Listening intently to Sanari's guileless saleswomanship of the Trellis Portal, Gwen began to recognise why the Mageocracy sent out its scroll-smart pupils into the Wildlands.

Where in Cambridge, even with all its Magisters and libraries, would a Magus get such a hands-on, in-person practicum other than in Black Zones via serendipitous solutions to unfolding crises?

For instance, who in Cambridge could or would instruct her in the sorcery of the space-time magic of the immortal races?

"… The Tellis' constraints, therefore, are meaningful for both ourselves and our allies. First, only a true servant of Tryfan, imbued with the Essence of the Great Tree, or as a vessel of Lord Tyfanevius, may utilise the leys that deliver its power across the Prime Material."

Tyfanevius, Gwen recalled, being the Wyrm in the World Tree's roots.

A Snake.
A Tree.
A Woman.

That was the triplicate Solana had decreed.

What interested Gwen was the symbolic iconography— that a phallocentric reptile was the Guardian of a life-bringing tree and that both were linked to a womb-bearer. If this were her old world, she would have written the matter off with a smile and a nod to Nordic-Grecian-Biblical mythoi. In this world— she wouldn't be so dismissive, as one never knew what lurked beneath the extra-Planar roots of the Axis Mundi and its network of pillars.

As for the Trellis Gate, she was sorry to say there was no possibility of commercial viability.

First, only Tryfan or another Elven commune could grow the gates through the powers of its Druids.
Second, only those born of Tryfan and imbued with its blessing or are a Vessel to its Guardian may pass through the leys.

While human agents could use the gates to travel around the world, utilising Storage Rings as transportation modules, these very agents would effectively be defectors whose very lives were held in the Hvítálfar's unseen web.

Thereby, the Dwarven low-ways remained the preferable option. Expensive and complex it may be, the Dyar Morkk was a tool, and tools could be lent, imitated, or usurped.

Whatever the case, her guest offered her services, and as the Hvítálfar went about her business, Gwen studied Sanari's interactions with the others.

Golos, for one, appeared in awe of the Elf's svelte figure. According to the Wyvern, there was something inside the Druid that was older than even the Yinglong. In conversing with the Hierophant, Gwen had never seen her Thunder Wyvern so polite in all their years of association, going so far as to use his humanoid form and wear pants. It was as though, she observed, her creature was secretly afraid of Sanari, much like how the Elf avoided Caliban, only Gogo seemed unable to discern why he felt so anxious beside the sunny Elf.

Comparatively, her Rat-kin loved the Druidic Demi-goddess in pale gossamer and gold, so tall and lithe that most of her stooping rats reached her thighs, and even Strun only touched her shoulder with both ears erect.

In the three torturous days that they then spent waiting for the arrival of the Rat-kin's future fate, Gwen watched Stian take advice from the Druid and made a note of the Hierophant's generosity in teaching her minions.

To Elvia, whose mastery over her Familiars was self-taught, Sanari similarly withheld nothing about instructing Kiki and Sen-sen on their innate powers.

Watching her peers reap the benefits, Gwen sincerely shared the temptation her Master had felt at Tryfan.

The romanticism of Druidism! A proper Life Bringer!

When Sanari saw the Rat-kin puzzle their heads over the notion of shelter, the Druid had walked among her ratfolk, a true goddess of the Prime Material, then coaxed vines from the fields so that they formed sturdy homes and abodes, plumbing-inclusive.

The process was equally terrific and awe-inspiring for Gwen. In Sanari's mastery, the Magus from Cambridge understood that in addition to magic, there was also quasi-magical engineering and sylvan architecture at play— a synthesis achievable only by a very long life.

Where Gwen and her council of twenty had been convening under the blue yonder like tribals, Sanari willed into place entwined vine-totems that met as a dome, then extended outwards like an umbrella twenty meters in height and thirty in diameter, forming a newly transmuted species of yurt-tree.

A vine-wrought baobab! Gwen recognised the familiar shape at once.

With patience, Sanari explained to the dazed Rat-kin that the interior would be a sheltered space for the Rat-kin to rest and hide from sun and sand. Outside, shade provided by the exterior foliage would cool their bodies and collect the morning moisture, storing water for emergencies.

Watching her companions follow the Elf like curious kittens, Gwen could only marvel as the Druid made her rounds around Shalkar, encouraging aquatic plants to stifle evaporation from the open oasis and commanding deep-tapping hedges to form windbreaks around the various fields.

At first, Gwen had half a mind to tell Sanari to cease her actions to prevent unnatural ambitions from Eldrin. Once she saw the literal improvement in quality of life, however, she changed her thinking to include Sanari as a part of her bargaining with Bekker and company— for very quickly, Shalkar's non-existent architecture was being transformed into a proper township.

As for Sanari's companion Warden, the male Elf appeared and disappeared, seemingly at will, speaking nothing and answering nothing, and so Gwen chose to banish Sanari's shadow from her mind.

By the fourth morning since Sanari's arrival, three trees stood on the flat horizon, utterly changing the aerial vista of Shalkar.

Gwen pondered her evolving perspective as she watched furry and naked rat-pups scamper up and down the tree with effortless ease. Could she have been wrong, and that true calling for Strun's people was as arboreal species? Could it be that her plans for an underground city were unfounded after all?

The disadvantage for both was that the Rat-kin were incapable of mimicking either architecture. However, the possibility of rats learning to use Golem Suits remained, while there was no hope for Druidic Rat-kins.

It was a shame, for tree homes offered food, natural shelter and served The Bloom in White's notion of stabilising the Planar fabric of the Prime Material. As for how well the trees would hold up to Centaur or Elemental assault in a desert— she guessed only time would tell.

For now, the practical thing to do was to take advantage of Garp in creating safety tunnels in every direction away from Shalkar.

Her schedule proved short, for that same afternoon, Mathias returned with Meister Bekker's entourage.

Looking at the nervous Void Mage, Gwen found herself once more surprised by Jean-Paul's Master.

"Master says so long as your plans put the Mageocracy first, we'll support it," Jean-Paul blabbed his orders like a man clearing a severe case of constipation. "We're almost done in the south— but Master says it was too easy and therefore deeply suspect and that if you've got something better suited for the incoming peace, then you may count on her support."

"Magister Taylor has received directions to remain impartial," a second voice, Jean-Paul's superior, notified Gwen with a gaze of ambivalence. Together with her Void Sorcerer, the Mage flight had arrived with the party's Transportation Specialist, Eli Hill. "Thereby, you have command and responsibility for what's to come. Should matters sour, I will transport us to somewhere safe."

"Thank you, Magister Hill." Gwen bowed. "I'll not disappoint the Ambassador."

Gwen quickly introduced the party to her companions at Shalkar.

Jean-Paul scratched his head, his complexion growing pink as he eyed Elvia, Mathias, the mountainous humanoid Wyvern, the giant rats, and the golden Elf among them.

The Void Mage's eyes fell upon their Elven Hierophant.

"G-greetings, m-may your bloom be eternal!" Jean-Paul stammered forth fragmented phrases recalled from his lessons. "Glory to the er… tree."

"Relax." Gwen guided her comrade in Consume to shake the Elf's hand.

Sanari withdrew her digits, visibly fighting to ward away the stink of Void Mana oozing from Jean-Paul like sweat. Jean-Paul instantly mistook the gesture and visibly grew shrunken and dejected, appearing the very picture of pity.

Magister Hill rescued the moment by taking the Elf aside and delivering a long-winded greeting in what Gwen suspected was perfect Elven.

"Evee, Mattie, can you take Lady Sanari and the Magisters to the conference room?" Gwen gestured proudly to the largest of the baobab trees, the interior of which she had persuaded Sanari to populate with a circular table in the manner of Arthur's and his knights of yore. "I'll finish up here and meet you in half an hour."

"Of course, Gwennie."

"Don't spare the Sen-sen Maotai."

"Okay!"

Somewhere in the green thicket, a Ginseng shuddered.

Evee led the Mage Flight and Magister Hill away, trailed by a serene Sanari.

"So, how goes the war?" Gwen asked Jean-Paul once the others were away. "Speak candidly, JP. If Meister Bekker's happy to give me a hand here, then I am happy to look out for both our interests."

"The campaign was successful, if unexpectedly so." Jean-Paul visibly relaxed without the company of the High Elf, Elvia, and the judgemental eyes of Hill and his compatriots. "The opening volley between the Elementals and the Horde were as one would expect— a flesh grinder. Shapeshifted Dao, the size of hills rose from the sand as cyclopean golems to crush the Khan and his troops, aided by laughing Djinns willing the air into sandstorms that could strip the tissues from your bones."

"Jesus Christ." Gwen tried to picture the war. "How did you deal with that?"

"Master and the others took care of the elemental assault." Jean-Paul's chest swelled with pride. "With prepared Mandalas, Master and the others disrupted the Planar ley used by the Elementals, transmuting the Dao's bodies so that they couldn't maintain their shapes or regenerate. Our Hunter Killer Flights then sought out the Djinns re-forming above and sealed their Cores while dog-fighting their conjured Sprites. At the same time, our supporting teams below buffed and maintained the Centaurs' momentum. The seesaw went on for many days until, at the threshold to the Fire Sea, the Dao General, Shebeed The Silent, met Tamir Khan head-on, resulting in a titanic duel as he tried to halt the Horse Lords advance."

"Can you describe the Dao General?" Gwen asked. "Was he humanoid or monstrous?"

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Like an enormous fanged Dwarf with no lower body, armoured in sandstorms." Jean-Paul used both hands to illustrate the fact. "Holding a war hammer the size of a building, smashing at the ground to disrupt the Horde's spearhead."

"Holy shit!" Gwen exclaimed, awed by her imagination in place of Jean-Paul's literary paucity. "And then?"

"The Khan summoned the strength of his Horde to attack the giant's weak spots," Jean-Paul replied with wonder. "He disarmed the Dao General with pilums to the fingers, then pressed on with the assault before the Dao could regenerate his limbs and retrieve the fallen mallet. Thankfully, the Dao never had the chance, for Khudu, Cherbi of the Khan's elite Khesig, lead his Orkok to harass the Dao's priests in the rear, breaking their sorcerous support, thereby allowing Master to divert the flow of Earthen mana."

"Then the Elementals fell back?"

Jean-Paul shook his head. "There was no retreat. We fought a war of extermination, Gwen. Our strategy was to prevent the Elementals from synthesising the Prime Material through sealing or dismissing their higher ranks back into their Planes. If we could achieve this without losing our ability to fight, then we've won."

"Losing the ability to fight?" Gwen cocked her head. "Like OoM?"

"It means having enough bodies remaining to halt the Elementals' greater manifestations," Jean-Paul said without any particular emotion of note. "Higher Elementals can't be destroyed but can be banished. The lower ones merely return to the primordial in their native elements. For both the Centaurs and the Mageocracy, if we survive with excess troops for the next conflict, the balance would tip, thereby we've succeeded."

And so it is with a world where old men plot and young men die. Gwen shuddered, suddenly reminded of an adage of war.

"So…" She felt deeply uncomfortable knowing her next question. "Did we win at a discounted cost?"

"Exceedingly so." Jean-Paul exhaled with relief. "Our losses are just over twenty-thousand horses and about thirty Senior Mages and Maguses, including one Magister from London Imperial, despite his Contingency Ring. We nearly displaced Magister Hill as well, which is why he's here to take a breather— but thankfully, Major Kott was there to hold the line against the Efreeti Flame Dervishes."

"T-TWENTY THOUSAND?" Gwen choked on her companion's ironic relief. She had lost two thousand rats and thought it the end of the world. Twenty thousand? How high was the corpse pile? Lazarus, the Khan's Necromancer, must be dancing on the mass graves. "What the fuck? That's like, one in ten of every Free Rider we saw at Nukus!"

_Christ._ Gwen cursed. To think she had cursed those young stallions playing rat-Quidditch, and now, many of them had given up their lives for a cause from which she would benefit.

"It isn't as bad for the Centaurs as it is for us," Jean-Paul parroted something his Master must have said. "A combat mage takes ten to twenty years to train. The Centaurs are born warriors in a culture of physical supremacy. Almost all male members of the tribe can fight, meaning they'll replenish those numbers in four-five years, likely less."

"I get it, but still—" Even having seen the scale of destruction at Shenyang, Gwen still felt horrified by the prospect of commanding two hundred thousand men to charge toward the enemy, knowing that anywhere between one-tenth and half would not return. How can a living-breathing warm-blooded being gain enough hardiness? Gwen felt her skin crawl, knowing that she might need to make such a call. Even in victory, what would she even say to their families? To twenty-thousand familiar faces living in the same city?

"Now, all eyes are on you. After the campaign comes the matter of recovery, which means food the Mageocracy owes the Horde." Jean-Paul looked to the verdant horizon, products of her labour. "Beware, Gwen. Considering the miracle here, the Khan should be coming for Shalkar. They were preparing even as we left..."

The Centaurs arrived two days later.
Gwen had toyed with the idea of delaying their meeting via Garp, who could cover every approach to Shalkar with walls and pitfalls but decided against using a tactic that would only incense the Horse Lords.

Curiously, as the Horde emerged on the horizon, making an ominous silhouette from one hilltop to another, Gwen could not spot Temir but saw Khudu, Cherbi of the Khesig Guard, the Khan's second. She was just about to comment on the fact when Sanari, who had joined her as she and the Mages exited the baobab trees, pointed to the richly dressed figure of a painted Shaman.

It was Dini Saran— the Khan's Şöpter advisor.

Was Saran then the Khan's nominated mouthpiece? Meaning, therefore, Khudu must the spear?

But then again, the Khan's absence made sense, for "Gwen Song" was merely a Magus of the Mageocracy, an administrator with land and slaves given to her by the Khan himself. To have the ruler of the Steppes personally address the matter would be akin to Ravenport personally confronting the head of a local labour union.

Then again, Gwen considered the spontaneous Eden behind her— having now seen what was at stake, would the Cherbi send for his Khan? Or would the General and the Dini seek to resolve matters as the Khan's proxies?

"While you and the Khan's representative make your terms, I shall privately convene with the Faun," Sanari explained without elaboration, which Gwen read to infer that the suspiciously ageless Saran was likely a thrall of The Bloom, similar to their designs for herself. "I should remind you, Magus Song, so long as the Prime Material is maintained, Tryfan does not intervene in worldly affairs regarding resource or governance."

"Of course," Gwen did not challenge whatever private "Accord" Sanari had planned. Either way, she would wield the Druid and Tryfan as her bargaining chip. If the Horse Lords did not do due diligence, that was their problem.

Thereby, against the overwhelming might of Khudu's Horde, Gwen brimmed with confidence. Even now, behind the vine-line, Strun and Garp's Empathic Links informed her that her preparations were complete. In a total diplomatic breakdown, her rats would escape through a tunnel her Shingleback had dug under Shalkar.

And in the case of a worse catastrophe, Strun had even plotted routes for the Rat-kin to escape to the destroyed Dwarven Citadel.

With her worries gone, Gwen could now focus on dissuading the horses from war.
First, there was the threat of contracting Blood Fever; then, she would intimate the danger of the Mageocracy refusing to provide food. As an addition, she would inference the hypothetical disapproval of the Demi-god Hvítálfar.

And if the Centaurs would disregard all threats to wean themselves from relying on Shalkar for fodder and forcibly take the oasis— then she would scorch the place with her Void Swarm and leave not even a slice of squash for the fuckers.

Mutually Assured Destruction— that would be her ace-in-the-hole.

It was a madcap threat, but she suspected even Temir Khan should fold under such a circumstance, assuming the Horse Lord's pride could stomach the fact.

An hour later, likely proffering time for the victims to stew over their fate, the Horse Lords sent their representative— a long-maned stallion who had been one of Gwen's drinking companions. Compared to his pampered visage at the feast, the armoured youth was visibly scarred by rough healing, though he seemed hale and happy for having proved himself the better of their Elemental foes.

At a hundred paces from the gates, the horse stopped. She recognised the bloke as Besutei, one of the Khan's princelings.

"Magus Song!" Besutei called out. "Our Cherbi seeks a meeting on the hill, away from the diseased Tasmüyiz!"

"Good! I shall attend the Cherbi!" Gwen shouted back via Clarion Call. "Likewise, send your Dini Saran. I have a guest here that wishes to commune with her in private. She should know who it is."

She pointed to the shining Elf on the oasis' edge, so out of place with her golden hair and ivory robes that it was impossible not to notice.

The stallion seemed taken back by the fact that Gwen would request such an essential personage in their entourage attend to Shalkar but galloped back to return the message.

Gwen turned to her companions.

"Gogo, you're with me. Evee, take Sen-sen and Kiki and make sure the horses don't try anything funny. Mathias, stay with Evee, but we might need you to command the retreat if they start charging down the Hill. Use Strun and Garp as best as you can. Sanari?"

"I shall meet Saran there, in full view." Sanari pointed to the forest-like fields of squash. "At that distance, we'll have shelter and privacy."

"Right." Gwen took to the air, having ensorceled herself with the necessary protections preemptively. If there was one aspect about the warding spells she loved, it was the subtlety of her alter-Bone Armour and Sanguine Mantle pre-manifestation. "Stian, I leave the city to you. Don't bother defending the crops as there's plenty more Sanari can provide if these get destroyed. Prioritise the lives of our folk and get them ready for evacuation."

"We can fight, Mistress." Stian's face was grim but determined; his ears erect with rage. "We'll infect them all. Even a scratch or bite will do. Their wives and children will pay the cost of their arrogance in pus and boils."

"For Shalkar!"
"For pumpkins!"
"For our Pale Priestess!"
Her rats' eyes glowed green.

"Don't fight for me, but home and hearth." Gwen applauded the Elder by parrying their fervour. "As always, fighting to the death is a terrible strategy. Trust me. The Horse Lords won't persist, not like the way you imagine. If anything, get ready for peace— a very-very expensive one."

The Rat-kin and her Prefects nodded, understanding but not understanding.

Golos arrived at her side in his human guise. A brute with a rough-hewn face just under three meters tall, with arms and legs the size of tree trunks, with teeth protruding from scaly, purple lips.

"Let's go," the Thunder Wyvern urged her. "I yearn to see you bring forth calamity."

Midway, Gwen met Saran and her escort of elite Horse Lords and exchanged words on the southern campaign's outcome. There, the Dini stared at her with such a complex expression that Gwen could cut the tension with a Void blade. If she had to guess, the matter likely involved her hijacking of the Tasmüyiz from the Khan's hooves and her undermining a foundation block from Temir's unchallenged pyramid of power. That said, Gwen felt no guilt, given that Saran had presented her a task to fail. Either way, an understanding passed between the two women as they left— hers cold and aloof, and Saran looking like she would use Consume if she could.

"Magus Song, our troops at Shalkar. What have you done to them?" As soon as she landed on the Hill, the Khan's Cherbi cut straight to business with an accusation, so rude as to not even offer a nod of respect. "Where is my cousin, Kokochu?"

"Scattered like seeds to the wind," Gwen replied with complete seriousness. "I fear that Shalkar was empty of honourable Horse-folk when we arrived. Nary a shred of integrity remained."

The Cherbi snorted, intimidating her with a battle-honed body that was to her more so eye candy. When she glared back sardonically, the Centaur's eyes grew hard like peach pits. Below, she could see his steel-capped hooves, each the size of dinner plates, pawing the soft sand.

The Cherbi had come with all the men the Khan could spare, in so far as she could see. If she discounted the potential of hidden reserves, there was at minimum two thousand riders at a glance, each with javelin quivers bulging with honed steel.

"You test us, Magus Song. Those were our kin. Kokochu was my blood-kin."

"You're welcome to visit and investigate." Gwen pointed to Shalkar. "We have no gates, no fences even. You're my guest, Lord Cherbi— please make yourselves comfortable while your investigators seek out where your folk had fled. Walk among the rat falk, speak to them about the pumpkin spice, if you fear no fever..."

Khudu stepped forward.

"That's close enough." Golos raised a massive hand, an enormous fang poking out from his twisted lips. "Shit if you must, mortal, or leave this place."

"This 'place'." Khudu disregarded Golos' warning, much to her Wyvern's delight. "Belongs to Temir Khan."

Gwen tsked. She had consulted with Hill prior and had anticipated the Cherbi's naive claim to ownership. Shaking her sagacious head, she wagged a finger at the Cherbi like an offended kindergarten teacher. "Let's not delve into legalities, Lord Cherbi. The Steppes is a freehold administered by Temir Khan's government. Your folk have signed no agreements with your neighbouring nations in any direction, nor do you respect their sovereignty when you do. If I were you, I wouldn't embarrass the Khan with such trivialities, least of all by claiming a system of laws you have no desire to recognise. Besides, I was given Shalkar to house the Rat-kin by your Khan. Has he since rescinded that order? Does Lord Temir do backsies?"

"The Khan did not give the order..." The Cherbi appeared taken back by her legalise, though that didn't prevent him from pointing to the food. "… for you to do that—"

"What?" Gwen cocked her head with a sly, foxy smirk. "Is it illegal to bring prosperity to the Steppes? Is it a sin to grow food and shelter? What's the punishment? Where is this law written or spoken? Point to the totem of convention in the Golden Pavillion, Khudu, and I'll hand over Shalkar on a platinum platter."

With her repeated goading, the Cherbi's passion rose, along with the latent power of his overstrung body. Would the Cherbi be like this if Saran was here? Gwen wondered. Was Sanari thereby doing her a solid?

Golos rebuffed what he saw was a mere warrior-class peon, drawing vis-a-vis with the giant horse. "Try me, lunch. Your kin was delicious."

Heeding the ping from the Divination Sigil, Gwen stepped back and raised a Mage shield.

Khudu and Golos moved at once, the Horse Lord swinging from the right while Golos lead with the same, both aiming at each other's faces. For she who stood front row to the first Wildland World Boxing Championships, the meeting was no different to the collision of two meteoric objects.

The clamour of fist meeting jaw, bone meeting meat fulminated. What was taking place between the Cherbi and Golos was the confluence of the Centaur's Shaman magic against the Yinglong's Essence in a Thunder Wyvern's perfect body.

The sand below the two exploded as their bodies swayed to either side, erupting as an impromptu flower of silica as the impact reverberated as a thunderclap.

Golos was down on one knee when the sand settled, his head twisted in a fatal position.

Comparatively, the Cherbi had skidded down the dune, using the slide to absorb the impact, and so appeared uninjured despite his shameful retreat from their contest of strength.

If Golos had been a Human Transmuter specialist, he would have died. In that outcome, whatever loss of honour that might be perceived would have been buried by the death of Khudu's opponent. Instead, her Wyvern cracked his neck back into place, stretched out his ligaments and muscles, spat out teeth, then mocked the retreating Horse Lord with a snarl.

"I should have evaporated the slave with my breath," the Wyvern explained to her in case she thought he'd lost. Through their Empathic Link, she could tell the Wyvern was hurt— though his rapid regeneration would resolve the matter in minutes. "I still can..."

Patting the Wyvern on the arm, Gwen strode past her champion. With all the awed horses watching from below and with the Cherbi looking grim, she sensed the moment was ripe to hammer out an iron-bound guarantee.

"I hope that's worked out any kinks in your system, Lord Cherbi," she once more addressed the Horse Lord, more respectfully this time to save the horse his long face. "As Temir Khan and I are both busy people, I need you to speak up. Listen well, Old Master of the Steppes— a new order has dawned, only this time, there's bread for all willing to sit at the table."


Above his troops, Khudu, the Khan's Spear and Shield, stood proud and erect as an unyielding lance. Beneath the Centaur's leather armour, Gwen could see the welted scars glowing like little red ley-lines, channelling the vitality that fuelled the "Pilum of the People", the Centaur's speciality.

As the leader of up to ten thousand Free Riders, the Cherbi could utilise the Khan's skill, which made him a dangerous presence even for one imbued with the foul sorcery of Bone Armour and Sanguine Mantle.

"Fingers crossed," Gwen mumbled while maintaining an expression of self-importance, watching the stubborn body of the horse resist her Aura of Desolation without furrowing a brow.

Taking a deep breath, she decided she should nip Khudu's belligerence before rebellion could blossom.

"Honoured Cherbi!" She called out with Clarion Call. "There is no shame in humility! The steel that bends is the steel that endures— while the unyielding metal is that which shatters!"

Informing Golos to tackle her from the air if the Cherbi should try his luck with a democratic assault, she continued her speech.

Once again, she longed for Gunther's Radiant aura, simultaneously pondering if Faith Magic and its myriad of empowered glamours would make convincing folk like Khudu less complicated.

Though she had previously urged the Cherbi to speak, she could read from his tensing body that her responder wasn't a man of words but action. Therefore, in his sullen defeat by Golos, she hoped that another round of demoralisation would thereby smooth the dying pillow over the Horse Lords' opposition.

"Look about you, Cherbi!" She swept her arm in a grand gesture. "I've turned Shalkar into a paradise of food and produce! Would you destroy it for pride and let the Sawahi starve? Do you think the Rat-kin who worked these fields, whose hearts are now filled with hope and their bellies full for the first time in generations, would return to slavery and deprivation at the behest of your crushing hooves? They're ill with the phage, Horse Lord, but their hearts are now hale! To move them would wound the Golden Pavillion beyond repair, yet achieving nothing in return."

She pointed to the three trees imprinted upon the low sky.

"See there! Elf-made tree homes! Gifts from Sanari, Demi-goddess from Tryfan's World Pillar and its immortal Wyrm! Would you raze it, Khudu? Would the Khan make so many enemies so readily? How many horses has he to spare? How far does he wish to stray from his dream of an all-conquering Golden Horde?"

She could see the veins of Khudu's scalp pulsing like pink caterpillars.

To hammer the final nails on the coffin, she sent a command for Garp to make a show.

The ground trembled, causing the line of Centaurs to pace restlessly.

Khudu steadied himself, more so for the sake of his mental health than from being staggered by the shifting sand-scape. Just as the Cherbi howled for the nervous stallions to halt, the ground some hundred meters behind Gwen shifted, with the sand rapidly swirling into the teeth-lined interior of a sinkhole, exposing the immense form of Garp behind the Priestess of the Afaa al-Halak.

The Centaurs fell into chaos, some absurdly with laughter and relief, perhaps thinking Gwen was ambushed. Others, more observant, knew that no Sand Wyrm that size would breach without striking its prey in an explosive eruption, and that combined with her earlier words, this was a demonstration of their worst fears.

Slowly, Garp sailed closer to the dune while Gwen drifted toward her Shingleback until its cobra-like head was close enough to touch.

Towering above the Centaurs and their bloodshot eyes, she patted the Wyrm on the snout—

Then she shielded up as a blast of affectionate sand ejaculated from its tip to rain down on the Chebi and his bodyguards.

"GARP!" The Sand Wyrm burped.

"Cheeky whelp!" Golos remarked, amused by the Horse Lords' dismay as his wind-wrapped scales dispersed the sand blast.

"You're a Worm Tamer?" Khudu's expression grew hard enough to whet blades. "If so, why did you not appeal to the Khan personally? Were you hiding your powers, and if so, why? You could reign over entire regions of the Sawahi with our support and the Khan's blessing."

"You speak as if taming the Sand Wyrm was a convenience." Gwen shook her head as Garp slithered away, retreating into the safety of its underground burrow. "Whatever the case, you know what the Khan had chosen for my Rat-kin in Shalkar. That's a kindness I hope to repay, Khudu."

"The Khan is too honourable for that," the Cherbi protested at once, his tanned face growing darker. "It was the deceitful Saran, a scheming woman and a Şöpter slave whose sweet whispers clouded his judgement!"

“That Şöpter SLAVE is your Dini!” Gwen snapped back, feeling a sudden annoyance. "Horse shit, Khudu! How dare you shift the blame onto—"

Gwen paused.

She was about to say "woman". It was typical that a woman would be a scapegoat for a patrilineal Horse Clan dealing with a Faun, but that wasn't right either. They weren't blaming their Dini for her sex, but rather for the unusual position she had wrought for herself— that of a female Major-domo and therefore, like Lady Macbeth, the Khan's Thanes felt both slighted and jealous of the "Şöpter slave" who had young Temir's ears. If things had gone well, the Free Riders and the Generals would remain silent— but if their fate were to sour, then clearly the slave woman had disturbed the great Chain of Being and needed to be punished.

In that regard, Gwen did feel for Saran— though for now, their mutual positions did not allow for sisterly camaraderie.

"Strewth— for the love of the Khan, take some Gengis-damn responsibility, Khudu," she sighed with theatrical exasperation. "It's not hard. Your Khan's honour is better preserved by coming out with food security for the next decade or two, time to train your warriors and restore what you can of your livestock herds. During that time, I'll tell the Rat-kin to give you whatever aid you require in exchange for protection and alliances, AND the Mageocracy won't undermine your restoration of the Khanate, certainly not if the Demi-gods from Tryfan had anything to say. If all parties can uphold their dues and be RESPONSIBLE adults, then together, we'll create a paradise out of the Sawahi."

"Responsibility…" the Cherbi masticated the word as a cow over green fodder. "I shall not refute that you have put us between two precipices, Magus Song. You are wily for one so tender."

Gwen felt the gallstone that's been catching in her throat drop. "I am glad we agree. Have you thought of the terms yet? I have prepared plans that should be amicable to Temir Khan and your people. The Hvítálfar Demi-goddess with your Dini also has a hand in overseeing its fairness. That said, can you be responsible for this negotiation? Or does that fall to your Shaman?"

"As the Khan's close-kin and his general, my decision holds weight." The Cherbi came closer as she spoke, drawing another snarl from Golos. "And you are right, Magus Song. We all have to take responsibility for our actions."

"We live and learn, now then—"

Khudu halted her before she could deliver the offers she had in mind. "But I am the Khan's honour."

Gwen fell silent at the nonsensical interjection, wondering if Golos had punched Khudu too hard in the head.

"I am the Khan's Cherbi."

"So you are."

"Then I shall take responsibility for our Dini and Temir's tarnished faith."

Gwen furrowed her brow at the Cherbi's verbal Sodoku, feeling an unpleasant premonition.

The Cherbi's back grew suddenly straight. "Challenge me, Magus Song. We will negotiate through trial by combat. Win or lose— the Golden Pavillion shall accept your suggestions— though if you refrain from honouring our traditions, then you shall rally only the survivors of the Nayzağay Qani' to fight the Elemental Sea. You said we must all take responsibility, correct? To challenge you is my duty to Temir. I am an Orkok, Magus Song— I was a fool to rely on words when the strength of my arm and legs would suffice."

It took Gwen a few seconds to realise what Khudu was asking.

Fuck. Gwen silently cursed her earlier grandstanding, realising her well-groomed high horse was now mounted by a bucking stallion.

From the sound of Khudu's words, there was no rescinding his demand to a honourable duel. The act did make sense, for the Horse Lord was trying to find martial logic in a rapidly emerging world that rejected the high romance of valour.

Still— to fight Khudu, even in an exhibition match, it was a bother.

"Khudu." Gwen stepped back from the Centaur. "You imply that we fight for supremacy, correct? Not life or death?"

"All duels of honour are a matter of life and death—" Khudu's expression remained solemn. "I need to feel your earnestness, Priestess of the Afaa al-Halak. Are you not toying with the lives of my kin? To put your life on the line is the least you can do."

I already fought a fucking Sand Wyrm. Gwen wanted to protest but duly acknowledged that Khudu would retort by pointing out that he was freshly returned from charging a crack cabal of Dao Warlocks. She had no idea if Khudu was trying to kill her— for without the "Pale Priestess", who would steer the Rat-kin? That said, the possibility certainly existed, and Taylor or Bekker could replace her if push came to shove.

On the other finger— did the Centaurs know of Contingency Rings? Did the Cherbi know that killing a Mage like her required complete and near-utter obliteration of her vital components?

Was their duel merely the final, prideful harrumph of antiquated tradition? Still, she had no desire for her capitalist endeavours to be bludgeoned by the Pilum of the People. Could she use some Void-driven means to absorb the Centaur's premier assault? Or perhaps, end the matter with Garp? No. She needed Khudu on her side to explain his surrender to the Khan and his Generals.

"Very well," she replied quickly to demonstrate respect for the local custom. "Now?"

"Yes." Khudu inclined his head at her Wyvern and the trench where Garp rested. "I will fight alone."

"Then so shall I." Relieved, Gwen decided against bringing Dragons to a horse fight. Drawing on her prior experiences, she then decided on a strategy of high mobility and submission by a thousand Void-cuts. That and she knew precisely where to fight. "Gogo, don't interfere."

"Hehehe," her Wyvern snickered with sadistic wickedness, revelling its sadistic nature. "Whatever you wish, Calamity. Just promise to tell Brother not to blame me if your body's broken in two."

Saran, Dini of the Nayzağay Qani, listened quietly as the holy Hierophant of Tryfan relayed the wishes of the ageless Queen, pondering the choices of her past and where she had misstepped, if at all.

Though she was a mere Şöpter, her life had been infinitely richer than most, for the ordeals that came with Cataclysms can be wildly inconsistent.

Some thirty cycles ago, when the Fire Sea rent the landscape asunder, she had been a nameless Şöpter Shaman serving the Pavilion, then ruled by Temir's Grandfather, Kazahr Khan.

Even before the great burning of the plains and the drought that followed, the lives of Şöpter slaves were gruesome existences. When young, the Pavillion raised them beside the stallions and mares to breed loyalty and servitude, each assigned to a promising future Nokud, or if they were lucky, one of the Khan's many children as playthings.

As they matured, the Şöpter slaves would learn very quickly that the will of their master was absolute and that their sole existence was in service to their lords or ladies. Their Elders taught them that they should apply every intrigue, act, and every mote of their being for the Horse Lords' benefit— else death may very well be preferable.

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Often, it wasn't even the Horse Lords, who were seldom malicious, but often cruel in neglectful ways, that made a Şöpter's life impossible, but their fellow servants, who saw their kin only as competitors for the favour of a Jagun or Mingat. Saran's mother, a pretty Faun, had been traded so often that it wasn't until her expiration that the bruised woman recognised her child.

Saran was luckier. Her burgeoning talent with the sorcery of the Clan's Shamans was enough to elevate Saran from the rat pit of Şöpter cannibalism. She did not starve, though frequent beatings, unwanted advances and neglectful injuries common to her kind remained plentiful.

Then the cataclysm happened, and the hierarchy of things since the inception of the old empire under Gengis grew strange.

Raiders returned from their grassland forays, but empty-handed, saying that the Rat-kin slaves of the east had gone to war with one another, resulting in fallow fields and a cessation to the trading of fodder for prisoners of war.

To the east, the suddenly boiling sea brought strange new beasts wreathed in the lands' Elements, indiscriminately razing tribe after tribe, driving boars, wolves, jackals, Kobolds and Greenskins westward to harass the Horse Lords' vast domain.

Likewise, the Humans with whom the Khanate always held an ambivalent relationship all but ceased contact as their cities burned and their empires shrank.

For Saran, it was in a burning yurt, beside Kazahr Khan's scorched body, that the nameless Şöpter girl, a favourite of the Khan of Khans, met an ageless Hvítálfar for the first time. Crushed by the Brass Legion, the rest of the Clan had fled, abandoning their leader in a great rout. Saran could not leave because she was chained to the Khan's golden throne, like a trapped Kobold.

The Khan's visitor was a beetle-black death God— that was her recollection of the grim-faced, mantis-like Eldrin.

The Elf proclaimed to have been in partnership with the Khan in what she would later know as the "Accord", and he asked the Khan if he had the strength to continue the fight against the Elementals.

The Khan replied that he was spent— and that he had seen the truth— the Hvítálfar's disregard for his people— that generations upon generations of their kind had been the Hvítálfar's tool, first against the appearing Human empires, now the Elementals. He was tired, the Khan said. He no longer cared for longevity.

The Hvítálfar appeared perplexed.

"You will give up the gift of Tryfan then?" he said. "You and your descendants."

"I return everything." The Khan's wound wasn't mortal, but the scorched and bleeding mass that spoke must have been in exquisite agony. "I know now the curse of your kindred upon mine. Let me die, Warden. For my half-century of service—"

"The Bloom would be very disappointed," the beetle said.

"DAMN THE BLOOM— Give me peace!" Saran recalled that the Khan's smouldering flesh had smelled like grilled Şöpter, the ones they murdered for fodder in winter.

"Long-earred God— if the Khan doesn't want it, I'll do it!" Saran recalled the choice she had made that day, an act so bold that her very existence changed as a result. "I'll perform his duties for your Accord. Give me the means and the power to move the Clan, and I'll abide by whatever you or your Masters wishes."

The Hvítálfar had regarded her as though seeing her for the first time.

"An Interesting proposal."

Eldrin's Mithril irises were inhuman, almost insectile in their coldness.

"Slave! Don't you dare!" The Khan's dying body suddenly filled with vigour. "Silence yourself, now! Rip out your tongue, or I'll do it for you. You—"

There was no resistance, mental or otherwise, as Saran drew the scimitar from the Khan's discarded saddle, then plunged the gleaming Mithril blade into Kazahr's soot-encrusted belly.

"CURSED SLA—"

Twisting the blade had been one of the most pleasurable acts Saran had performed in all her life.

"I will inherit your will," she had said to the dying Khan. "Your children, and your children's children, they will think themselves the lords of the Steppes, but in reality, they will fight the wars of the Gods, dying by the herd. Every generation will know only war. There will be no solace, no rest, only futility. That will be your legacy, Great Lord. I'll record it on the Totems for all to see."

She recalled Kazahr Khan's horrified expression.

If dicing her torturer's guts had been a pleasure, watching the old horse's eyes fill with despairing pearls of water had been a greater pleasure.

"Tell me of the Accord," she had then demanded of the death god. "Gift me that which you had given the Khan, and I'll give you his people."

She would never forget Eldrin's affirming approval.

Three decades later, Tryfan's goals remained consistent— for the Steppes must be restored, and the elemental balance returned.

In the intervening years, through subterfuge, subversion and the supplication of the Steppes' grassland refugees into the Tasmüyiz, Saran had performed admirably in bringing order to an otherwise unruly and bloody Khanate of chaos. With fingers as bloody as they were fair, she had hand-reared Temir's father until he too outlived his purpose. Thankfully, the grandson was reliant and obedient to her counsel, perceiving her as a mother more so than the filly Saran had chosen to deliver him.

The rest was history— though watching Sanari speak, Saran realised something.

Gwen Song, the subject of their conversation, was not a member of the Accord.
Nor was she a servant.
Instead, the girl was a Vessel of an Old One.

One powerful enough to manifest the minute oasis of Shalkar into an emerald valley, terraforming the landscape in under a week.

Listening to the Sanari speak of the "need" to find common ground with the sorceress, Saran couldn't help but feel cheated by her years of service to the Accord.

Was her ascension to the role of the Thunder Blood Dini merely a measure to stem the tide while the "True" instrument of Tryfan matured elsewhere?

A quarter of a million horses had perished since the night Kazahr died. Since then, she had abided by the promise to keep the blooming Elementals from the Flame Tree pruned.

Now, Sanari said that deliverance was at hand— though it was up the Horse Lords and Saran if they wished to continue their marauding ways.

"Was this always a part of The Bloom's vision?" she asked the serene Druid. "To put us at the mercy of the Humans?"

Was Humanity now the favourites of The Bloom in White? Unbidden, Saran recalled that the eastern Humans had an aphorism: the dog was stewed when the rabbits were hunted— as the bow was unstrung when the pheasants are shot.

A millennia ago, the Horse Lords were unrivalled instruments of the immortal Hvítálfar.

How long would it take for Humanity to fall from favour?

Before the Druid could answer with a non-committal response, an earth-shaking roar erupted not far from the thicket of squash vines. A battle had been joined, though, from the lack of war cries, the conflict had not gotten out of hand in her absence.

"Come, Dini Saran." The Druid did not wait for Saran to give her approval. "We should move on. The Sawahi has remained fallow for too long."

Saran followed.
One could not compel Tryfan to intervene in the competing interests of the mortal world. For their present circumstance, whether the Horse Lords chose dignity or servitude, or the middle path of cooperation, that was "her" choice to make and her burden to bear. She was on her own, for even should Temir discard Saran, no Elf would materialise from between the grapevines to rescue their agent. More likely, in her absence, Saran scoffed, Eldrin would offer Temir the same boon he had given the grandfather.

The pair cleared the squash patch.

Outside the grove, Saran bore witness to why the Magister from Clan Taylor had boasted about the Mageocracy's "Void Sorceress".

She briefly recalled that there had been another as well, a double-edged blade that had returned as a revenant to bite at the Mageocracy's plump flesh.

What made this one any keener and less likely to slice off a thumb?

Whatever the case, across an open field, the sorceress was proving her worth as she flittered about, stinking of Necromancy, with half her body covered in blood that may or may not be her own.

Below the sorceress, Khudu steamed and stamped, his armour in tatters and his sculpted form covered with wounds, marking a trail of crimson from the dune to the battleground, painting the sand in the manner of scattered petals.

At first glance, an uneducated observer would think that Khudu, who still burned with vitality, was the clear winner.

But Saran instantly saw that the sorceress was trying to give the Khan's Cherbi a platform from which to descend to diplomacy, for there was no Kirin, no Void Wyrm, and no Wyvern aiding the sorceress as she teleported every few seconds to whittle away the Cherbi's Vital Haze.

At a safe distance, Sanari stopped, then regarded Saran with one of her expectant smiles.

Saran sighed, acknowledging the new and burgeoning world. Yet, unlike the lucky Kazahr Khan, she had many distances to go before she could sleep.

Gwen chose the vast, flat expense directly adjacent to the field where Saran and Sanari held their scheming conference.

Sure enough, after a dozen exchanges where she and the Cherbi both drew blood— she by literally cutting the warrior with shaped Void Bolts and his by near-hits that triggered her armour and mantle— the pair emerged.

In the communion of their interchange, she empathised with Khudu's death wish in challenging her as an individual and not through the power of his people, whose barrage of pilums would nail her to the sand lest she borrowed Garp or Golos' power.

Presently, she gritted her teeth and endured the thrilling pain of dodging fatal javelin tosses to preserve the possibility of perfect diplomacy with the Golden Pavilion. Even if the Khan had the wisdom to see that Khudu was on a path of suicide, she doubted the Rat-kin's future would hold much kindness if she tossed Temir the honourable head of their Cherbi and cousin.

Thankfully, as anticipated, Saran demanded a halt to the hostilities in the name of her Khan.

Without waiting for Khudu's protest, Gwen withdrew her Desolation Aura, simultaneously suppressing the manifestation of her Bone Shield, signalling an ambiguous end to the battle with the Cherbi still standing "on top".

Khudu looked more demoralised than if he had suffered a crushing defeat, tempting her to send up Caliban from below the battlefield to deliver the warrior lest he later changed his mind.

Heeding the Druid's gestures, the foursome convened in the open.

"We shall listen to what Magus Song has to say," Saran announced to the Cherbi. "I'll take responsibility for relaying the loss of Shalkar to the Khan."

The Cherbi shook his head. "No, I shall shoulder that burden."

The Dini of the Centaurs appeared genuinely surprised. "The Khan will not be pleased."

"I am his cousin. What can he do other than dismissal?" The Cherbi shrugged. "The war's over, for now. There's no need for an Orkok to serve as his honour guard anymore. I could use the rest. My sons are maimed or dead. My stables need refilling."

The two exchanged a mutual look of puzzlement at one another's amicability.

"Right, so we're ready to negotiate?" Gwen tested the waters. "Sanari?"

"Make your case, Magus Song." Sanari nodded at her. "I am merely a witness to your agreements."

Gwen nodded. "I would invite the Rat-kin's Elders as well, but there's no guarantee they may nor may not be carrying the phage, so I shall speak in their stead."

She gestured to the fields. "I am no farmer, so you'll have to trust Sanari in stating that a fully developed, one-hundred acre compound around Shalkar should be able to sustain the Golden Pavilion's needs with about half of our produce, a feat made easier if the grassland's elemental stability can be restored and the seasonal rain returned. To this end, I have two choices for Temir Khan. One, the Khanate becomes our business partner, part-owners of our enterprise. By the law of the Mageocracy, which all of its governors shall abide, the Khanate and us will engage in profit-sharing. Yes, PROFIT, not produce. The foodstuff shall be sent to auction. The resulting gross— which should be substantial— can be used by the Khanate to purchase seeds, livestock, rations or hired help. In this way, you have complete flexibility."

Perhaps not knowing the importance of cash flow and liquidity, the Cherbi did not appear moved by her grand and generous gesture. "Our other option?"

"The other is easier, though not one I would personally recommend." Gwen had initially not wanted to offer the more straightforward route for fear of the Centaurs screwing themselves. Still, looking at Khudu's confusion, she realised she might have vastly overestimated the Horse Lords' economic acumen. "A portion of the food here will be given to the Khanate as tithing for its alliance and the protection it offers. This portion will be enough to feed the Horde in its current scale and then some. It's a healthy, symbiotic relationship in which, the more food the Rat-kin produce from Shalkar, the more your Horse Lords will receive."

Gwen explained that the second offer lacked the flexibility and locked the Horse Lords into maintaining the status quo. Rather than having the means to develop their lands and culture, the Horse Lords would only grow more reliant on the Rat-kin— and unless another rat holocaust occurs, that would eventually invert the rulership of the Sawahi and the Steppes. As with Tryfan's stance, Gwen preferred a balance between the Horse Lords, the Mageocracy and her "Ratopia".

"One more thing, I shall be taking one-hundredth of the proceeds, or one per cent of the net."

Neither Saran nor Khudu appeared to care.

"These are ambiguous choices beyond our ken, Magus Song." Khudu shook his head. "Dini?"

"I would choose the first option," Saran appeared confident. "Mistress Sanari?"

"Well done. I have witnessed the agreement. Magus Song, please proceed."

Gwen readily agreed. "I'll inform Magister Hill and Taylor as well as Meister Bekker. More than likely, someone from the Foreign Affairs department will be raking over trade agreements from the Shard. Rest assured, I'll remain here to oversee the development of the agricultural hub. Will you be staying, Sanari?"

"If you wish it." The Elf's golden orbs lingered on her face.

"I wish it very much." Gwen remembered that she knew next to nothing about farming, much less optimised horticulture in a desert setting, with Essence-enhanced plants fertilised with Wyrm spice. "Please inform The Bloom that for adopting me as your agent without consent, I'll take the seeds as payment."

Sanari appeared unmoved by her insolent remark. Beside the Elf, the Mithril-horned Dini of the Centaurs grew suddenly rigid.

"Lord Cherbi." Gwen then turned to her challenger. "You're still oozing. I regret to inform you that nothing short of Essence sorcery is going to heal the lesions entirely."

Though their conversation had been quick, Khudu had refrained from drawing vitality from his kin, and as such, had been slowly bleeding out from his two-dozen Void wounds.

"I'll seek assistance from the Dini," the Cherbi acknowledgd the wise woman Faun. "Should your terms fail to deliver, Magus Song, such as treachery from the Tasmüyiz, or the withholding of our fodder and supply, I shall personally ride with my Nokuds to raze your Rat-kin city to down to the last stone."

"And so long as your people stay away from Shalkar and refrain from raiding east of the Sawahi, I will additionally supply the Golden Pavilion with healing medicines in the instance of an unforeseen outbreak." Gwen did Khudu one better. "The devil's in the details, so have hope. If the Khanate can additionally provide escorts for supplies, border patrols and regular Purges of Elemental incursions, we shall be more than happy to accommodate in HDMs or fresh produce."

"That does not sound… disagreeable," the Horse Lord mulled over her words.

Of course not. Gwen almost rolled her eyes. Given the choice of gainful employment versus mutual destruction, why would the former sound anywhere near disagreeable?

She produced a bundle of towels, threw one to the Cherbi, then mopped up the blood from her face and neck.

For Stian and his people, a careful agreement with the Centaurs was merely the beginning.

Once the Dwarves can be consulted and the Rat-city and its satellite pseudo-citadels established, they can begin to absorb the Tasmüyiz who would inevitably flee from the Khan's tyranny into the Mageocracy's Ratopian protectorate. Once the new status quo is established, that would be the beginning of their problems.

What would Temir think then of their labour practices? Would Saran possess the means to stem the exodus? Could the horned wise woman summon enough clout to counsel Khan of Khan to choose cooperation and compassion? What would the other tribes under the Khan think? Would a civil war engender over differences in the opinion of enslaving those with a furrier nose or pointier ears or pinker tail?

As Gwen was no desert prophetess, only time would tell.

Whatever the Elves had planned for the region, her prerogative as an individual agent was only her Rat-kin, over whose suffering she had chosen the act of Noblesse Oblige.

To this end, their Pale Priestess would not sing of psalms to love thy neighbour and turn the other cheek. Instead, she would do her people one better.

Instead, she would bring profit.


With how busy Gwen had been since arriving at the Steppes, two things that followed in the wake of her confrontation with Khudu and Saran came as a surprise.

One was the continued delay in the arrival of the Dwarven delegation.

The second was the sudden lull in everything, an eventless, week-long break so peaceful and pastoral that she felt as though running down a flight of stairs and then stepping into a pit of Şöpter wool.

But such was the irony of acute management. Once an executive officer ensured that valuable people were in place, there was less to micromanage, leading to the perception that most CEOs spent their time pursuing PR stunts, or in her case, adventuring hours.

In Ratsanto, Stian and the Elders looked after the management of the settlement. Strun and Garp, together with Golos, took up the task of security around the oasis, recruiting, dispersing or eating the visitors. Sanari single-handedly taught the Rat-kin about the new plants and instructed those with talent in rudimentary quasi-magical plant husbandry for their tree homes. Eve and Mathias attended the clinic, taking care of the sick, injured and newly arrived.

All of which left Gwen with nothing to do unless she wanted to join Gogo in harassing and bringing the Sand Wolves to heel.

In the morning, she awoke to Elvia, who had already been up since daybreak, making breakfast for herself and Mattie. Occasionally, the Prefects most familiar to her, such as Strun or Stian or Skaz and Ix, would visit with news of newly cultivated fields or exciting bits of governance related to newly-arrived refugees. However, with repetition, her rat-feed news stream quickly faded into obscurity. The only fascinating event became that of Golos, who ventured out at dawn and returned at noon, depositing Creature Cores of mysterious things he had eaten along his patrol routes, like a Gatcha-machine that dispensed collectables through poop.

After coaxing Sanari, she now had a viewing platform crossed with a cosy nook at the top of the tallest baobab tree from which to oversee her domain. To what she believed was the easterly direction, Elvia and Mathias had set up a clinic of sorts to process the ill, the injured, and the newly arrived. Strun, now the undisputed representative of the "Mistress", had been acquiring new bodies for Ratsanto by riding Garp to the local villages and making a show of the boons in Ratopia.

Or at least that's what the Rat-kin champion proclaimed. Gwen recalled but chose not to investigate that Strun had often lamented how the surviving villages had treated him when he was dying of thirst and starvation trying to warn them about the Necromantic Phage.

The crops themselves were already bearing first fruit. Sanari had said that the plants would expend much of their vitality after the first batch and that after two generations, agricultural maintenance would take precedence. To this end, Gwen had persuaded Magister Hill to inform the distant Magister Taylor, requesting the latter to send out an urgent request to transport Filtration Engines and Elemental Generators. As this was a part of her venture, Gwen offered to pay for all related Teleportation costs, even if the Mages have to put out CC quests on the Tower's Notice Boards. With a stable Shalkar, she explained in a letter, the Sawahi would stabilise, the Rat-kin could make their homes, and the Centaurs could recover.

With her mornings done, Gwen would walk among the tree-like vines, marvelling at the fruits growing larger and riper by the day, speaking to the Rat-kin who came to pay homage. The new rats, in particular, had received a vision from the Prefects that her acts were nothing short of divine intervention. As a result, visitors occasionally appeared bearing food, fruit and dried nuts to curry the "Pale Priestess'" favour. One time, she reached the middle of a Sunset Squash field only to find a crude statue of her carved out of white stone, wreathed in yellow squash flowers and surrounded by offerings.

What am I, a fertility idol? Gwen was amused that the statue not only had her likeness but added rat ears and a bump on the buttocks to suggest a hidden tail. Thanks to the inexpert hand of the anonymous sculptor, the visage looked like she'd visited Sawahi Disney Land and had bought one of those overpriced, made-in-China Mickey ears.

In the afternoon, she picnicked with Elvia and the Centurions in informal meetings, working out their dues and teaching the rats basic logistics by taking advantage of the arithmetics the Elders possessed to instruct her subordinates.

On the other hand, teaching the average Rat-kins turned out to be an ordeal.

The frustration notified Gwen of the need to establish formalised schooling systems to dig for talent among the rats and filter her furry minions so that they weren't just a grey-black mass of whiskered faces but individuals who could put their skills to the best use for Ratopia. To a certain degree, this was not difficult, as Gwen had done her portion of volunteer tourism in her old world in nations like Ghana and Tanzania. In the feel-good aftermath, she had admired the hybridity of profit-driven tourism and capitalist philanthropy, particularly when the volunteers couldn't stomach the heat and had unanimously self-funded a solar-wind system "for the collective good of the people".

Philanthropy and profit, in her opinion, thus made a fabulous pair— provided the latter doesn't override the "Non-Profit Organisation's" core principals, like building multi-storey offices in multiple cities and spending eighty per cent of the budget on administration and "consultation". If that were to happen, she would have to come down with Golos to address the board.

Evenings were equally quiet and romantic. Atop the tree, the ugliness of the excavated city-in-progress was hidden by the darkness, becoming spotlights of Daylight Globes and Maxwell's Camp Heaters, turning the oasis into alien acreages full of blinking fireflies. Strangest of all was the moving mountain that was Garp just outside Shalkar's approach, a literal dune that shook and quivered as the Shingleback dreamt, Gwen supposed, the same dream shared by Almudj.

Finally, at night, she would retire to the treetop and set up her Portal Habitat. Elvia would return by then, and they would sit under the stars to watch what she hoped was the Milky Way and not a billion portals into the Quasi-Elemental Planes, worlds pure in their energies, inferring that the true anomaly was their Edenic Earth. If that were the case, she would much prefer that stars were the spirits of past Khans floating on an isometric Astral Plane, looking down on the masses and running general commentary like horse racing pundits.

Then, thinking of the paperwork that awaited her once she got back to London in a month or three, Gwen would drift off into sleep, dreaming of the new income soon to fall into her future Tower's coffers and of her Evee next door.

It took a week more for the Dwarves to arrive, together with Temir Khan's decree a day prior.

The order was encased in a shell of elaborate gold and True Silver wrought into a scroll case. Its content was for the Mageocracy to oversee the region of Shalkar by nominating a Magister rank officer as its overseer, meaning, "not Gwen". The move, Gwen supposed, was to undermine what she had built— albeit after the initial moment of displeasure, she could only scoff at the Khan's lack of understanding of the Mageocracy's entwined politics.

If she had to guess, someone other than Saran probably proposed the ridiculous stumbling block. After their resolved conflict, the trio of Sanari, Saran and herself had spent some time outlining her wishes and desires for Shalkar, to which the Shaman had expressed no evidence of displeasure.

Instead, Saran had nodded sagaciously while looking at her with mixed reverence and caution, then offered her full support on the condition that Shalkar's spiced squash must flow.

Assuming then that she was an "ally" in Saran's corner within the Khanate, the trouble could only come from Khudu's warrior ranks, who couldn't have been happy when the Cherbi returned home to announce his temporary retirement, citing the reason that he had to replenish his stables.

Unknowable to the Horse Lords— that the Mageocracy would send an administrator had been within Gwen's calculations regardless of their childish politicking, as she had to return to her regular classes within two months from the date. What was curious for her was that her foes remained in the stage of an economy that emphasised personal ownership rather than commonwealth, a particular prospect which foreshadowed much of why their management of the Sawahi had been so impoverished, even with Saran taking cues from her Elven overlords.

There was, Gwen deduced, an uncomfortable parallel between the Mageocracy, Tryfan, the Steppes and her old world's Western efforts in Afghanistan. Her only hope was that her Rat-kin oasis would not become yet another mausoleum in a place famous or burying empires.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

With all things considered, she took the decree with both hands while observed by the deliverer— a nobly dressed Eagle-kin, the couriers of the Khanate. She then dematerialised the priceless case into her Storage Ring to keep as a souvenir.

The item would make a good conversation piece for Maxine, whose support she needed to count on for Shalkar's produce to make it through London and beyond.

She could imagine it. Visitors to Peterhouse could say, "My, what an interesting and masterfully wrought scroll case!"

And Lady Grey would smile and say, "Indeed, it was from the year that Gwen Song, Henry's protege, rat-fucked a whole host of horses!"

Stifling her inner laughter, Gwen kept her mirth private to share with Elvia later.

A day later, the Dwarves arrived.

Welcoming the stouter delegation, Gwen was thrilled to see that the Mageocracy had her best interests at heart. It was because, whether by intent or by coincidence, the overseer to be stationed in Shalkar introduced himself as the long-faced and balding "Provisional Magister" Ollie Edwards.

Together with Ollie came the familiar face of Hanmoul, who gave her a bodily, manly embrace as they met, crushing her against his plated flight suit.

Before she could address her friends, however, her eyes were drawn to the reason why the Dwarves were so late.

There was a sizable entourage of Striders and other mechanical units, including a dozen Golems— then there was a pair of towering iron giants, each three storeys tall that strode across the Sawahi as iron-wrought Colossi compacting the sand with every footfall, transmuting the path upon which they trod. For Gwen, who had vividly shared a close encounter of the deadly kind with these Golems, she immediately recognised the Mana Signatures and unique Essence auras of the colossal Dwarves-in-a-box.

Siege Class Balefire Golems.

If the one she had fought was a powerhouse in itself, then these were akin to two city-scale elemental reactors on legs, making their way across the Himmseg— the blighted lidless world of the tall men. To expose such venerable elders to the lidless world must have been an endeavour in itself, fully indicating how seriously the Dwarven community took the news of her finding.

"Lassie, tis me pleasure ter introduce yer to some Elders O'mine. Feast yer eyes, Gwen, upon the eternal bodies of Engineseer Dhudreag of Clan Kül, hailing from the deep city of Zugspitze." Hanmoul's expression was locked into one of eternal reverence. "And this is Runemeister Skaghaem of Clan Bürumm-dal, descendants of the Ancestors, an elder among Elders, a white beard among the numberless Grey Scribes of Watzmann."

Gwen refrained from commenting that these Balefires possessed only stylistic beards carved into their articulated armour. From the sound of their names, it was safe to conclude that these were Germanic Dwarves from the central continent— where the largest active Dwarven undercity and its satellite citadels outside of Deepholm had their seat.

Straightening herself, she offered a learned greeting in Dwarven, introducing herself through a long string of titles that outlined her achievements, then asked the "Ancestors" for guidance. The act was longwinded, but it was necessary to show the proper respect— in the world of the Dwarves, only those with accomplishments and pragmatic contributions to society could speak words that possessed "weight".

"Greetings, Human Magus." The giant that spoke was Dhudreag, making him the elder of the two Balefire Dreadnaughts. The vox-box inside the Balefire roared as the sound rang out from its vibrating armour plates, visibly warping the air with heat and pressure. "Thou art the one who had aided the young ones and to whom the debt is owed."

A statement, Gwen noted with some satisfaction.

"Tis I," she said in what she hoped was old Dwarven from Deepholm. "Come ye for vengeance, wise old one as old as the stones?"

"Aye," the acknowledgement was like a thunderclap. "The Great Grudge of Vjalth Agaeth Kjangtoth, if found true, shall sound the horns of war across every Kjangtoth that still stands in the Prime Material. Our kindred's lost souls shall be avenged by every Dwarf whose heart still harkens for Deepholm. The Ancestor's Halls demand it. Honour demands it. Our Cores demand it."

Vjalth Agaeth Kjangtoth, Gwen gathered, must be the name of the destroyed outpost, something that translated to "citadel of molten sand" or "sand smelting city".

"It is heartening to hear a voice so resolute," Gwen hailed the Balefire. "If this young one may ask. Come you bearing knowledge for the reasons of its fall? Were the Elements after the Dyar Morkk?"

"Aye lass," Hanmoul answered for his elders, who nodded and went on their way. Shalkar to the Dwarves was never their destination but merely a waypoint, and for giants who needed no water, air, nor food, there was no reason to rest or delay. As for their mortal entourage— Dwarves were a hardy people. After explaining the urgency of the matter, the Commander of the Iron Legion briefly lamented the difficulty of moving the Balefires through Human-made Teleportation Circles, which had to be rebuilt by their Enginseers. According to Hanmoul, the news of the destruction of the Citadel and the wholesale murder of its stout folk had sent shockwaves through the Dwarven community. Such horrors had happened during the Beast Tide when the Aberrants had caught the Dwarves off-guard, but never again since the Sundering had a Citadel been butchered in the dark— until now.

"I needs ter go, lass. We'll talk more when we return—" Hanmoul eyed his Strider, now modified for the desert. "Unless yer wants to come to Vjalth Agaeth Kjangtoth with us?"

"I am afraid I must stay here and work things out with Ollie." Gwen glanced at her unwilling partner in conspiracy, recognising the futile frustration in his thinning hairline. "Right, Ed?"

"Just so we're clear." The provisional Magister instrumental for his role in the Dwarven alliance sighed. "Lady Grey originally asked me to bring you supplies, crystals, medicines, and to act as a guide for Hanmoul and his entourage from Bavaria."

"Aww. that's so kind of the Headmistress!" Gwen gushed.

Ollie made a face. "When I got here, Magister Taylor said that he had a wonderful opportunity for me, and it was an offer only a fool with no ambition of becoming one of the youngest Magisters in the Mageocracy would refuse."

"Oh no…" Gwen offered the young man a sympathetic smile.

"I said I would do whatever was needed, and all he had to ask." Ollie paused. "That was out of courtesy, by the way."

"Oh— Ollie." Gwen winced, wondering if she should console the man with a perfumed hug.

"He replied there's a position in Shalkar, soon to be a trade hub of the region, among the Rat-kin, and that you were responsible for its inception. Ergo, as I am a part of your Faction, and that Lady Grey trusts me implicitly, and Lord Ravenport had mentioned me by name, I was the perfect candidate to be stationed here."

"He's right, you know." Gwen nodded in agreement. "That's good money to be made here, accolades and wealth and reputation, all for the discerning individual."

Ollie stared at her. "There's no Vid-casts here, no Divination Towers. No pubs. I have no family, no friends— I have no one here. I can't watch the IIUC preliminaries or the competitions. There's no take out food, no Tower of Tandori. There isn't even an NoM on every corner crying, 'GET YER METRO! FREE NEWS FER WHAT AILS YA!' There's not even paved roads or sidewalks, or people..."

"Rat-people are people..." Gwen couldn't help but secretly smile at Ollie's casual mention of her achievements. In the last few months, the METRO had been blanketing London and its surrounding shires, becoming a quintessential start to the day for NoMs. "Look, I can get you the METRO, delivered every fortnight..."

Ollie gave her a withering look.

"Don't lose hope!" Gwen gestured to the milling furry bodies rolling about the place with industrial purposes. "How's London, by the way?"

"The same. Unless you mean how are your investments? On that front, Richard and Petra are keeping a tight lid on the problems with the aid of Magister Walken."

"More problems from the Militants?"

"From the Barlow Group, yes," Ollie confirmed her fears. "There's a dockside region the IoDRP and Barlow are fighting over. Your group offers premium incentives, but your opposition uses coercion, bribes, and other dirty means. It's quite the circus your family have gotten yourself into— The Ely Group versus the Barlow Group."

It took no fantastic feat for Gwen to imagine the tricks, turns and double-crosses happening all over the strip of industrial wasteland between Canary Wharf, Millwall and Cubitt Town. As her base of operations stemmed from Mudchute and Barlow from Billingsgate, the land in-between must have become a no man's land of real estate intrigue. That said, she was right to be away from the situation, for her position as a War Mage and a future Magister made her active participation impracticable, not to mention that she had yet to proclaim a particular Faction as her backer.

"Thanks for the heads up, Ollie." She took the provisional Magister's fingers and patted the blushing Ollie on the back of his hand. "I'll talk to you some more when we're in private. We'll be seeing each other lots. For now—"

She turned to the Dwarf, who had elected to delay his departure to inspect her agricultural operations, for his people likewise suffered from food insecurity.

"—Hanmoul, when you return, can I ask you for some favours? It's regarding developing this place for the Rat-kin. They helped me find the Citadel, you should know. Without Stian and Strun, none of us would be the wiser as to what had happened to Vjalth Agaeth Kjangtoth."

"If yer needs it, just say it," the Dwarf happily concurred without any reserve or hesitation. "I don't know how, lass, but the Debt of Hanzul between us grows with every meeting. How is it that yer running into such calamities with so much regularity?"

"Maybe it's fated to be?" Gwen said, turning her gaze to the bodies of the Balefire Golems walking into the distance. "Hanmoul, you ever feel that you are a node in the web of something greater like the low ways and that these seemingly random encounters— the Murk Ogres you call Sinneslukare— the Dyar Morkk— the Elementals here— and Hierophant Sanari yonder— are all connected?"

"Not the Horse Lords?" Ollie raised a good point. "Are they not the central players here?"

Gwen shook her head. "Nor the Rat-kin, they're all accessory to something… bigger."

"What der ya think that is?" Hanmoul said, perplexed by her sudden sentimentality for conspiracy.

"I have no idea." The Pale Priestess and Worm Handler of the Sawahi shrugged.

Ollie's rapidly ageing face broke into a rare expression of merriment. "So there's something Peterhouses' MVP doesn't know?"

"I wouldn't laugh." Gwen eyed the smiling scholar with a look of disapproval. "You think it's funny now, Ollie, but guess who's taking care of the aftermath once I am done solving the problem?"

At her foreshadowing, Ollie grew instantly glum at his self-fulfilling prophecy.

"We live in interesting times," Gwen said, feeling a slight shiver at her proposed premonition. Looking over her rats, she could only guess how long the peace could last. "Let's hit some shots. We'll pour one out for a future that's more... boring."


As with Morrigan's woe, Gwen Song's absence from London was suffered by many who perceived that three months was too short of an exile for a young woman so capable of stumbling from one calamity to another.

A key reason for the ambivalent sentiment was because the green-eyed sorceress' influence reigned over the METRO like an oppressive fever, forever pervading the thoughts of those whose interests ran parallel and yet could not benefit from her angel-invested profit ventures.

When the Metro first put out the "Steppe" editions, the Sun and the Telegraph went so far as to lodge an official complaint to the Home Office that finally, the succubus' phantasmagorical populism had strayed into the realm of unhinged fiction.

Who the hell were these smiling Rat-kin? Where on the Prime Material did they even materialise? Why should Londoners be duly informed and made to care about these furry Demi-humans full of disease and filth? Khitani Centaurs? Cock! Creatures of myth and history! There were skeletons of dead Khans and other notable horses in the Museum of London should the average citizen feel so inclined; why should they read about the Horse Lords' losses in the Southern Campaign? And Mongolian Death Worms? Mere legend! These monsters would never visit England's tranquil shores, so why should the public be exposed to such sensationalist trash?

Silence the witch!
Outlaw the METRO!
Down with the Westferry Press!

The protests were many but under the penmanship of one Wyatt Bennett, a correspondent infamously sacked by the Sun and hounded into poverty by the Telegraph, riveting narratives of romantic dunes, handsome Horse Lords, furry Şöpter slaves, and Wyrms the size of skyscrapers ploughing through a sea of sand flowered like pigfaces in the desert's upcoming spring.

In the aftermath of a week-long assignment all-expenses-paid by the METRO, every man, woman and child in London now knew that was a place called Shalkar in the distant, exotic Sawahi and that it would soon ship its rare produce to London, all of which Morrigan was keen to sample.

Yet, without a second thought, the Metro's rival papers had roused the local traders of Wildland produce to resist the newcomer.

At first, the talk in town had been one of toxic scepticism, for who would desire to eat cucumbers or bake a squash that's farmed by foreigners' hands? Buy local! The Sun said, as did the Telegraph, albeit with tamer language. Support the Mageocracies' neighbourhood farmers! Never mind that small family farms accounted for a negligible volume of the Noble-owned properties or conglomerate-acquired arable land— how could one call themselves a loyal citizen of the Mageocracy if they put foreign-grown cabbages in their gullets or used turnips from some God-forsaken Black Zone? What was even in those legumes? Rat-phage! Pollutants! Mana miasma! Droppings? Everything and anything could be in those damned vegetables. FACT! The good people of London, said the Sun, should organise a protest at the docks to barricade the delivery ports so that no such filth could touch the Core tenet of "eat local" at the Mageocracy's heart!

Two weeks later, the METRO withdrew its statement that the vegetables coming in the next few months would be available to all. In the strongest terms, Dominic Lorenzo, Chief Editor at the METRO, strongly criticised his employer, the greedy Magus Gwen Song.

Gwen's great sin, the man stated with passion in a full-page editorial with the sorceress standing beside a literal circus of rats, Dwarfs, Dragons and more, was that she dared to restrain the supply of vegetables so that only the wealthy, the wise, and the well-connected could even think of purchasing her produce. What use— Dominic composed in his fiery rhetoric, where DRACONIC-INFUSED, ELF-TENDERED, TRYFAN-WROUGHT tomatoes if all of London could not toss it in a salad? Just look at this picture of her smug face! What's that? A Sand Wyrm? An ancient Thunder Wyvern? Was his boss, the self-proclaimed sorceress of the People, still a woman of philanthropy? Or had Gwen become another profit-seeking drake common to London's upper circles, like those Militant Factionists?

The following week's METRO ran an image of a Wyvern sleeping among the bean-stakes as the Rat-kin toiled to prove his point. Additionally, the front page included a full spread of loveliness more eye-catching than any number of Magus Song-look-a-likes on Page Three of the Sun.

"Her Grace, the High Hierophant Sanari of Tryfan teaches the Rat-kin how to enrich Sunset Squash."

Westferry's poor NoM paper sellers became mobbed by the Mages.

Elves— the people of London liked to read about Elves.

Immortal beings of loveliness, eternal youth, ageless wisdom and limitless sagacity, the embodiment of grace! Benevolent quintessences of good, who had remained in their tree homes, without conflict with the world, lending an occasional hand to the lesser, younger races of the Prime Material!

Lo! Read the article. Behold the Hvítálfars of Tryfan! Beings from living legends who had gifted man knowledge free of charge so that mortals may find their Path in a harsh and unforgiving world! Since the days of Pendragon, Elven mythoi had featured strongly in most of the Mageocracy's founding fables. To the citizens of what was once the largest continent-spanning empire in the Prime Material, Elves were as staple a concept as the Nazarene.

"The avarice-driven Magus Song", continued the METRO's string of "Steppe Specials", was in cahoots with upper-tier elements of the Shard, as well as the immortals from Tryfan. The Rat-kin, the paper noted from its secure, confidential "sources", had affirmed without prejudice that the Magus had no desire to sell her blessed, jewel-like, sumptuous tomatoes to the common folk of London at all. Instead, sources close to the Void Sorceress had proclaimed that Magus Song was the one behind the negative press because there was no way she could meet demand, fearing that her favouritism would draw the rightful ire of London's connoisseurs of Wildland cuisine!

Week after week, with the paper plastering every surface in London's Metro systems, obnoxiously hollered out by paperboys in every corner housing a crier, the city's attitude toward the Rat-kin's legumes shifted with the inevitable momentum of a glacier.

Where can we buy the Elf-food?
How much for a kilo of Draconic broad beans?
Was it true that eating a whole Sanari Spiced Squash could prolong one's life like a Vitae Fruit?
Will consuming the Gogo Tomatoes cure constipation?

Such were the rumours circulating London's transport systems and its dreary country towns.

And such were the reports clogging Mycroft Ravenport's desk, much to the delight and salivation of a particular soul-bound Goddess, one not usually given to gluttonous desires.

In an epoch before the Word Bearers of the Nazarene came upon the isle, when Morrigan could fully manifest her avatars, she had oft slaked her thirst at the bubbling brooks or dug her beak into the blood troths the Druids had raised in praise to the Mistress of Fatality.

In the past, men had called her the Goddess of War and Fate, the prophetess of doom, death and the demise of monarchs, a verdant force of nature kept hale by wicker caged offerings from humble old Druids. Unlike now, the ways of the painted men were more straightforward, a time when violence served as the catch-all solution to most of Humanities' and Demi-humanities' problems, where ambushes and betrayals were the height of intrigue.

And with the changing times, Morrigan had changed as well.

Now, she was secrets, door tapping ravens, and invasion of privacy.

Deprived of the offerings of ash, fire and flesh, she could only feast on the psychic energies in the building mortal men called Westminster, soaking herself in the icy effluence of conspiracy. Her Master, the Duke of Norfolk, was one such individual who was a reliable source of nourishment.

Then, of course, Morrigan had discovered a new fount of replenishment— one that escaped the restrictions of the Conditions placed upon her immaterial personage. Gwen Song, Apprentice and heir to an Arch Arcanist of old. The girl's Master was a man buried with more mysteries than in Westminster's catacombs, a sorcerer of the old ways who had dabbled in every conceivable form of mortal power. Interestingly, Kilroy's student wasn't an adherent of the arcane but preferred the psychic energy of greed, wants, dreams, and ambitions universally shared among the waking denizens of every Plane. It was a contrast that intrigued Morrigan as she perched over the Duke's desk, delighting in the man's growing exasperations over the sorceress' successes. Each time, the Oliphant in the room grew larger— was this the Sorceress' way of straying from the Path walked by her Master's wife?

Whatever the case, Morrigan was in no rush to allow her newfound source of Essence to wilt. Within the parameters of her contractual obligations to the seat of the Lord Marshall, she would nudge the girl just a few degrees toward what was best for them both. For two beings who were potentially going to be around for a very, very long time— she had no doubt there were more delicious secrets to be gleaned from the sorceress' Crystal-teeming mind.

Already, Gwen was paying dividends, for Morrigan was now privy to the delicious secret of the Dyar Morkk.

A few weeks into the Dwarves' arrival in Shalkar, after the Cores of the deceased were identified and numbered and consigned to the rebuilt Ancestor's Halls, the Dyar Morkk was once more activated. Thanks to the data gathered by Meister Bekker, Chief Overseer of the Sawahi Campaign, the residue mana signatures had provided two critical clues for the Duke's office.

One was something the Mageocracy had suspected for some time but had not the chance to prove— that a section of the Dwarven Low Ways was responsible for the mysterious theft of the Red Dragon Egg from Carrauntoohil as well as its transportation into London.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Until now, the illogical mechanics of that incident had been burning a hole in Ravenport's desk. For years, the Dragon Egg's appearance was a bigger mystery than the culprits responsible.

Firstly, Sythinthimryr was an ancient Red with near-total dominion over anything tainted with her Essence, including the eggs of her sister-scions. That Sythinthimryr herself would lose track of an egg either meant the egg was utterly consumed and its energies absorbed or that it had to be moved through an alternate dimension. Yet, all knew that one could not stow living things in Storage Rings or Handy Haversacks, much less a sacred object the weight, size, and mana-density of a Dragon Egg.

Secondly, while the Duke had suspected that the Elves could arguably use a Druidic Satchel to move the Red's egg, the Essence clash between Elven and Dragon magic made such ventures impossible. And to Tryfan and the Shard's knowledge, Sythinthimryr did not serve a Great Tree— even if she did, a theft from within was doubly as dubious as those blessed with Essence could not lie to their patrons.

Thirdly, an ancient being with the power of Sythinthimryr could slither between the Planes without too much trouble, meaning she could, if she would pay a small cost, access most of the Prime, Quasi and Para Elemental Planes, none of which would block the Essence sympathy of its kin-egg.

Thereby, logical deduction inferred that either Spectre had invented whole new forms of translocation magic— which meant the Mageocracy should now be sweating— or that the secretive organisation of these "Others" had merely exercised an opportunity.

A salvaged section of the Dyar Morkk, one made momentarily operable, was a logical culprit to the mystery of the suddenly appearing egg. With its subtle alteration of space, the Low Ways was naturally shielded from Planar disturbances and possessed a unique mana structure separate from Elven, or Draconic sorcery. That and the Dökkálfar had tunnelled beneath the shores of England since she was but a mote of divine desire in the days before Human Druids received the knowledge of sacrifice.

The findings, though satisfactory, raised new questions as well.

The Engineseer contingent in the Sawahi had reported that the route led north toward the mineral-rich tundras of Black Zones of mid-continental Russia. At its end, they found a second outpost— a processing citadel-hub, with sub-routes leading forward toward the Sundered Cities of the Ural region. Thankfully, these were devoid of kin and abandoned after the Beast Tide.

But where did the Elemental go from here?
Assuming there were no Dwarven traitors among Spectre's membership, how could the Brass Legions of the Fire Sea empower passageways that required Dwarven Runic magic, and indeed, the agile mind and living Cores of Dwarven Engineseers to maintain?

And indeed, if the Elementals had gone somewhere, as the evidence indicates, were they coming back? Could the Dwarves then lay an ambush for the inbound Brass Legion? When would they return? What were the indicators? The Dwarves knew nothing, and if the knife-ears at Tryfan had anything to say; they were undoubtedly silent.

The quiet was itself disquieting, for there were no disturbances anywhere in the Mageocracy's Domain that reported a horizon to horizon Legion of Fire Elementals wearing brass bangles and wielding armaments of barely-contained plasma.

The absence of trouble in Human lands had the Engineseer Assembly of Zugspitze paranoid with the direst possibility— "Boulderdash! Wha der ya ken, Human Thane? What if the blasted fire beards are going after Deepholm? What if they aim to cut off Deepdowners from the Ancestor's Halls as payback for our hard-won victory over the Sundering?"

Morrigan agreed with the hypothesis.
In the Himsegg, all roads led to Rome.
For the Dwarves, all the Low Ways led to Deepholm.

But her Master remained adamant that the Elementals were after something "more strategic". One Legion, Ravenport had argued, even one lead by an Elemental Prince as infamous as Zodiam, would not penetrate the adamantine walls of Deepholm. Unfortunately, as Morrigan's Master had lacked an impressive beard and the clout, the Deepdowner's worries remained unsatiated, catalysing the sleeping Citadels into deep-seated anticipations for a war they wanted to fight but didn't know how nor where or when.

To find a constructive outlet for the pent up tectonic forces fomenting below was now the woe troubling the Duke of Norfolk, who had promised their Dwarven allies full support for their grudge-driven coalition. It was good news for Morrigan, for the Duke's mind had not the energy to spare to rebuke her peevish rebellions, nor for the sorceress soon to return.

Therefore, Morrigan would gather her murder, then round up Cambridge's inglorious Rainbow Drake of the Pond. After that, as a pair, they would waylay the girl at the port and put an end to the Essence drought!

London.
The Isle of Dogs.

By the time she had visited Canary Wharf in her old life, the commercial hub had become one of the most impressive and desirable locales for transnationals. On the pier, everything was gleaming glass and polished concrete, and every conceivable brand and corporation had either set up headquarters or at least a token branch so as not to miss out on the opportunities for market expansion.

Baltimore Tower, the Landmark Pinnacle, the Newfoundland, Canada Square, One Park Drive, what had once been an industrial wasteland had become a real estate Mecca.

Comparatively, her much more modest Isle of Dogs remained a work in progress.

Shamefully, despite her best efforts, there were only three "Towers" tier buildings nearing completion— all between twenty to thirty storeys, albeit with deeper and busier basements than their alter-history counterparts. Ironically, as her transport barge sailed into Millwall's inner dockland, the most prominent structure of the region remained "The Bunker" or the Westferry Print Works headquarters, whose cubic Dwarf-designed facade and teeming patrols of men in industrial Golem suits made for quite the spectacle.

"Mistress," the aptly terrified voice of Strun rang out beside her. In the distance, the Shard floated like a sword staked into London's Core. "Are we at the heart of the Human world? Your tree homes are forged from obsidian and steel, no less wondrous than Mistress Sanari's stories of her home in Tryfan! And there are so many..."

By habit, her hand found its way onto Strun's ears, where her fingers dug through his luxurious, shampooed fur. Smelling no longer of sweat and Garp spice, the Rat-kin now had a softer look, one that spoke less harshly of what the young Demi-human had endured in becoming the "Herald of the Afaa al-Halak".

Initially, Gwen had considered Stian as her envoy to the Shard. Compared to the others, the Rat-kin was incredibly wise, not to mention the old fur-ball had seen enough shit go down in the Steppes to speak authoritatively on every relevant topic.

However, as she could only secure one Core-Shielding Enchantment from The Shard for an "ambassador" to London from the Rat-kin— the Elder had left the opportunity to his grandson.

"Go forth and see the true world, how large it is and what we must endure to eke out a living in its shadows." The Elder had entrusted his grandson with quite the mission. "You will be the Eldest one day, Strun, as you are the Whisperer of the Wyrm. If even YOU lack the eyes to see where our people must go, then the Rat-kin are truly doomed like the Horse Lords."

The sagacity of Stian's natural foresight almost made Gwen wish she could transport the old rat over to London to work under Walken as the Magister's second.

Patting the rat's head some more, she regarded her other returning companions.

Elvia and Mathias were now... tanned.

Their accomplishments in establishing a foothold for the Order of the Bath in Shalkar was commendable, but what truly made Gwen chew her lower lip was the healthy, golden glow her Evee now exuded.

A tanned, olive-complexioned Evee with skin the colour of royal honey that offset her baby-blue eyes? Not only that, the Cleric had spent so much time in the field and then again in the "field" with her Familiars that her flaxen locks were now bordering on platinum. Her allure was now criminal! A combination like that on a face as angelic as Elvia's was the stuff of salvation! In her opinion, all Evee needed to harness Faith from the masses was to trot herself out in a daisy dress and sandals, a big old blooming Ki-ki on her shoulder, and her Tri-Crown icon would become a second sun!

After three months, Gwen felt a little bit like she had fallen in love all over again. The surf, the Sun, the beach— once upon a time, those were the stuff of her soul.
Of course, there were no seas in Shalkar, but the oasis was no less blue, and its sands were just as blonde, and her Evee all tanned and golden like syrup.

As for her vampiric self—
The Devourer of Shenyang sighed at the approaching gallery of reporters with their lumen recorders and hovering casters. Like Jean-Paul, her kind was forever doomed to be pale. Even if she withstood the Sawahi's relentless sun, she could temporarily polymorph into Sebastian, the lobster— but it took less than a day for her complexion to heal and the skin to shed like a snake's, an analogy a terrified Ollie had remarked with great alarm the first time it happened.

"Are those your servants?" Strun indicted the crowd on the pier. "They seem very eager to see you."

"No…" Gwen said absentmindedly. "We don't do servants and Masters here, Strun. In theory, everyone is 'equal'. Only hard cash, merits, and accomplishments can raise one above the masses, though I would take that with a pinch of Garp spice..."

"I see." Strun gulped. "Will they understand me?"

"I trust the Runesmiths knew what they're doing." Gwen's fingers brushed the device on Strun's neck, hand-tuned by the Runesmiths that had later arrived in Shalkar to make good on their promise to reduce the burden of their "debt".

Like her Ratopia, Vjalth Agaeth Kjangtoth was now undergoing a complete restoration and refit, with a coalition of Clans and kin to the original inhabitants gathered to replenish its numbers. The new Dwarves who arrived late were very quickly introduced to her by Hanmoul, who immediately inaugurated the newcomers through Sen-sen's infused Maotai.

For her Dwarven friends, Gwen opened not only her heart but also her Storage Ring.

The results involved the partial destruction of one of Sanari's baobab trees, the birth of a new legend, "the Lassie who inhales booze", and harsh reprimands from the Balefire Elders wondering if some unseen power had abducted their construction team in the Murk.

Gods, has it been three months? Really? Her mind reeled just thinking about what she had built out of pure incidence.

Without the evidence of Elvia's taut, tanned skin taunting her with their sun-kissed warmth, she could hardly believe that she had been outside of London for almost a hundred days and that the snow had come and gone and the banks of The Thames were now in hues of olive and emerald. A part of her implicitly understood that she missed the city and her people within it, but the charm of having "gone wild to the Black Zone" had left its mark.

Already, she longed for the limitless desert vista with its cloudless, ultramarine distance that stretched in every direction, with the sky feeling like a pair of big blue arms that could scoop her up and take her to a place without worries.

Even the labour of instructing the Rat-kin, which was expectedly tedious and frustrating, was a joy that London's bookkeeping could hardly compare. Every day, the concrete results of her work passed her by, hailing her as Mistress or Priestess as they loaded bales of foodstuffs onto the sand sleighs of the Horse Lords' Drover Teams.

Even Sanari had stayed for the better part of two months until one morning— the Druid abruptly declared that she would be returning to Tryfan for reasons beyond their need to know.

The Trellis Portal had shimmered, then the Druid was gone.

Gwen lifted her hand from Strun's ears.
The press was waiting for her on the docks like a pack of Jackal Priests anticipating a human femur.

She wanted to skip them and instead find Petra, Richard, and Walken, but her Ratopia needed obscene profits for its second and third phases to flourish.

Thereby, Gwen straightened her spine and flattened her wind-tossed dress— now was the time to put on a happy face.