The volume of resources the Mageocracy dedicated to a Magister depended on their clout. The more a regent of the state loaned from the nation, the less profitable their venture became for their backers. Comparatively, the more profit a Magister sought for their Factional allies, the greater the resources they would have to pull from private pockets.

Success, meaning profitability, was a precarious balance designed to minimise the Mageocracy's budgetary burdens during periods of expansion, using the Mageocracy's political authorisation as a mediator between competing interests. According to Williams, the New World had done away with such restraints from the government, having corporatised the colonial process, leaving the reigns of power in the hands of the "people". Gwen could guess what the man meant by the "people", though she held little faith that these noble-minded folk Williams extolled were different from the _nobles_ of the Mageocracy.

But that was for the future. In the present, Gwen had to organise inventory and conduct interviews. She also had her magic to learn, and in the spare moments after that, she would have to pick apart the cat's cradle that is Shalkar al-Jadeedah's multi-racial diplomacy.

Two months.

Her many labours were a good distraction while she waited for her milestones to arrive, one in the form of Golos, who should soon be ready, and the other in the womb of her Astral Body, within which Caliban stirred.

There was also the matter of Ariel's newest nourishments, assuming that the House of M was successful in its procurement. Even so, until she had a handle on Cali and Gogo, she could not afford also having her Lightning Familiar fall into Draconic slumber.

Hopefully, before a fresh calamity struck the construction of her shining city on the hill, all her deterrents would be ready.

The dreary days of October gave way to the frigid mornings of November, then invariably invited the unwelcome winter to ravage the Mageocracy's shivering holdings.

In the middle of December, following a solar eclipse that saw an upswell of Mermen incursions and a meteor shower that shook skies over Carrauntoohil and sent the Fomorians flooding into the foothills, a rare and unusual guest arrived at The Shard's VIP ISTC array.

Magus Slylth McAllister Morden, by invitation but not really, was met by his contemporaries from the Imperial College. As he materialised, the young _Mage's_ patience was at an all-time low, for he had applied to visit The Shard in October, only to be held up by his duties in Suilven.

Another Mage of his influence and talent could have rescinded their participation in the Purge of the Fomori raids, but not so Slylth. As a part of his promise to Mother, he had certain duties which he had to fulfil, chief of which was the duty of his Clan and kind, the stabilisation of the Axis Mundi in Carrauntoohil.

Once the Fomori lay smoking and crispy on the hillside, Slylth waited until his mother returned to her slumber, then answered the affirmative invitation from London Imperial. His only concern had been the viability of the Glyph placed upon his Core for what mother had called his "live-action role-playing", though his safe arrival at Heathrow had disproven his paranoia.

According to mother dearest, London was the heart of the Mageocracy, and its security was second to none in the human world. Now that he was here, Slylth could only huff at the ignorance of the Humans. Presently, his combat potential as a Human Mage exceeded what his _true_ but youthful body could accomplish. Even so, the chaos he could sow could be nothing short of catastrophic, especially as the Human Queen would not dare to take Slylth's life. Of course, Slylth would never do such a thing, for he had grown fond of these mortal beings with their interesting, fleeting lives. Nonetheless, the knowledge that he "could" ignite the city made Slylth's heart a little happy.

"Lord Morden." The Magister leading the contingent bowed deeply, drawing eyes from around the ISTC station. The attention was pleasing to Slylth, who nodded at the man and allowed the others to introduce themselves. "Welcome to London."

"I am welcomed," Slylth announced. Here in the Human city, he could almost smell the scent of the female that had preyed upon his mind for months. He even felt his Draconic heart quicken, for it could hardly wait.

"Shall we begin our tour with The Shard itself?" The Magister announced with a face full of smiles. "We have prepared a banquet as well, though I am sure an academic like yourself would be foremostly interested in The Shard's many projects. If Suilven could guide us on anything that may interest you, we would be honoured."

"You're far too humble," Slylth dismissed the man's obvious lies. "Though there is something you can help me with which will bring this Morden great joy."

The Magister and his colleagues stood to attention. By now, a crowd had gathered to witness the spectacle that was Slylth's casual regard for the azure-robed Magisters and Maguses. Slylth, who considered his human form the epitome of perfection, possessed no doubt his noble visage had ignited the curiosity of his onlookers.

"Ask, and you shall receive." The Magister laughed, clearing a path for Slylth. "Walk with us, Master Morden. Be literal in your desires."

Slylth held his patience for a second more before finally delivering the line he'd been waiting on for two months. "Then I shan't be a stranger, Magister Clyde. Bring me _Gwen Song._ I have an interest in her."

The Magister almost appeared to stumble before he restored himself. "Sorry? Master Morden, did you say Gwen Song?"

"Yes," Slylth affirmed his request. "She is a female favoured by Lord Ill—by the er… Frost Lord of the South Seat. You know her, surely? She is a Vessel. Bring her here to me."

The Mages footsteps slowly came to a halt. Looking at their expressions, the Magister and Maguses seemed as troubled as he was confused.

" _Bring_ … Magister Song?" The man squinted. "To your lordship?"

"Yes." Slylth was growing a little annoyed. "Use teleportation if you must."

The men looked at one another.

"I don't think… _anyone_ can do that except maybe Lord Ravenport or our most esteemed eternal rose of the House of Winsor," Magister Clyde explained. "I can put in a petition for your lordship, though I do not believe it will be heeded for some time."

Slylth felt a strange emptiness in his chest, like someone had scooped something out and tossed it away. "Why not?"

"She's not here in London," the Magister said. "Magister Song has long since left London for Shalkar, her new domain. To recall her would take a feat far beyond what we can manage at London Imperial—I fear it would have to be a true emergency."

Slylth felt like he was about to give Magister Clyde a _true emergency_.

"She's not here?" he repeated.

"Nor can we compel her if she was." The Magister's bewilderment was palpable. "Is something the matter?"

" _Yes._ " it was all Slylth could do to keep the Glyph on his Dragon Heart stable. "I want her. I am going to Shalkar."

The Mages around him fell silent.

"Is that a _problem_?" Slylth demanded, his voice growing sulky. To have his prize snatched away by something as trivial as _distance_ was beyond infuriating. His Flight spells were mediocre at best, and the velocity of his true body was likely unimpressive compared to their cousins of Lightning. "Where is Shalkar, anyhow? Is it near the Fire Sea?"

"Shalkar is... far. And there is also an issue." The Magister's tone stiffened. "Shalkar is a special operations zone overseen by Magister Song. Without her consent, a Mage of your prestige and calibre will be unable to set foot in her domain. We will do our best to grant you privileges befitting your station, Magus, but you're an esteemed _guest_ —not one of The Shard's preeminent operatives… Umm...are you quite alright, Magus Morden?"

Slylth circulated his mana until his irate temper cooled. For a second, all he could see was flaming hellfire, volcanic eruptions, and his sleek red body tearing through those reflective buildings outside The Shard. The most difficult aspect of his self-control was to keep his Dragon Fear from leaking—an act of such supreme effort that his human physique almost peed.

"I NEED to be in Shalkar," he announced to his hosts, his face almost the colour of his scales. "Please, make it so."

"We… can put in a request." Magister Clyde and the others did not appear to relax even as Slylth's aura dimmed. "And the final say… will need to be affirmed by Magister Song. However, meanwhile, there's plenty to do and see in London. Many in the college are anticipating your arrival as well. It has, after all, been decades since a demand had come from his lordship, the esteemed Magi of Suilven."

As the party exited into the snow-slathered exterior of The Shard, Slylth felt as though he had accidentally shunted himself into the realm of Lord Illaelitharian.

"How long?" Slylth croaked, unused to so much Elemental ice in the air. It was calming, though. At least there was the discomfort to chill his Dragon heart.

"We'll submit a request now." Magister Clyde immediately sent off two of his Magus-tier aides. "Though from what I've heard… Magister Song is a very busy woman.."

Magister Gwen Song, Viceroy of the Britannic Mageocracy, was pouring over zoning charts and proposed city designs when her aide-de-camp, Chief Officer Richard Huang, came in with a strange expression and a desire to interrupt the long meeting.

"I am very sorry," Gwen apologised to the table of esteemed personages she had gathered from London and beyond. Of her audience, half were Dwarves, shared between her Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth allies and the new Germanic Clans seeking to repopulate the city. The larger part of the enormous pavilion tent was occupied by Centaurs and their Şöpters war priestesses, all serving under Khudu, the Khan's Cherbi. Besides her, the Rat-men occupied the smallest quadrant, with each of the twelve Clans having dispatched their elders to support Strun. Finally, Gwen and the representatives of Humanity took up a sliver of the oval planning table. "Milords and eminences, please excuse me."

She left her PowerPoint(™) sorcery operation and squeezed past the Horse Lords. Once outside, Richard led her to the camp's forecourt.

"What's the news? Is Evee coming over for a stint?" She asked with anticipation. Christmas was soon upon them, and Elvia's Ordo would be having their carols concert to raise money for the refugee resettlement. She desperately wanted to be there to support Elvia and donate in person to raise the bar—but her duties here, like Walls of Force, were keeping her caged.

"Yeah-nah," Richard shot her down without mercy. "Golos wants to talk to you about something important. He says it is _urgent_."

The middle of the forecourt housed an enormous yurt, within which her Planar Ally made his abode. The front flap was left open, allowing Gwen direct access to the giant who rested within.

Golos, the scion of the Yinglong, now improved by the Frost Wyrm's gift, was no longer so brutish. His humanoid form was akin to Ruxin's favourite guise, though far inferior in regality. Her Wyvern—or, more accurately, new _Dragon_ , paced endlessly over the velvety carpets provided by the Khan and gifted by the Khudu.

"Calamity! You're here," Golos approached, all three meters of him bristling with discomfort. Gogo's mien was now ruggedly handsome, with an aggressive masculinity that pleased Gwen's sense of aesthetics.

Gwen arrived by the former Thunder Wyvern's side. "Alright, I am here. What is it, Gogo?"

Golos took a deep breath. "I just received a vision from Father..."

"Christ." Her heart quickened. "Go on."

"Yeah. A Vision." Golo's expression remained strange. "So… you ready?"

"Ready for what?"

"The vision."

"Just say it," Gwen discerned a dark and unhappy suspicion. "I have work. And if this is a problem, we'll solve it."

"Alright." Golos' smouldering eyes sizzled. The Dragon-kin took a deep breath, then made the delivery. "Calamity… we'll soon have a new niece or nephew."

Gwen's frontal lobe flashed white. She scrolled through all the possibilities, eventually reaching the only conclusion. "HE DID IT? UNCLE finally did it? Ayxin's pregnant? Does Babulya know? HOLY SHIT, Richard! Uncle knocked up a Dragon!"

"Hahaha…" Richard shook his head. "Now that's the true measure of a man. How will Hai ever live up to that?"

Gwen's brain throbbed. Her uncle, the Dragon layer, was now a Dragon daddy.

Richard patted her shoulder. "Perhaps it's time… to call Uncle Jun and congratulate him, eh? Imagine, cousin, our youngest cousin, a Dragon-kin!"

Gwen agreed. She should call and congratulate them, maybe send them a pallet of the finest milk powder from Australia.

Still, looking at Golos, she had to agree with a certain something.

Now was a joyous occasion, so why were their hearts so agitated? If she were to go by instinct... the news almost felt like... the opening act... to some unknown, long-conceived calamity.


Gwen wasted an uncertain number of minutes doing the equivalent of standing next to the ocean and having a smoko to tether her feelings to the correct pylons.

In Huangshan, she had fancied Jun as a supplementary father figure, and that had given her a rare happiness she hadn't known in either of her lives.

Her cynical consciousness also knew without a doubt that her feelings were no more particular than the pharmaceutical euphoria Dr Monroe had prescribed and that any fulfilling joy of daughterhood was merely a fleeting Ryxi among the Huangshan fog.

Instead, she should be happy.

Uncle Jun had given her a kickstart to success that the dickhead Hai never managed.

And now that Jun was a father, the responsible thing to do was to be a good aunt.

Or so Gwen narrated to herself.

After a while, Golos joined her.

"Calamity, you look pale." The newly evolved Dragon-kin's voice was more mellow than his previous self. As a being with whom she had shared more mortal moments than a daring cartoon mouse, she knew Golos was now different. Still, to have an empathetic Gogo was stranger than fiction. Incredibly, upon his arrival, her Planar Ally had even suggested bringing his brood, meaning Phelara and the chicks, over to Shalkar.

Her future city, Golos had explained, sat on a significant node of the Axis Mundi. Beneath it, her Dwarves had little use for the crystallised Air and Water within their craftsmen's furnaces, which were separated for trade. And considering the geo-political landscape here, she needed a guardian to keep an eye on the Demi-humans.

Her Dragon's suspicious proposal had sounded like Ruxin talking. That said, she wanted to believe in Golo's new bloodline. Certainly, Ruxin's demesne was profitable, Ryxi's was bountiful, and Ayxin had made Huangshan verdant and rich when she stood in for the Yinglong.

It was only Golos' domain that stood out as Blackheath.

Logically, there was only Golos' inferior bloodline to blame, for it wasn't as though Dragons attended Civil Service classes. QED, Gwen deeply suspected that genetic knowledge tied to the "Essence" of Dragons had much to do with their innate wisdom and knowledge.

"I am fine, Gogo," she replied. "Thanks for asking."

"Heehee, just thought I'd ask," Golos cackled. "A quick query, Calamity, would you mind if I sowed my seeds around here? Some of those Şöpters have been throwing themselves at me and the mares as well…"

Gwen instantly rescinded all of her praise for Golos.

She gave a hard, critical stare at the homeless vagabond.

"… How about the rats? I know you favour egalitarianism. I don't discriminate, Calamity. I am the fairest of them all, heeheehee…”

"Golos," Gwen said seriously. "Let's build the city first, shall we? After things settle down and we have a home for the refugees, you can work on nesting. I'll even commission a building for you and your… _brood_ if you're serious about settling down."

"Hee, alright." Her Dragon-kin scratched his head with a claw. "When are the knife ears coming? This place has no trees at all. I don't think Phalera and the chicks will like that. As their aunty, you should do something."

A very human part of Gwen wanted to shout that she was in no way an "aunt" to what must be several hundred colourfully feathered nieces. If that many Harpies surrounded their "aunt", some unknowledgeable observer would immediately consider Gwen to be the greatest betrayer in the history of humanity.

On the other hand, that Golos was a better dad than Hai was so profoundly gut-wrenching that Gwen felt obligated to play her part.

"Alright, I'll chase them up," she promised. "Let's head back. Richard must be antsy by now."

She also promised herself that she had to call Shanghai and congratulate Golos' sister and her uncle. However, that would have to wait until she set up the Divination Towers or teleported somewhere with an existing exchange.

When she returned to the giant pavilion the Dwarves had helped erect, the adjourned meeting had broken up.

That was no surprise, for the Horse Lords did not see any value in the opinions of the Şöpters nor the Rat-kins. They respected the Dwarves, but that was because the Germanic Dwarves had brought an Ancestor in the form of a Balefire Golem to insure their interests were maintained.

When the Khan had met the Balefire, he was so impressed by the display of potential destruction radiating from the expressionless metal casket that he took off his helmet and poured out his best kumis personally, hand-delivering it to the glowing furnace of the Golem. The Golem had incinerated the helm, booze and all, in a blue-blaze of ultramarine fire, sending Gwen's heart to her throat before the Khan declared the Dwarven Golem pilots honourable horses.

As for Humanity, Gwen could only say that Ollie's hair loss was not in vain.

She had given her fellow Magister a week off to nurse his scalp and catch up in London. She understood perfectly that the Horse Lords, the premier "war band" in the region, fundamentally saw little difference between the bipedal Şöpter and the non-magical Humans. A month ago, Ollie's proposal of introducing "weak" refugees to the area had utterly confused the Centaurs and made the Khan fume.

With her return to the region, the Khan's tone had instantly changed, for he respected the Afaa Al-Halak Garp, which meant he rightly held concerns for its priestess, Magister Gwen Song of the Shard. As for the humans under Magister Song's rule, they were Şöpter sycophants, at best chattel, at worst parasites, which deserved no respect from the haughty Horse Lord Warrior castes.

Or, as Richard had elucidated, "You can shake the hand of the dog belonging to the woman who can swallow your yurt, but you don't sit her dog with your daughter at the banquet."

Which was, Gwen guessed, why Golo's suggestion made incredible sense—assuming Golos himself could be at all trusted to "rule" a coalition of competing interests.

Within the pavilion, her attention was redirected by the waving hand of Richard, who stood head and shoulders above the Germanic Dwarven ambassador.

The homogeny of the Dwarves was, for Gwen, another source of wonderment, one offset by her latent knowledge that Dwarves were not so much like Humans, who belonged to continental homes and cultures, but hailed originally from a single mega-metropolis—Deepholm.

Thereby, to call them "German Dwarves" was a misnomer, for the correct breakdown was closer to that of _Brethren lost on the Himsegg, now living in the mountains the Humans called Bavaria._ If she had to draw an analogy, Dwarven homogeny was best captured in the classic Aussie anthem by Men at Work _._ Be it Bombay, Brussels or a fried-out Kombi—the Dökkálfar lived _down under_ , ran forges that glower, pubs where men chunder, factories where Golems thunder, in mines with minerals to plunder. And no matter where under the crust the Dwarves may find themselves, they all ate sausage on Stone Bread, drank copious amounts of beer, and knew a cousin or nephew living in another Citadel.

She could almost hear the song playing as she hailed the thickly bearded ambassador, Stone Lord Yossock Axenhoff, son of Nossal Axenhoff.

"Milord Axehoff." She slightly bowed when speaking to the ancient Greybeard. The venerable Engineseer was the Forge Master of Vethr Hjodlik Kjangtoth, the White Citadel under Zugspitze, known in Dwarven as the Sword Spire. The master crafter, according to their earlier meeting, had blood relatives within the now hollowed-out _Mimm Agaeth Kjangtoth_ , the Citadel below Shalkar. "How fares your talks with The Cherbi?"

"Poorly, I fear." The ambassador shrugged, nesting both hands in the folds of his enormous braided beard, the length and weight of which had made Hanmoul green with envy. "A proud lot, but young—too young a race to have as much arrogance as they put on."

The ambassador's dismissal of the Horse Lords was within Gwen's calculations, for Axenhoff's concern was an existential conflict between a local civilisation a thousand years in the making against the considerations of a culture whose Balefire Ancients were a thousand years old.

"We'll mill them down with kindness," Gwen promised with a smile. Her confidence lay in the Shaman Saran, teacher to Temir, Khan of Khans, a priestess who held her Elven allies in total and complete reverence. She knew not what horns the Şöpter held the Khan with, but the giant Centaur seemed to put great faith in the woman's advice. She had few good guesses as to why a Wyrm-chopping Horse King would listen to a smiling sheep, but she was thankful. "Of course, the Horse Lords are no threat to _Mimm Agaeth._ They're wary of any space without the blue sky overhead, much less the impossibility of breaking a Citadel."

"That may be true." Axenhoff stroked his beard. "But our fortunes, at least until the deep granaries are established, will be tied to the supply of produce provided by the Mageocracy. Those, to my understanding, are grown under the Himsegg, yes?"

"With the blessing of our Hvítálfar allies, food and fodder should fall in line," Gwen assured the ambassador. "Although our knife-eared friends are not my only insurance for Shalkar Al-jadeedah. In the outskirts lie our Afaa al-Halak guardian of the city, and in the future, Lord Golos may very well nest among the city's highest _Tower_. Between the two of them, there shall be peace."

"Peace by the might of arms?" The ambassador gave her a sideways glance. "Is that wise for a region so infamous for Elemental incursions?"

Gwen redirected the ambassador's gaze toward the table, where her PowerPoint (™) presentation had remained frozen in time.

"Might is temporary, but peace by profit lasts as long as there is money to be made," Gwen reminded the Greybeard. "The world is in chaos, venerable Engineseer, and we are here to provide the grain, the grease, and the motivation to see the chains reforged. We need your Dyar Morkk. You need our support."

"The richness of the Steppes is temporary. That was the last point of our discussion." Axenhoff raised a stubby, thickly-skinned finger. "My point remains. Our Citadel would outlast your stability. In my opinion, conjoining our cities is a poor choice. Our Deepdowners have grown liberal, thanks to our work with the Germanic peoples—but they won't stand for such _varadam_."

"Human lives are short," Gwen did not refute the man's criticism of the more mortal races. "However, longitudinal goals have only marginal correlations to immediate opportunities, which, once lost, shall not come again. When will _Mimm Agaeth_ see another opportunity as we have now? How much longer will it take to transfer a hundred thousand Dwarves overland to repopulate the shattered Citadel and reopen the clogged veins of the Dyar Morkk? The longer your people wait, the longer the low ways remain lost and crumbling, perhaps forever to the _Sinneslukare_."

The Dwarven Greybeard appeared to be physically assaulted by her sibilance.

"The Mind Eaters do not wait a hundred years," Gwen continued. "The longer the Citadels of the Deep remain disconnected from Deephelm, the greater the chance that Aberrants have taken over. Following our investigations in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, did Vethr Hjodlik not also find these saboteurs in your midst? The news from Deepholm—if they can be trustworthy, was a bit of a quake, no?"

"Aye." The Dwarves, as always, were categorically against the notion of weaselling around the truth.

Gwen's tone turned sympathetic.

"You are not alone. Dwarven participation and investment are essential. As I said, a percentage of all products created by the Rat-kin will be made available at wholesale price to your people. The city, once built, will supply this entire region and its restoration operations. Once the Dyar Morkk underneath is live and active, you can connect this entire webwork of the lost citadels back into the European low-ways. The benefit for your folk is existential, while for us, the economic and logistical boons are immeasurable. We both profit. Our foes have only woe."

Gwen indicated the reports she had produced on the projected production of goods in the region, which rested with the Engineer's aides. She understood very well the position of the Dwarves. They were already invested in expanding the Dyar Morkk into Shalkar Al-jadeedah, the last hurdle to be crossed was merely the stubbornness to create an inverse "Himsegg" city. Thankfully, her "Bunker" on the Isle of Dogs was already a concrete example that such a design could work—albeit their planned project was on a far larger scale.

"There will be trouble. We will have clashes. I have no doubt my people's conflict with the Horse Lords will be pre-eminent. However, I would like you to think of such inconveniences as merely the cost of business. These are not situations to be resolved—Milord, but tinkered over time, tempered by unceasing hammer blows."

The ambassadors' expression softened.

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"We will deliberate on this," the Greybeard promised.

"Please do, and do continue to attend our council meetings. Richard, can you see to our guests?" Gwen bowed her head. "Also, tell Pats we'll be having dinner together. She and Williams have been wielded to that Fabricator for weeks."

Richard obliged.

Gwen then took the opportunity to retreat toward the enormous round table, where her Rat-kin allies demurely waited their turn.

"Strun." She arrived with an air of authority, but could not help patting the fury, piebald head of her Champion.

The Rat-kin allowed her fingers to glide through his luxurious fur. A little over a year since their meeting, Strun was now a father of several hundred Ratlings. Her Rat-kin had promised to raise them as an elite guard in her service that would eclipse the Shadow Mages. The man was serious, for his children, each bearing minute motes of Almudj's blessed Essence, was already twice the size of regular rat babies.

Gwen had explained that proper nutrition, rather than starvation and slavery, was likely the cause, but the Rat-kin were adamant that the "Priestess of the Afaa-al-Halak" had elevated the fur-balls and they should gift her their life in turn.

"You didn't have to wait for me." Gwen greeted the hunchbacked Rat-kin elders in their sand-coloured cloaks. There were a few broad-shouldered youths among them—but most of the tribes preferred to have the longest-surviving members as leaders. "The meeting's done, as you can see. We'll have to hash things out another time."

Three of the Elders, Rat-kins from the Clan Chuluu, Plithf, and Kalk, dropped to their knees. "O Great Priestess, please gift our Clan with obedience, that we may also prosper from the gift of Lord Garp's Essence."

Strun caught the old fellows before they could perform a full-bodied kowtow. Gwen had clearly expressed her dislike for such displays, though Strun's growing success was an irresistible advertisement.

With time, the Soul link between Garp and Strun had been strengthened, particularly by Strun's ability to communicate with the Earthen Wyrm. The result of such a connection was a Rat-kin who stood as tall as a Human, with the vitality and strength of a Centaur Tumen. Even the Khan's Cherbi, Khudu, gave word that Strun was a formidable warrior and that in sharing a helm of brewed goat's curd with the Rat-kin, the rat should no longer be considered a Tasmüyiz but a "warrior".

And when Strun rode Garp on patrols of the region, uprooting the infestations of Afaa-al-Halak larvae and bursting Sand Wolve dens like a grown man kicking a termite mound—observing eyes had grown rounder and rounder.

The other Clans had already sent their daughters to Strun—but the Rat-kin's growing political power worried them all.

Very soon, Strun would not be a Rat-kin but a Rat-KING.

Of this, Gwen was of two minds.

Strun, as well as the others she had blessed during their exodus, was bound to her. They could not disobey her will if she exercised her Necromancy. It meant that Strun as "King" would bring absolute pacification to the Rat-related issues in Shaklka Al-jadeedah. At the same time, she knew human nature too well to know that tyranny was not the way forward.

Eventually, she would be tempted to rule rather than govern—for subtle applications of Soul Tap could easily subdue the Centaurs, control the Rats, and bring the surrounding Demi-human tribes into the fold.

It would be a catastrophic success—particularly if the Shard then categorically decided they did not fancy a prospective Soul Reaver pacifying the region for profit.

"I shall gift your most talented warriors with the blessing of Essence, that they may grow hale and defend your homes," she promised something she knew was agreeable to the elders but would not challenge Strun's unique position. "Rise now. All within our council chambers are equal— I do not wish to see such displays again."

After another outrageous display, the Elders stood around with nothing to say.

Gwen smiled and sighed. She knew it would take time for the Rat-kin, who were still used to their existence as Tasmüyiz, to speak their minds, so she left instructions with Strun to oversee the development of the new fields around New Shalkar.

The sooner the Dwarven delegating could see the green shoots of the potato fields arching around the horizon, the less passion their resistance would possess, especially if mountainous truckloads were being moved onto barges for export, away from thirsty distilleries.

Her next stop was with the Horse Lords, who had taken the opportunity to leave the insufferable indoors for a game of Buzkashi outdoors. With Strun keeping watch, there was no Tasmüyiz used as a ball.

Many of her allied folks had gathered to observe the Horse Lords. The Dwarves, in particular, were already discussing if pilots could reenact such a blood-boiling sport in Golem suits, played with a magnetic oval ball, on rolling skates. The Rat-kin looked on with a strange fascination, their macabre interest caught between their passion for the sport's history and their prior, passive involvement.

Only a week ago, the newly arrived Golos had participated. With so much testosterone on sale, it was almost impossible for the Dragon not to be embroiled in the egotistical combat of physical prowess.

As expected, the newly minted drake was sufficiently "dominating" in power and agility, even in his bipedal form.

To praise the victor, the Horse Lords had come from all over to drink with the Dragon, and Golos had made new pals by promising not to eat the studs he liked.

"Milord Cherbi." Gwen found the sweating Centaur dripping wet under the blistering sun. The tall gent, his body alive with vivid tattoos and inscriptions from Saran's crafty hand, was pouring chilled buckets of water over himself while a pair of mares brushed his hair and tidied the fur of his muscular rump. Every muscle, oiled and gleaming, was on display. "I see you've made a home for yourself. It makes me glad."

"Magister Song." The Centaur's bony face grinned, revealing teeth well-stained by betel nut tea, looking like he chewed blood. "This is a good place you are building. Many strong warriors are here, from these stout iron smiths to your cousin Dragon..."

The Cherbi habitually talked about fighters like blokes discussing MMA at a water cooler.

One of the reasons the Horsemen and the Dwarves got along like a Yurt on fire, Gwen suspected, was that both had a laconic culture that respected mastery—whether its mastery of war or the knowledge of the craft. When two competing tribes of Horse-kin met on the Steppes, contests and skirmishes opened the negotiations, followed by Buzkashi or all-out war. Afterwards, the survivors got smashed on fermented cud, made merry, and came to an accord. On the other hand, Dwarven entanglements began with intoxication, leading to brawls and grudge matches, until they sobered up and returned to their serious, stoic selves.

Unexpectedly, the Centaurs shrugged at the prospect of her city being erected on their grazing grounds. A part of it might be that they've successfully razed anything anyone had ever constructed since the inception of the Khanate—that or deeper plots and ploys were a-hoof—which Gwen felt could be attributed to the Shaman Saran.

"...The Tasmüyiz have only the rat—but he is very strong indeed. As for your female swordswoman, the Horse God should have made her a mare!"

Gwen laughed politely.

"I digress. The steppes have become interesting, a good outcome."

"I am glad to hear you say that, Lord Cherbi." Gwen bowed her head, but not too much lest the Cherbi thought lowly of her respect. "As discussed, shall I count upon your support for the outer region's security?"

The Centaur snorted, blowing back a few locks of her sun-tossed hair.

In the early days of their proposal, the Cherbi had hinted at his desire for a duel—though Golo's arrival, reaffirmed by Garp's labours in literally flattening the surrounding landscape, had since put that desire to rest. Gwen suspected the challenge had initially arisen from the incompatibility of cross-cultural expectations of gender. For the Horse Lords, respect for their females was based upon wisdom and lineage, with a strong emphasis on fertility—a mare matron with many warrior children, for instance, the Cherbi's mother-mare, held momentous sway within the Sārai.

On the other hand, Gwen was a locus of power but also a childless female, which made Khudu's role as a _subordination_ existentially uncomfortable.

A _subordinate_ —for that was how the Horse Lords thought of each other and all other existences. Superiors and subordinates, within the kin, between tribes, and between the Khanates.

"There is little profit but great labour to come." The Cherbi did not shy away from confronting her with his muscular form. "Don't you agree?"

"We pay very well." Gwen allowed the muscles to confront her. In her opinion, the sunny smell of horse sweat was more intimidating than the towering Horse Lord.

"We are the only mercenaries on the Steppes who can guard your caravans and barges." the Cherbi reminded her as a mare braided his tail. "Should we not command a better price?"

"Ours are the only employees hiring." Gwen threw the retort back unflinchingly. "Who else has the grains to keep the Khanate flourishing? The Fire Sea still looms, milord. It is not extinguished."

"A starving Khanate is like a starving wolf," the Horse Lord reminded her.

"Why do you think we're building granaries underground?" Gwen motioned to the Dwarves in the distance.

As they spoke, the Fabricator Engine, towering above the pavilion, rumbled past, leaving enormous foundation trenches for assembling the gated entrance into the Dyarr Morkk below. Its gait resembled a colossal Salamander: in front, manipulators and Spellswords tore at the land—behind, perfect units of construction material and a geometrically aligned trench were left in its wake.

"Mmm…" the Cherbi wasn't sure how to respond to the logos of supply and demand. There was a solution—to raid the Rat-kin as always, though the Horse Lord would be reluctant to threaten such a thing without first besting Golos or Garp.

"Dwell not too deeply on it," Gwen assured her ambiguous ally. One of the mares came close, offering to braid her hair. Gwen waved the girl away. "Shaman Saran said the seasons will remain rich for some years, did she not? Think of what we can gain now—as for the future, why not let the might of our arms speak their mutual terms? With the Khanate at its full strength, a glorious conflict awaits us all."

Her final announcement was enough to bring the grin back to the Horse Lord's face.

"You have a way with wisdom for one with no fawns from the loin." The Horse Lord gave her flat belly a nod of acknowledgement. "I shall not deny more of your time, then. You have a city to plan and build. Ours is the entirety of the northwest region. Do not forget."

"I shall supervise it well," Gwen answered in turn. "Do visit Lord Golos when you are free, Khudu. Gogo is often bored and in need of a competitive companion. My mind can be at ease with your prowess keeping his mischief caged."

Her humble-bragging flattery was enough to disengage the Cherbi, who laughed heartily, drank deeply from a horn flagon, and then focused on the mares.

Gwen retreated. When she was far enough, she took deep breaths, already tired even though the sun was not past midday.

Her mind was on her uncle and Ayxin, though she had one more stop.

On the outskirts of the FoB laid a small tent beside a larger one, with the modest yurt used for housing and the other as a laboratory.

The two yurts were also set up in the middle of New Shalkar's only cemetery. A Frontier city had many deaths, and real estate for the deceased was necessary.

Of concern was that she was now in a region with known Spectre activities, _Necromantic_ ones at that. Only five hundred kilometres toward the direction of Petra's old Tower was a hotspot of Undead infestation, Ufa. On the other end, less than a thousand kilometres into Siberia laid the Undead Wildlands, worse than Pyongyang because it was a Necromancer's free-for-all. These were the regions where the Great War had banished the milling millions of the dark craft, with Moscow as its great gatekeeper and China as its long-abused neighbour.

On the other hand, after her six-month campaign against the Undead at sea, her feelings toward _land-based_ hordes were nothing like her dread of the Mermen. As long as her city did not "turn", she was confident the threat could be managed.

Which was why Gwen now came to the cemetery.

When her refugees arrived, she had no wish to mediate a debate between the Horse Lords and the Humans, with the former advocating for the bodies to be left as carrion to nourish the plains, then stomped into the earth to prevent reanimation.

"Master Litvak," she greeted the robed figure emerging from the larger of the two yurts, casually wiping his bile-soured hands upon profaned towels. "How fares your research? Will our people be safe when they arrive?"

"No mutations, nor increased potency, thank her Majesty's Grace," the Necromancer replied with visible relief. In Gwen's mind, his skeletal skull always seemed to rattle as he spoke. "For now, whomever's forces that had harassed our settlements no longer has the means to modify their _necrophage_."

When he spoke, the Necromancer's eyes glistened. Though the bloke's dabble in the craft was far older than hers, the untitled Magus was in awe of her achievements in the "forbidden" avenues of spellcraft. After all, sorcery to do with Essence, particularly the subjugation of living beings, was magnitudes worse than raising Undead. The rationale was simple, for Soul Reaving was the gateway to the creation of intelligent Undead with thoughts and agendas of their own. According to her access to sanctioned knowledge, it was also the principal path to Lichdom.

"How's our vaccination programs progressing?" She peeked into the man's laboratory. The interior was dark, but her enhanced eyes could still discern the gruesome collection of flasks, samples, and offensive energies.

"Your Rat-kin has been using up everything I've made." The Necromancer looked at her amusedly. "They call it the Priestess' Blessing and urge all their relatives and children to participate. Those who do not are publically shamed and ostracised—sometimes cast from their burrow homes…"

"Right…" Gwen could imagine that.

"The bad news is that your Horse Lords are less inclined to prevention. Their mares have been spreading rumours that the inoculation solution will weaken their studs in the long run or are responsible for infirmities, whatever that means. The men say it affects their erections. The updated dose has been very poorly distributed."

"What does Mistress Saran have to say about this?"

"She says to leave the Khan's men to their demise."

"She said _what_?" Gwen blinked. "Demise?"

"That was what Mistress Saran _inferred_ ," the Necromancer confessed with a lopsided grin. "An interesting ally we have found, Magister Song."

"Indeed."

"If I may. Has the matter of our discussion from last time… settled?" Litvak asked, his dull-blue eyes unsettlingly milky.

"No dice." Gwen shook her head. "The Dwarves will not work on constructing a Necropolis, no matter the reason. They did offer to build you a furnace for cremations and such. We won't be getting help from the Horse Lords for obvious reasons. The Rat-kin will help—but only if I tell them to—which I wish to avoid."

"I see. Then I shall deal with the influx of… Faiths… as best as I can," Litvak replied with a shrug, then opened the flap to his tent. "Please shield my labour, Mistress. If you do, no Undead will rise, or you may subjugate my soul. Shall we?"

"I trust that they shall not," Gwen concluded, deciding that she didn't want to inspect Litvak's laboratory anyway. If the man said he's ready to deal with an enormous influx of bodies from natural or unnatural sources, that's good enough for herself. So long as the unique circumstances of a Frontier fringing an Undead Front were accounted for, that's the best any regional administrator can do. “Thank you, Magus Litvak. I still have paperwork to do, planning zones to establish."

The Necromancer lowered the flaps, bowing deeply as one might to a superior in the craft.

As for Gwen, her mind turned once more to her office.

From under her shawl, she withdrew the Ilas leaf. Golos wanted trees, the rats wanted shelter, and the Dwarves needed convincing.

In Shalkar Al-jadeedah, there was no rest for the wicked.


Shanghai.

As a cultural custom of the People's Liberation Army of the Communist Party, weddings were seldom publicised and never celebrated in public. Even when someone as august as a Regional Secretariat, foremost of the Party's members, welcomed their spouses, the media had been instructed to stay clear with their lumen captures. As a tradition, announcements were modestly pronounced by the national paper, written in the "People's Daily" in a small box, stating that "Wang Citizen married Jin Citizen on this day."

That was how Jun Song, the People's Hero and renowned Dragon Layer, a man Elementally opposed to romantic thoughts, had imagined his union with Ayxin.

Now, Secretary-General Miao Yang-Bò, Master of the Central Commission for Discipline and Inspection and the man closest to inheriting the chairmanship, stood two feet away, loudly criticising the frugality of the PLA.

"We are not a poor nation anymore." The Secretary-General was almost choking from the emotions running through his voice. "Ah-Jun, you can't do this to your wife. I won't allow it. We haven't used you so much that the Ash has burned away your sensibility! We didn't!"

Jun had a feeling that if Ayxin were here, she would have hissed at the man, and the matter would be done with it. Unfortunately, his wife was asleep. The conception of their child, according to the wisdom of his father-in-law, the all-knowing Yinglong, had exhausted Ayxin mentally, physically, and in "Essence". A Dragon usually borne, then nested their eggs for centuries—but Ayxin had wanted their child to grow with Jun so that they might share, if only for a century or two, the joy she had seen on the Lumen-casters.

The news was shocking to Jun. Not so much as the child itself, but that Ayxin would split her Essence-gift from the Yinglong between herself and the child in her womb to hasten its maturation. Before Huangshan, he had expected to retire in his sixties— but was now provisioned by her ladyship to remain youthful for a century and more.

It was a prospect that immediately made him think of Gwen. His niece had also inadvertently partaken in the blessing of a Mythic, becoming its Vessel, and she would also live far longer than her mortal peers.

The boon in years was to Jun a terrifying prospect. Perhaps in a century or more, only Gwen, himself, Ayxin and a half-dragon child might be around, while their friends and contemporaries might not. For someone bred on the duties of filial piety, to see his parents peacefully pass away was his duty—but to see Hai? Nen? Even the little nephews and nieces grow into old men and women, then waste away with time?

He had to derail the freight train of his thoughts immediately—and focus instead on the present.

The present was the wedding.

It wasn't so much that Jun hadn't given thought to marrying Ayxin. Instead, he was under the impression that he was a son-in-law of the Yinglong and that the Dragon would stipulate the terms. And in terms of men marrying into their spouse's households, the thing to do was to smile and keep silent.

In front of him, Secretary-General Miao had been pacing back and forth excitedly for some time, growing more excited with every chorus of "it must be grand!" and "fit for an Emperor!"

Of course, modern China had no Emperors, and anyone proclaiming so would be sent to the Stasis Chambers to reevaluate their ambitions. However, the Secretary-General saw this as a new opportunity to reach parity with their direct competitors in the Mageocracy, whose nobility has known ties to the Great Red on Carrauntoohil. The alliance had been instrumental in holding back the Wild Hunt, a war band of Elementals inhabiting a Demi-plane to the far north of the isles. What the CCP desired from the Yinglong isn't so nearly taxing—only the guarantee of rain in the nation's largest rice bowl, the Su-Huang region.

"Ayxin would want something private and intimate," Jun protested even as his military-trained body stood to attention. "You know how much she despises crowds."

He paused. "...Retail therapy notwithstanding. I guess Ayxin learned that from someone."

"She is also exceedingly… accommodating to your needs, Ah-Jun," the Secretary-General was firm in his decision. As the man had said during the induction speech to new Grey Ghosts, their bodies were not their own but the country's. Their will was not their own but the state's. "I know what I am asking. I know it might be unreasonable. Our country needs Ayxin to smile for the Lumen-casters, if only for a few hours."

Of that last point, Jun had no doubt.

Like every other nation in the world, their government was being rocked by unforeseen changes, ones with ties, or so the winds whispered, to Gwen.

Within the last six months, the Yellow River's flow had lowered to a level not seen since the mythical droughts of the dynastic era.

Conversely, the entirety of the Qinhai province was awash with floods and landslides, cutting off the Frontier from the PLA and leaving it to the ravages of the Elementals.

In Yulin, a catastrophic earthquake ravaged the Frontier's defences, ushering a deluge of newly homeless Goblinoids like a living landslide from the secluded mountainscape.

The nation's metropolises lived on the edge, fearing for food and the safety of their sons and daughters as drafts drew men by the millions to the Frontiers to alleviate the new threats.

The country needed a hopeful signal, an auspicious one, and there was nothing better than the politicisation of a mythic union not seen since the dynasties of yore. That the marriage was furthermore between a Party faithful, a known hero who had sacrificed his body and health for the good of the masses, was a fairytale of propaganda too good to miss. Jun knew all this because he had already seen the immensely popular picture books of himself and Ayxin.

To have the Central Planning Committee declare that the nation's food security shall remain abundant for the foreseeable future was vital for putting the minds of hundreds of millions of citizens at ease.

"I will personally ensure there will be no interviews, disruptions, or any interruption to your spouse's privacy beyond the single day of public affairs," Miao promised, his voice grim with the determination of the Internal Security Bureau. "Any outlets that break the agreement, even if it's a direct affiliate of the Central Communications Bureau, will cease to exist in short order. You and Ayxin shall have my word on that."

Jun chose not to show his dissatisfaction, knowing he would relent sooner than later. On a personal level, Secretary-General Miao Yang-Bò had been good to him and his family, using personal guan-xi to ensure that a soon-retiring Guo Song received his full honours while suffering no repercussions or retributions from the delinquent Party bosses he had gifted Stasis vacations.

For Gwen, the man had also put his foot down when necessary, freeing his niece from the CCP's paranoia and building an amicable trade relationship with her allies in Myanmar.

Lastly, Jun was certain that the privacy they had enjoyed since Hai's wedding would have been impossible were it not for the Miao's constant and gentle reminder of the Party's various public and private appendages to leave the pair well alone.

"I'll speak to her," Jun promised. "And explain the necessity."

"Thank you, Ah-Jun." The Secretary-General gave him a half-salute. "And please reiterate my promise to your spouse that so long as I live, the two of you shall raise your child as you see fit, with no interference from the Party."

Jun could only appear grateful.

Miao extended a hand. "And, of course, we'll take good care of your nephew. Once he's proven a capable administrator, we'll induct him into the Party's inner circles. That young man, mark my words, will have a brilliant future ahead of him.'

"I'll make the case, Secretary-General." Jun shook the man's hand.

"Uncle Miao," the Secretary-General insisted. "When you first came under my wing, you refused to call me that, citing that you were a subordinate. It may very well be that I am now no longer your equal, Ah-Jun, so humour this old man."

"Uncle Miao." Jun shook his head helplessly. "I'll relay the good news. Soon."

"Will you be inviting our newly appointed Imperial Viceroy of the Mageocracy to the wedding?" The old man's smile was crooked.

"I don't dare not to," Jun felt a little uneasy at the thought of Gwen finding out she wasn't invited. "She's quite the personage these days."

"Will you be..." the Secretary-General's smile remained. "Having her as Ayxin's maid?"

Momentarily, Jun recalled his brother's wedding, with his niece in that dress, and the men she left whimpering under her heels. That and Ayxin's Draconic irises turning into twin murder slits if he ever suggested such a thing.

"I wouldn't dare..." he confessed. "Yes. I think it's best if Gwen's a guest of honour. Maybe a state invite. Put her somewhere close, but not as a part of the procession."

"Then, may I make a suggestion?" The Secretary-General's expression remained puzzlingly amused.

"Sir—Uncle Miao, speak your mind."

"The Yinglong—believe it or not, has another Vessel— and it's a foreign girl."

Jun nodded. He knew, and he knew of her connection to Gwen. The pair shared a bond of sometimes sister, sometimes more, though he wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Would you mind if... she was the bride's maid? Her Ordo had contacted us to request a visitation permit. And for your best man, how about your nephew? The committee believes this would appease our Viceroy while also having her on the sidelines."

Jun felt his chest constrict. "I don't think we should do that to Mr Wang. Tao is his only son..."

"I meant Percy..."

Jun looked at his Secretary-General. The old man looked back.

"My father..." Jun understood. His father had thin skin when it came to the family. He couldn't ask Gwen to stay, and he couldn't ask this of Jun now.

"Yes, he desired it. The young man needs to show his face, be known to the nation. The wedding is a rare opportunity. Of course, if you are unwilling..."

Jun did not disagree.

It was true what his now-dead comrades in the Grey Ghosts had said. In a Party-organised wedding, the bride and groom were the least important component.

Tianjin.

The witching hour.

Percy Song, the heir to the House of Song, hovered over the crashing waves of the coast, while behind him, the sparkling coastal port painted the rolling city fruit shop bright.

The midnight flight was his ritual, exercised like the Lantern Men of the distant dynasties; only he was a Flaneur from the future.

The lustre of the port, however, was nothing compared to its urban sprawl, home to six million souls.

When he and Mei had visited the city during their rest and relaxation, he was shocked to learn that Shanghai was not the largest port in China. Rather, it was Tianjin that took the crown, possessing a coastal network of docklands and ports that spanned fifth kilometres of deep water, further developed by man-made canals that interconnected the central infrastructure of the city.

Over forty percent of the food that southern China produced was transported to the north through Tianjin—making it the pivotal arterial highway necessary for feeding the fifteen million residents of China's administrative capital, Beijing.

But Percy wasn't just seeing a city.

He had been shocked to learn that a long, long time ago, there existed a China that his history books had erased.

It was a nation called _Xia_.

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A nation that worshipped Kirins.

Looking at the light pollution turning the sky a brilliant azure, Percy struggled to imagine a China ruled by Magical Creatures, each a Mythic, each with their tribe of camp followers providing their Demi-gods with the nourishing power of Faith.

The greatest and most legitimate of these was a proto-Emperor named Shûn, a descendent of the Kirin Tribe.

At first, Percy could not even begin to comprehend the Jade Kirin's visions. His understanding changed when he had finally arrived at the place of its birthright, and the Kirin invited Percy into the miasma of time to part the shrouds of befuddled history.

As he glided over the landscape, his cerebral senses pierced the veils of time, spying on titanic battles between the Mythics. The Kirins, Masters of Humanity, had sought to control the flow of the rivers, damming, guiding, and draining a four-decade flood to carve out a nation for their people.

Their opponents were the tribes who worshipped the Mythics of water, the invasive Dragons of the sea, who desired dominion of the ley-nodes on the mainland. In their contest, mountains toppled, rivers overflowed, entire cities were drowned, and millions of men and animals died, giving rise to intermittent reigns of Undeath.

Nightly, as he and his pendent traced the city's ley-lines, making laps around its Tower, Percy had felt the hot breath of the Kirin's phantasms kiss the interior of his skull, filling his frontal lobe with fantastic visions of power beyond the wildest imaginations of Spellcraft. The voice of his patron was deep and resonant, like the rumbling of the earth itself, injecting its memories of the past directly into Percy, unfiltered and unreserved.

And like a toddler, his eyes slowly growing into focus, Percy saw the world as it was and should have been.

In those days of antiquity, the Kirin tribe, born from these jade-rich seams, was banished from the Prime Material. In their defeat, the hearts of mortal men turned. The Kirin King of Xia, the Shang-Di Gods of northern China, was supplanted by the great, all-encompassing heavens of the Jade Emperor, pronouncing the first "Tian", the kingdom under heaven.

The Han people, as the imperial analects recollected, now only knew themselves as the Descendants of Dragons. Gone were the Kirins, becoming mythology to frighten or delight children, made into belligerent fools or loyal subordinates of the heaven-traversing drakes.

And his sister was one such Vessel of a usurper, He who Heeds in the south: The Yinglong, the lapdog of the Jade Emperor.

She was more than that as well.

A long time ago, when she still wore the pendant in Sydney, his Kirin had saved her life. When his sister had been toyed, played with, and abused by a dark magician, the Kirin had reached out of its amulet to grasp a loose strand of Essence her assailants had neglected.

It was a local land God: an old one called Almudj, an existence akin to the Kirin, born of the Prime Material itself.

From that singular mote of Essence, his sister had begun her transformation, beginning with seducing the land serpent, a being with the mind of an infant but the wrath of a stratospheric tempest. She was a conduit, therefore, of two consciouses, one old, the other scheming, a creature of cunning creatures beyond her ken.

The vision Percy knew to be true, for he had seen Gwen's metamorphosis. And his patron had wholeheartedly displayed the befuddled recollection of his sister's desperation, coming across as flashes of abject terror and mewling submission. That was the Gwen he knew, the true Gwen—not this headstrong stranger walking in her skin, wielding Necromancy.

Percy took a deep, cold breath, allowing the frigid northern air to fill his lungs.

Tianjin was so vast.

To think that all of this and beyond belonged to the Kirin.

Each time the visions faded, Percy would feel a stark sympathy for his patron, whose Core now nourished his ambitions. In his absence, Humanity had carved the mountains and river into the artifice of their own making—but his patron's connection to the land that nourished his kin had remained. All that was required was the return of the rightful king—then the land and its leys would sing to its originator.

And they would nourish him as well.

That was a promise he well-cherished, for the power and influence wielded by the possessor of Tianjin's ley-lines was beyond his youthful comprehension.

What his sister had achieved—her wealth and status—what good was it compared to the city that fed the north of the world's most populous nation?

His nose wrinkled, his spirit soured by the darkness to the northeast.

Even here, with all the distance between Yantai and the blasted peninsula of Pyongyang, he could scent the entropic energies of Undeath.

A _calamity_ was coming. The Jade Kirin was sure of it.

The land trembled in anticipation of the ravages to come.

The Kirin had told him that this was divine will.

After all, with the exile of his people, the Heaven of Shang-Di had been shattered.

Now, the usurpers hold sway.

And mortal men syphon away the land's energies to power lumen bulbs, horse-laughing at the banal comedy displayed upon their lumen casters.

Percy Song, the rising star of the Liberation Army, would also perish here, leaving his dues for his sister, who would recover the pendant and exorcise the Kirin forever at the behest of her Draconic Masters.

For a long while, he had been unable to sleep, and Mei had to send for the Yang's sleeping herbs from home to aid his nightly rest.

Then suddenly, inexplicably, his circumstances had changed as if driven by fate.

His uncle, against all expectations of reality, had impregnated a Dragon.

That Dragon, a true descendent of the Yinglong, possessed the potent blood of the Imperial lines.

According to his patron, Jun's child was collated from Essence and will, put in place by the Yinglong, a phantasmal desire made manifest into reality by the will of a Demi-divine being.

An impossible conception.

An impossible child.

An impossible birth.

The cost in _causality_ , the Kirin had explained, would be dire, hence the calamity to come.

However—what if Percy were to benefit from the trespass of heaven's will? What if, by tapping into the alteration of reality willed by the Yinglong, they could save the city and emerge as its benefactor?

The child, his patron had informed Percy, was a font of Draconic Essence, a Dragon's share of which belonged to the Kirin tribe.

The child in Ayxin's womb was a hundredfold richer than the "Egg" that had held the wayward mote of primordial Essence, a bounty a thousandfold richer than his sister's transformative gift.

One mote!

Just a single mote was all that was needed.

He must find an opportunity to awaken his patron with the borrowed Essence. The Kirin knew not how, when, or if it was possible, but his message had been clear.

Succeed.

Or, like the Kirin tribe, it would be best for Percy to enjoy his remaining weeks with Mei, then send her away, leaving behind an heir for his Grandfather.

Shalkar.

While hairs fell from heads on the east Asian coast, the gaze of Shalkar Al-jadeedah's Pantene(™) perfect protagonist washed over the Barsakelmes low-lands, the largest body of water for hundreds of kilometres.

Before the Fire Sea's emergence, the region was a verdant wetland, an Eden where rolling desert and sandstone plateaus overlooked a vast shallow lake, fed by an unfathomable underground reservoir known far and wide by the Rat-folk as the Jewel Sea.

After the Beast Tide, the lake dried up, becoming parched sand, with only the December rains bringing relief to the temporary watering holes.

Now, in the aftermath of the Fire Sea's retraction, together with the verdant boon of water over the region, Gwen was looking at a vast blue yonder some hundreds of kilometres from edge to edge, swallowing every landmark that had emerged in the three decades since Vynssarion left its imprint across the central continents.

Her present predicament as Lord Viceroy of the region was establishing the water supply to her new city, meaning installing an Elemental Water processing plant on or near the deepest part of the "Jewel Lake".

Her obstacle was imperialism.

The original inhabitants of the Jewel Lake were, without a doubt, the Ix, one of her Rat tribes who took up fishing and aquaculture as a means of living. When the lake shrank to nothing, they were forced to move north, where the Horse Lords enslaved them as the Tasmüyiz.

Since that exodus, almost three decades had passed, and during those dry seasons, other Demi-humans native to the region had thrived in place of the agricultural Rat-kin.

Foremost were creatures capable of evading the Horse Lord's wrath—collectively known as the Kobold Clans of Barsakelmes.

Before today, Gwen had only known of the Clans on paper, for they were seldom seen on the surface. That is until the Dwarves began their spiderweb expansion of the Dyar Morkk underneath Shalkar Al-jadeedah. Before that, there had been no significant conflicts between their interests and the Kobolds.

Now, there was.

A day ago, Garp finally bore through the granite bedrock of the region to come close to the water-rich aquifer core of Barsakelmes. It then turned in disgust, returning to the rich Elemental earth of the open steppes. What was left was for the Dwarven excavation team to set up a Forward Operating Base, preparing the area for the arrival of the Fabricator Engine.

Instead of progress reports, Gwen received news that Kobolds, as a tide, had spilt into the tunnels, overwhelming the Dwarven survey teams. Consequently, four Golems were lost, including their pilots and one Engineseer, now prisoners of the tribesmen.

As expected, a Message device pinged her from the Ambassador's office, and here she was, putting out fires.

Below, the entrance to the "township" of the Kobold Clans was a modest fort, no more than twenty meters in height, cylindrical, with small windows that gave it the impression of a dangerous, clay-coloured pineapple.

Beside her, Golos hovered in his human form, mumbling about the ease by which he could barrel through the fort and make a meteor crater capable of accessing their inner sanctum.

Behind them, Lulan sat on one of her infamous iron slabs, advising about the ease by which she could send down a hail of iron to penetrate the Kobold's inner sanctum.

"You know," Richard, her advisor who decided he needed some air from the paperwork, was critical of their path forward. "… you could probably drop a Maelstrom and crack that thing open so far that we'll be in their inner sanctum before you know it."

"Please do it," the elder of the Ix, a Rat-kin named Jubibi, was having the time of his life with her Mass Flight. The same could be applied to the troop of shivering, flying rats behind him, all hopeful of returning to their occupied burrows.

"Christ, we have a hostage situation," Gwen growled at her followers. "What's wrong with talking to them? They look… cute enough."

Much to her surprise, the Kobolds were not the mangled goblin folk so common to the underground. Instead, these were furred and mammalian, with long, serpentine bodies clad in leather, sporting vicious little faces that resembled the Marbled-Cat ferrets. They reminded her of her cats on old Earth. And she was naturally opposed to the outright oppression of the locals.

According to Ix, their neighbours were hardly innocent. They were merely one of the many mortal foes of the Rat-kin of the Steppes. In times of plenty, granary raids seldom resulted in deaths. In desperate times, they ate the farmers.

With such a history in mind, Gwen lowered herself until she was well within the range of the poisoned implements these Kobolds wielded, something between a crossbow and a stave with rudimentary magic. Stake Darts was what the Dwarves had called them—highly penetrative projectiles made for fighting underground monsters of the Murk rather than the overground creatures, nothing like the man-portable Spellswords used by the Dwarves, but numerous and deadly to the unarmored victim.

"CLAN GANNRK! I AM LORD VICEROY OF NEW SHALKAR! I WISH TO PARLEY WITH YOUR ELDERS!" her Clarion Call boomed over the fort. "I come in pea—"

_SPRACK—!_ A dart pinged off her double-glazed shield.

At any rate, a lucky hit would not penetrate her crowskin unless it aimed for her face—and even so, she doubted the poison would be fatal.

"CEASE YOUR FIRE!" She commanded, her voice stern and without quarter. "WE WISH TO PARLEY!"

_SPAK—! SPAK—_

_SPAK—PING_

_SPAK— SPAK—Pin-PING—_

The bottom of her shield remained clear, for it was Lulan who had blocked the incoming stakes.

"Lulu! Hold!" Gwen stopped the imminent launch of a dozen tungsten projectiles from Elemental Earth, each self-sharpened by the velocity of their pressure-induced launch.

She drifted upward. Lulan followed.

That said, the ammo holds for the Stake Throwers were impressive, with the deterring volley lasting almost half a minute. Each attack chipped away a micron of her pity and sympathy until her brows furrowed un-prettily.

"Calamity! Your Human diplomacy won't work here," Golos' laughter was grating on her nerves. "If you believe they will simply return those stout-men pilots and their priest, you're surely mistaken."

"And you have a better plan?" Gwen indicated to the fort below. "Our foremost priority is to secure the Dwarves. After that…"

"Let me show you how to speak through strength," Golos cracked his neck. "Then, you will know if I can govern your franchise."

As the last words left the Dragon's mouth, his body shifted and transformed, growing elongated and large while radiating so much Dragon Fear that their Rat-kin guides spontaneously suffered a colon cleanse.

Richard strategically moved behind her while Lulan impassively took the brunt of the Wyvern-turned-Dragon's prideful metamorphosis.

The Thunder Dragon's body stretched out, its wings opening like the proverbial butterfly tearing through an Astral cocoon, turning the skies dark as the region's elements reacted to the oppressive presence upon its ley lines. When finally Golo shook out the static discharge from its neck, he was a vision of malevolent dignity.

Besides Gwen, her Planar Ally was almost twenty meters from snout to tail, still possessed of his Wyvern heritage's spiked club. His wings were deep blue, semi-transparent where the membranes stretched over the protrusive shoulder joints. Two forearms, large and muscular, extended from where his wings used to be, each possessed three clawed digits clad in azure. With each breath, the plating on his chest rose and fell, discharging static so that it looked like the Thunder Dragon possessed a living Core of lightning.

A Western Dragon.

An adult "Blue", albeit an immature one.

The Core given by Illaelitharian, unsurprisingly, was not an Asiatic Thunder Dragon.

“Watch—“ Golos descended.

As expected, there were no attacks, only watchful silence as the shit-stained Kobolds stood their ground, dumbstruck by the sight.

Like deer in the path of a slow-flying Fireball, they stared at the Thunder Dragon, unable to move, their expressions one of blank incomprehension.

When he was close enough, Golo craned his neck to magnify his arrogance tenfold.

"INSECTS OF THE EARTH!" The Dragon spoke in the universal tongue of the mortal creatures so that the meaning entered their brains and made itself known. "You filth have my property! Return them to me unharmed and thereby LIVE, or else, ALL SHALL PERISH."