Petra Kutznetsova, Human Rune Smith in training and soon to be Magus, carefully studied her cousin, the Devourer of Shenyang.

Since Shanghai, she had known that her Void Mage cousin could not be expected to behave like an average Mage, though no theory and research had prepared Petra for what Gwen had now become—a possibly unhinged person.

Despite her academically-aligned mind, Petra felt compelled to make such a judgement because her cousin, the mistress of the Isle of Dogs, Apprentice to Henry Kilroy and future Tower Master, was now conducting a tea party with a gathering of talking animals in a scene reminiscent of her childhood picture books.

Prior to Petra's present predicament, Gwen had invited the crew to spend the afternoon relaxing at Mudchute Park, previously a mound of mud, though now transmuted through the power of HDMs into rolling lawns overlooking the Thames, flanked from behind by gleaming glass skyscrapers.

The picnic was initially pleasant, with talk of work and their private lives—until the animals arrived.

Petra took another gander at her cousin, currently holding an animated conversation with her non-human "friends".

Foremost of Gwen's new companions was Dede the duck, an enormous brute of a drake, a born bully now fully capable of committing assault and battery on Cambridge's Mages.

Besides the duck, sipping tea and nibbling on biscuits, was a rat wearing jeans and a t-shirt, more capable of murdering Mages than even the duck.

Opposite the two animals, Caliban coiled on the picnic bench, listening to the conversation, nodding and waving as it received bits of shortcake from the duck. Gwen's other Familiar, Ariel, lounged beside them, yawning as it groomed itself.

After the usual suspects, the sole humanoid member of Gwen's entourage was Lea, who was more interested in the sweets and the freedom of manifesting in the Prime Material.

Finally, there were the crows, a whole host of the damned things, each the eyes and ears of London Tower, weighing down the sycamore tree that made the park shady and cool. The murder's representative, an enormous crow Gwen had been feeding, was delivering avian oratory in the middle of the table, conversing with the duck and presumably Gwen in a way only their Spirits could fully comprehend.

What worried Petra now wasn't the talking beasties but how their table had been arranged by default. Gwen sat at the head, surrounded by animals—while she and Richard sat on a second bench, seemingly alienated from their cousin.

Unlike Gwen's other peers, Petra saw herself as the original "Gwen Researcher", one who had kept a longitudinal observational journal on her cousin. Therefore, Petra understood Gwen's propensity for attracting the strangest beings to her side and her uncanny ability to attract trouble.

Despite the endless drama in the Shanghai portion of Petra's journal, Gwen had made friends and forged an unbreakable bond with her estranged family. For London, Petra had expected Gwen to perform likewise, instantly surround herself with a new social circle of high society Mages.

Yet, here and now, in the aftermath of her triumph over London's elites, Petra could only shake her head in disbelief that her cousin's London posse possessed nought but a duck and a crow, reinforced with a rat from Shalkar.

Where were the Lulans of London? Petra gazed questioningly at Richard, who appeared more amused by the spectacle than alarmed. Of course, Gwen had made many allies and found helpful colleagues like Charlene Ravenport, that balding fellow from Peterhouse, and new patrons like Lady Loftus of Ely. However, none of these connections was akin to Mayuree or Lulu, who would eat a Fireball for her cousin should the need arise.

Perhaps, if Gwen's present company were starry-eyed colleagues and superiors, Petra would have written the matter off as the perils of power. However, The Wonderful Adventures of Gwen of Looney Woods was nothing short of ridiculous.

Should she release her Spirit to join them? Petra desired to know what the Spirits and Gwen were so heatedly discussing. But unlike Gwen's Familiar or Richard's Undine, her Naga Spirit was an acquisition, more so a tool than a companion. Not only was her Spirit's Ego singularly shattered by the Thunder Dragon that tore it from its body—it was utterly terrified of Ariel and Caliban.

"What do you suppose they're talking about?" Petra asked Richard, growing curious as the crow's caws grew impassioned.

"The weather? And something about water levels. Mermen, I think. You know Gwen and Mermen." Richard appeared baffled as well.

"Gwen had spent the last hour talking about the weather over tea with a table of animals?" Petra affirmed her suspicions, feeling the pit of her stomach sink. Had Richard's ears deceived her, or had she spent too much time studying the Dwarven Runescripts and had lost perspective of what constituted normality?

The latter could be the cause, for according to her Magisters at Queen's College, she had made excellent headway in her research. For her certification thesis in July, Petra had planned to unveil a revamped Spell Cube system, which allowed for long term storage and safe retrieval of the retained "spell" at eighty per cent of the original caster's tier even after a year. Now advised by the best, she knew for sure that Magister Wen's original designs would never supersede the ease of vellum scrolls. By the laws of mana conservation, a Spell Cube's sub-optimal ergonomics would never replace scrolls. However, thanks to her work with Gwen's Dwarves, her research could be re-classified as "magical batteries" slated for stationary spell storage and the craft of Golem-making.

"And now they're talking about the ice caps." Richard raised a brow, giving Petra a strange look she did not like. "When did Gwen become Cambridge's resident Lecturer of Geomancy? How does she know all this?"

"Know what?" Petra furrowed her brows as the crow continued to caw on the adjacent table, intermittently interjected by the duck.

"Hold on—" Richard closed his eyes. Petra felt the circulation of mana around her cousin as the air around him grew sodden, soaking his shirt. Richard, Petra acknowledged, was diving into the consciousness of his Undine. Like herself, Richard had come a long way from the ravages of Sydney to where they were now, the blue lawn of Mudchute, a demesne where her cousin was the top dog.

"—well." Richard opened his eyes, though both of his pupils appeared clouded by a film of silvery Conjuration. "I'll transcribe, and you try to make sense of it."

Deep in her bones, "Mori" Morrigan sensed that Gwen was spilling forth secrets that few would otherwise know, for there was no other explanation for the thrill coursing through her immaterial psyche.

"…It is rather more complicated than that because the Afaa Al-Halak is a symptom of the climate change and not the cause." Oblivious to Morrigan's ecstasy, Gwen continued to explain for her ratty companion the cause behind the collapse of the Rat-kin's homeland, a continuation of the explanation she had initially addressed for Morrigan. "It's like a spider web. If even a single string is drawn, the whole thing deforms, changing weather patterns where the anomaly forms, but also impacting climates further away, albeit in declining magnitudes."

Earlier, while Gwen relaxed with her cousins, Morrigan had arrived uninvited to attend afternoon tea, conveying a strange and unusual question about Gwen's report on Shalkar. Her enquiry proved fortuitous, for Gwen was in the middle of teaching Strun the Rat-kin, who would return to Shalkar in a month, about the system she had put in place to maintain food security in his homeland.

"Okay, let's try this." The girl turned to the School of PowerPoint when Strun ashamedly professed his confusion once more. With some effort, she conjured a globe to represent Terra, the conjunction of Elemental Planes and Humanity's native home, then willed forth a rudimentary map. "We all know the laws that the Dwarves have been touting since before man, right? That heat ascends, the chill descends, and that these thermodynamic forces are responsible for the wind and rain, yes?"

"Caw—!" Morrigan affirmed her understanding.

Her non-human companions nodded. Strun listened as though Gwen was delivering a sermon first-hand from the horse's mouth.

"Okay." The sorceress added a layer of blue to the globe then overlayed the equatorial band with a dash of orange. "This is where you live, Strun, this dot over here. The orange part is the heat during summer—and as the world spins on its axis, we can see the blue because it's winter. The change of seasons, which we associate with the sun's Radiance, brings the wet winter and the hot summer."

Having never seen such an exhibit, Morrigan was thoroughly enthralled by Gwen's simplification of Terra, where the sphere and the Elemental Planes conjoin. According to her recall, no one from the Mageocracy's Geomancer Corps has ever given such a concise summation.

"Before the Fire Sea, plentiful precipitation annually soaked the grasslands, then flows downstream into the Amu River, which feeds the Ural Lakes and the Caspian Sea. The humidity from the grasslands not only keeps the Khitani desert cool during the summer but also prevents erosion, thereby bringing trees, and thus shade—does that make sense?"

Strun nodded, as did Dede, Caliban and Ariel, who liked to copy the Rat-kin.

"Good." Gwen used her fingers to add a dab of red, representing the Fire Sea, allowing the colour to pollute the surrounding blue and orange until the whole section appeared like a swelling bruise. "So, what would happen if there's no more cold air here? What if the seasonal winter is negated?"

"Caw?" Morrigan raised a wing.

"No, not no more rain." Gwen shook her head. "Which is itself an imperfect answer. The correct answer should be that the rain which should have fallen here is now elsewhere, likely causing enormous floods or crazy snowstorms. All that moisture from the land and the mountains south of the Khitani heartlands is still flowing downstream, only that it's all evaporated and gone before it can feed the plants. At the same time, the loss of all those florae would destabilise the planar balance of the region, making it more hospitable for creatures like the Afaa al-Halak, and less viable for folks who relied on the grain-grass, like Strun's folk. Of course, the Afaa al-Halak would then consume the remaining tablelands to expand their territory, meaning the destruction of the aquifer, which means hotter summers—which means?"

"Caw!"

"That's right!" the girl patted Morrigan's feathers, simultaneously awarding her a droplet of Essence. "More desert! More Elemental Earth and Fire as Elemental Water moves elsewhere. A bigger rift in the planar gash! Even FASTER deterioration of the region. At some point, there's bound to be another flashpoint, meaning the place may become a new home for the Salamanders and the Elementals."

"Caw?" Morrigan asked for the consequence.

"I don't know," the girl confessed. "I am not sure anyone would know, and if they do, they're certainly not teaching it at Cambridge. I am pretty sure our Prime Material will be fine regardless, only it isn't going to be anything like the one we're enjoying right now. Can you imagine what the weather would be like in Europe if there's a permanent balefire burning over in Russia? All that water from the mountain caps is going to enact some pretty big natural disasters."

"Caw?" Morrigan wanted to know if the Fire Sea could expand once more.

The girl shrugged. "Not now, not if we can help it unless a bigger Brass Legion breaks through the portal at the Fire Sea, but until the portal's big enough, the region can only sustain so many Elementals. Isn't that interesting? Do you see why your people are essential now, Strun? To Tryfan and the Prime Material. So long as you maintain the region with the gifts from the Hvítálfar, the threat from the Elementals can only grow so dire. And to mitigate that threat, you'll feed the Centaurs with grain from the Mageocracy. Between Rat-kin and the Khitani and the Towers, you'll be able to prune the Elementals, thereby keeping the portal and the weather in check. Hopefully, when the Fire Sea wanes in time, you'll even get your homeland back."

"Caw? Caw?" Morrigan brought their conversation back to her original proposal.

"Caw? Naw—Is that even possible?" Gwen cocked her head quizzically. "A Portal to the Elemental Plane of Fire where the Para-elemental Plane of Ice is strongest? Even if it is open, how long could it last?"

"Caw! Caw—Caw!" Morrigan could only say that it may very well happen.

"Ha!" the girl laughed. "Do you have any idea how much ice is up there? Millions and millions of tons of ice, maybe billions, more than any of us can imagine! Even if a new Fire Sea opened up, how much of it could it possibly melt? Not to mention the amount of ice on Greenland isn't even comparable to the sheer volume of water stored in Antarctica."

"Caw?!" Morrigan wanted to know if warping the Elemental Nodes at the poles could be applied to Gwen's theory on Shalkar's decline.

"Bloody oath it will!" Gwen gestured wildly with her hands, launching herself into a new frenzy of doomsaying. "But you contradict yourself—isn't Antarctica the blackest of Black Zones? Has anyone other than Magister Shackleton ever traversed it? If my history lessons are correct, he didn't reach the centre until the Second Expedition. He had to make a fort and survive a year-long siege from the Ice Elementals when the Diviners in his first expedition got eaten, right? Besides, doesn't the Bestiary state that whole broods of Mythics make their home there, including a White Dragon?"

"Caw—!" Morrigan not only knew that there was a Dragon there, she even knew the creature by name.

"Anyway, I am not an expert on Astral Theory. Whatever the case, the energy required to subvert the polar junctions of the Planes of Water, Ice and Air would require magnitudes of power we can't access with our current Magitech. Not that we would want to control that power anyway. Why do you ask?"

"Caw—Caw—"

"You're a very curious bird with very strange questions." The girl's striking eyes regarded Morrigan inquisitively. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Caw!"

"The—the need to know?" The girl grew flustered. "You'd be far more convincing if you weren't a bird—Oi! Where are you going?"

Morrigan took flight.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

From the moment the Hvítálfar witch-queen made her offer, Morrigan had felt her feathers tingle, and now she knew where to find the answers. Though the girl knew nothing, her wild conjectures had ignited the root of Morrigan's altar as though it was once more drenched in offerings of heart blood.

Long ago, ancient men once whispered to the "Crone of Crows who wove the Secrets." And though Morrigan had since separated from the potent Faith of secrecy and war, she nonetheless instinctively understood that she was on the cusp of some great understanding.

And for a being whose psyche was formed of such a thing, there was no ecstasy sweeter than possessing the knowledge that others did not.

"What in St Augustine's name is Gwen on about?" Petra asked her cousin, now more confused than before Richard had transcribed the conversation.

"The weather. Seemed simple enough to me." Richard shrugged at her with infuriating nonchalance. "Whatever Gwen's interest might be, our present problems are more immediate. Maybe we should resolve the Barlow problems first—get the METRO back on track—and then worry about terraforming a Black Zone, eh? Gwen's not paying us for overtime, you know."

"That's not the problem here, Dick. I mean, why does she know this? Did the Elves teach her this—what?" Petra stared at Richard when the man dared to roll his eyes.

"Go ask her yourself," Richard smirked. "It's not like she's hiding anything."

A moment later, rearranged so that her cousin no longer appeared the Princess of a Russian fable, Petra began the soft interrogation of what she suspected was yet another episode of her cousin putting herself into unfathomable peril. Trusting in the rapport built with Gwen over the years, Petra forwent the pleasantries directly asked what the crow called "Mori" had wanted from her.

"It's nothing serious," Gwen happily explained her hypothesis once more. The second time Petra better comprehended her cousin's reasoning, even if the scope of Gwen's proposal anchored firmly in the realm of fiction.

"Just because we don't think about it or know about something doesn't mean it isn't happening behind our backs, Pats." Gwen clarified with an air of conspiracy. "I am not a Diviner like the Oracle of Delphi, but you don't need magic to see that a lot of the problems in the Mageocracy can be explained by the changing weather patterns in the Wildlands. Before Shalkar, I wasn't aware of how impactful an Elemental incursion may be. Now I am."

As she spoke, her cousin thoughtfully stroked the duck's neck, eliciting something between a quack and a purr.

"Pats, relax. I am not saying we should lose sleep over any of this. We have bigger problems, and besides, there's not a lot the Mageocracy can do other than work with Tryfan's directives."

"Meaning, if you're right, we're at the mercy of Tryfan?" Petra recited after her cousin. As a committed adherent of Dwarven Runecraft, she was no longer clueless about the High Elves and their role on Terra. The Hvítálfar, whose Dwarven Masters labelled "knife-ears", had always perceived themselves as better than their Elementally estranged cousins and loved to meddle. Thereby, Petra felt great unease that Elves were beginning to feature more and more of late in Gwen's dealings and not Dwarves.

"I don't mind them. Sanari was pretty chill, all things considered. Did you know she told me that even if I blocked that Eldrin fellow, she still would have left me the seeds and stayed to help? If you're right, then it's because their generosity can be downright creepy."

"That's because they are much more long-lived." Petra felt her anxiety soften. "Maybe we're not seeing the scope of their plans from their perspective."

"Maybe," Gwen said. "But you know what's wild? Remember that time I went to Talwaenydd? I bought those dresses, right? I gave the Elf working the shop the money, and she just tossed it on a pile behind her in a basket. I know my shopping, and I am certain that the HDMs in there are from other Mages who had visited in the past, meaning they've got no interest even in the money they've collected. It was more of a ritual just so that we would pay and feel good."

"I can see how that's strange." Petra thought about Gwen's gripe.

"Right?" Gwen completed her thought. "They're not interested in profit, Pats. Now that's enough to give a girl the chills."

As one who had undergone training in Moscow's infamous Tower, Petra agreed with Gwen's wariness. Indeed, the more an adversary desired, the more trustworthy they became when an agent monopolised the supply, be it sex, drugs, or authority. According to her erstwhile Master, no living being possessed of an Ego could be without desire. Therefore a party that presented itself as neutral meant two things.

One, she was being deceived.

And two—she had not done her due diligence.

In the blink of an eye, Morrigan returned to the Raven Roost at Westminster, transferring her principle consciousness from one bird to another until she passed a visage of her likeness etched onto a wooden sarcophagus, alighting finally at the catacombs of knowledge.

Now bathed by sterile light, her eyes opened once more, finding herself in a grand hall so vast that even the casual observer could guess at the spatial magic used to maintain its immenseness. Below her, as always, a thousand Diviners in drab tweed and leathery brown stomped through a maze of shelves, stocking its indexes with data collected from the Mageocracy's domains.

The room reeked of mana miasma, for in recent years, most of the incoming information had been transcribed onto data slates, allowing even mortal Diviners to aid in the great project of clarifying the going-on of the Mageocracy's multi-continental realm.

Morrigan refocused her mind.

Materialised into a murky avian apparition, she flew past the magically cooled data-scape into the ancient vaults below, entirely indexed by hand, with tens of millions of scrolls, scripts, notes, files, memos and annotations going back to the time of the Argent King. Within its lightless crypt, Morrigan now traversed, wading through a sea of secrecy, relying only on the tatters of her eidetic recall to find her true north.

Earlier, her favourite Essence Vessel had convinced her that the Elements were up to something—and that something had to do with the Seats of Frost at the axis of Terra.

For Morrigan, the clue wasn't in Gwen's untested proposals but the implication therein.

In the present state of the Mageocracy's policies regarding the Black Zones, Beast Tides were classified as the consequence of explicit and sudden actions, such as the Undead War, the emergence of the Fire Sea, or the spontaneous insanity of Vynssarion the Black. These were observable catastrophes, all of which forever altered the wind and rain.

According to Gwen, Beast Tides, especially spontaneously occurring ones, may just as well result from changing climates.

And according to what she had gleaned from Tryfan and her Duke, such subtle changes in climate could very well be the result of willful malice.

However, unlike the mundane, short-lived members of the present Mageocracy, Morrigan's memory was long and old, older than even the Empire's most sagacious Magi.

After delving through six storeys of catalogues, Morrigan stopped in front of a pigeon hole half-smothered with dust. Gingerly, she willed forth the records within, composed originally by a Nordic Mage before the time of the Towers by the name of Styrkar Arrhenius.

Quickly, Morrigan confirmed the contents—an annotation of the purged proposal made by Arrhenius, insisting that the Axis Mundi—nodes where the Elements conjoin, could be coaxed through manipulating the most plentiful Element on Terra, "Water". It was an opinion that was well-regarded. However, for Arrhenius, his infamous doomsayings soon made his position untenable. Even as Humanity made its way around Terra plotting colonies and expanding territory, Arrhenius proposed that Terra was not meant for Humanity's destiny manifest, but the Mermen. "The Elementals shall inherit the Earth!" was the famous saying that turned the Magisterial community against Arrhenius, leading to the censure of his research. Nonetheless, the Mage had left an impression in history, as well as the prophecy that should Humanity fall— the remnants would survive in a "water" world. For this reason, Arrhenius argued, if he were one of the Seven Kingdom's sovereigns, subversion of Terra's planar balance would be his principal goal.

With her first reference stowed safely away, Morrigan came upon the second piece of evidence two rooms above. Unlike Arrhenius' unsanctioned opinions, Lord Stewart Collins of Reeds was a Geomancer of the Mageocracy's heartland, a respected Magister, and a chief researcher of the Black Zones with tenure from before to after the Great War of Undeath. Lord Collins, taking advantage of the desolation sowed by the Undead Tide, recorded alterations to weather patterns in central and northern Europe due to the planar instability caused by Negative Energy. Interestingly, Lord Collin's warning conflicted with that of Arrhenius, who was convinced the oceans would rise and the Mermen would reign. Instead, the Magister observed that unseasonal winters over the Seven Kingdoms would catastrophically impact food chain systems utilised by the Mermen, thereby triggering Beast Tides inspired by desperate Kingdoms looking to shed their excess citizens. Thereby, Collins warned that a "foe" with enough commitment could wipe out Humanity, not through direct combat, but by proxy against the natural world. Like Arrhenius, Collins' words also fell on deaf ears. Then, for reasons unknown, his research was never again published.

The final piece of information Morrigan possessed of note was from a New World Magister, a recently perished Charles H. Hansen, Senior Lecturer of Geomancy from Stanford University. Unlike his predecessors, Magister Hansen possessed the advantage of Spellcraft long since matured after the Beast Tide, supported by evidence collected over two decades fighting the global catastrophe. In the end, Hansen concluded after engaging in "meta-analysis" of the Beast Tide and the Coral Sea War that there must exist parties actively manipulating the Prime Material's climate patterns.

In yet another "phantom" publication that saw widespread censure outside of the New World, the researcher made the outlandish claim that Elves and their World Trees directly impacted the Prime Material and that alteration to these "nodes" of the Axis Mundi would see Humanity prosper over Terra's Elemental denizens.

Unlike his predecessors, Hansen, a resident of the New World, initially saw widespread support in his native nation. Yet, like his predecessors, Hansen quickly recused himself after publishing his work, disappearing entirely from academic life.

Of the report Morrigan now possessed, the obituary stated that Hansen had wanted to reignite interest in his theory, only he grew obsessed enough to venture into the Wildlands alone. When finally a party stumbled upon his beacon, the only part of him that was not beyond Divination was his old dog tags.

It came as no surprise for a being like Morrigan that the man's narrow "truth" did not take on. In Europe, Elves and men had partnered from before the epoch of Anno Domini. Likewise, in regions like China and the Indian subcontinent, the very notion of uprooting Land Gods who in actual fact controlled the weather would see Hansen lynched and hung by a terrified mob.

And as for the events that had occurred in Greenland, where Lhîweth burns and the Wyrm Laelitharian rots—Morrigan was beginning to sense logic in what appeared to be a fruitless and costly campaign.

As an appendix to her data dives, Morrigan concurrently collected reports of anomalies surrounding events of the last decade, pairing the spotty logs with piecemeal records of weather patterns in the affected regions.

Her evidence remained insufficient, but for a collective consciousness wrought of secrecy such as herself, Morrigan knew she was on the orgiastic cusp of a forbidden discovery.

All that remained was to barter her findings for her Duke's flesh. The act was a ritual that restored the waning motes of her decaying power and fortified her psyche, buying her time.

For so long as she survived the tyranny of time, one day, Ravenport's mortal line will cease to be. Then, The Morrigan, Crone of Crows and Weaver of Secrets, shall once more fly free to wreak havoc and feast upon the offerings of her knowledge-starved sycophants.

Deep in thought, Mycroft Ravenport, Duke of Norfolk, paced the perimetry of his office, balancing a dozen threats to the Mageocracy.

Hours ago, Ashbridge had left for the Palace to report to her Majesty, who would then trust her Dukes and General to deal with the Mageocracy's worldly affairs. The same applied to Holland, who retreated to rouse the Mageocracy's reserves after leveraging his aid for a favour. After the fiasco at the Niger Delta, Mycroft wondered if it was even possible to persuade the Noble Houses that they should feed scions into another expedition—though this time, with Solana's guarantee of profit and treasure, it was difficult to see why a Faction starved of currency would refuse.

What's left to Mycroft now was the question of leadership, for the head of the Northern Expedition into Greenland, a Black Zone without any infrastructure, would reign by martial law and be unchallenged until their hour of return.

Usually, Mycroft possessed a small trove of candidates to draw upon—but their employer, Tryfan, had made the matter infinitely more complex.

The Greenland Expedition, Mycroft suspected, was not one to send the men home by Christmas.

By The Accord's parameters, the war would not be over until the region was wholly stabilised, which meant the complete and total Purge of Fire Elementals, Undead, and Mermen from Lhîweth's domain.

Meanwhile, there was every possibility that Lhîweth may attack the very Human Mages who came to help them, and the Mageocracy not only had to grin and bear the loss but apologise should they damage the land surrounding the Great Tree. The situation itself was as absurd as they came, for Mycroft could imagine the uproar if he had hired gardeners to fight an infestation in the rose garden, only to have his wife execute them when they misstepped on the good turf.

But what's the alternative?

Could they leave the infestation untreated?

For his generation of Humanity, the consequence wasn't so dire.

Dead roses.

A ravaged Eden.

And arboreal anarchy where straight hedges and shaded lanes once reigned.

But what of longitudinal neglect?

The worrying thing was that neither Mycroft nor anyone else had an answer. In the days before Spellcraft, the Mageocracy held scant records going past the Victorian Epoch of Enlightenment. To add insult to ignorance, each war and Beast Tide invariably destroyed more volumes of journals or erased indexes so that knowledge, so that even if one existed, verification was impossible.

"Caw— Caw—"

There came the sound of a crow rapping on Mycroft's door.

"Come in," Mycroft spoke absentmindedly as the crow descended in a flurry of jet-hued feathers to assume the humanoid likeness of his supernatural aid—The Morrigan.

"Dear Duke." The sultry voice of his bird sounded well-fed. "I come bearing delectable secrets."

"You do?" Mycroft packaged away his present thoughts for a later hour. "This better not be another rumour attending to one of her Majesty's wayward children."

"Oh, this is far more delicious," Morrigan purred, her dark eyes sparkling with delight against her pale cheeks. "I spoke to the girl of her experiences from Shalkar, and she has told me of a correlation between Beast Tides and the weather."

"Truly?" Mycroft decided he would rest his mind with an amusing distraction. "Tell me, what did the girl say this time? What secret did she inadvertently reveal?"

"Tis not the lass but I who possess this secret," Morrigan informed her dear Duke. "Do you wish to know why the Elementals are assaulting the Great Tree of Lhîweth? If you would pay the price, then Morrigan would gift you with an answer."

Mycroft regarded his Spirit with a critical eye.

As per her contract, she could not deceive him with falsehoods, though Morrigan was free to present the truth with as much guile as she wished. If so, and if indeed the Spirit possessed the wisdom to see past the constraints of the Accord so at least he knew what his men were dying for, then he would gladly pay for her service.

"Fine." Mycroft materialised a crystalline blade and slit the tip of his finger, allowing a bead of blood to swell forth.

Morrigan approached, her eyes primal and wild and her pupils enlarged. Without ceremony, she placed his finger so that the string of blood that now escaped fell into the gap between her hot lips. A second passed, then Mycroft felt his vitals falter in the wake of their contractual obligations. With haste, he withdrew his hand, leaving a streak of crimson to run past Morrigan's lower lip and across her chin.

How like the goddess in the Celtic engravings she now looked, Mycroft observed. Morrigan's was an Ego that had existed since the age of wild men, savages who sacrificed their flesh and blood to unnamed Spirits like Morrigan so that she could bless them with answers to questions they did not know existed. Calmly, Mycroft softened his breathing, reminding himself that though the woman no longer caked herself with offal offerings from Druidic supplicants, her very Essence continues to be constituted from the raw, unadulterated terror of a Humanity that cowered in crude forts and hid in caves from roaming Fomorians.

"So tell me." Ravenport wiped his hand on a white, silken handkerchief. "What do you know?"

"I know where Spectre will next strike, assuming they haven't done so already—" The Spirit spoke through teeth that were gory and bloody, her white bosoms rising and falling from the invigoration gifted by Mycroft's blood. "I know what they wish to achieve and what they would engender."

Mycroft's heart grew strained with sudden paranoia. "Where?"

"Antarctica!" The crow-Goddess of old war and death and secrets spat with triumph. "They seek to destabilise the Great Tree of Illhîweth in the same manner as Lhîweth! The Elemental Sovereigns cannot force their Legions into the Prime Material so long as the World Trees stand, but they can push each boundary to the extreme! And most importantly, they can push your kin toward destruction, even without war, thereby crippling The Accord and with it, Humanity's tenuous hold on the Prime Material!"


Rakiura Purple Zone.

New Zealand.

Unbeknownst to many, the little-known inlet of Oban sits on the southern tip of Aotearoa, on an island that the Demi-God Māui used as the anchor for fishing up the north island. The modern Geomancers of the Mageocracy, who deemed it necessary to rename the tongue-twisting island chain "New Zealand", did so while well aware that the north island may have been a Leviathan of unusual size. The Prime Material was, after all, where the flotsam and jetsom of the Elemental Planes naturally ended up. Therefore, a perishing Leviathan dying when it emerged into a plane with insufficient buoyancy to sustain its colossal body wasn't impossible.

Perhaps the tale of the islands being the carcasses of mythical Leviathans could explain why Te Waka a Māui, or "Māui's Canoe" that made up the south island was prone to producing a greater variety of magical produce than any other colony under the Mageocracy's reign and served as home to enormous hosts of Demi-human beings.

Oban sat on the smallest isle, Rakiura, later renamed "Stewart Island", after the Victorian cartographer who mapped the region.

In the present day, two significant Human settlements exist on New Zealand's shores after the Beast Tide—Auckland in the heart of the north island, and its sister city slightly south, Wellington.

Its third settlement, the city of Christchurch, beautiful and wondrous it may have been, was unfortunately relegated to human history by the Beast Tide and now exists as a fortress serving races without amicable relationships to the Humans up north.

It was from Oban, an inlet on Rakiura's east, that Divination Station WETA1077 now sent its complex string of warnings towards its mother station in Wellington. For almost two days, its station Master, a Senior Geomancer of no import who had chosen a remote job because it allowed him to focus on his Ice Magic, could only watch in awe as the spectrometric readings of the South Sea shot from their usual range into the utmost extremes, then stayed there.

At first, the Geomancer was confident the sudden surge of every reading meant his instruments required new calibrations. Though his Spectrometer was Dwarven-designed and German-made, the snow, wind and sleet so common to Oban were not kind by any measure, sparing not even the rocks that rolled down the escarpment under which the station hid.

With his mind made up, the Geomancer had decided to see what would happen with his own eyes. After all, with every needle going haywire, he had no idea what he should even report.

An hour later, he had his answer in the midst of making tea.

First came the sound, a heavenly echo that rolled like solid thunder, moving as slow as molasses as it washed over Oban's shores, so oppressive that the shielded station felt as though underwater.

When the sound did hit, the transmuted concrete of Oban station shook as though a jar of fruit abused by a belligerent child, sending every item not bolted down to rain down on its sole inhabitant.

In a daze, the Geomancer had dug himself from the debris to make his way back to the Spectrometric reading room. There, he no longer needed the readings to know that something terrible and terrific was occurring across the ocean.

Immediately abandoning his tea, the Geomancer forced himself to record, then compose a Message to Wellington station, one that would warn them of the impending horror to come.

Fifteen minutes later, from the vantage of his seaside office, the Geomancer saw a great plume begin to build on the horizon. Even from his privileged position, the curvature of Terra's vast globular distance made the scale of the dust stack impossible to estimate—but for him to see it from Oban, there was no doubt as to the stratospheric pollution taking place.

Then, the sea began to shimmy.

Not surge.

Nor crash.

But recede.

As the tide flowed impossibly backwards, it exposed the shallow denizens of the South Sea.

Stricken fish, confused clams, suddenly exposed crustaceans the size of houses and bewildered Mermen who traded fish with the Geomancer for grain—all were left exposed to the frigid air of Oban.

The Geomancer knew then that the sea would return with the crushing wrath of ten Leviathans within minutes.

It was there then that the Mage, whose name was known only to the Wondrous Energies Technical Academy based on the coast of Wellington, made a choice. In one scenario, he picked up the emergency Boots of Flight and legged it, likely making it a hundred kilometres before he could find a fishing vessel to take shelter.

In the other scenario, he shepherded the Message device, calibrating its fluctuations in the Elemental Planes, then stayed with the station until the inevitable happened, praying to Māui that he had enough HDMs left for the Message to reach Wellington.

The Geomancer chose the latter.

When one's home was the Purple Zone of Rakiura with its view of the limitless ocean and a backdrop of endless Roc nests, Wyvern hovels and other Elementals, the minuscule nature of his existence was never a matter of doubt.

But now, having chosen to be the better man, the anonymous Mage felt that perhaps, this one time, he would have made a difference to Humanity, or at least, the lives of his forgetful colleagues in Wellington.

A few minutes later, under his trembling fingers, the gauge showed the station's mana reserves nearing depletion and that the Message, as far as he could know, was still sending.

All that was left, the Geomancer supposed—was to be at peace and relish the sublime, unfathomable power of the natural world.

WETA.

Wellington.

Magister Maka Kawhena, Academic Director and principal Geomancer at the Wondrous Energies Technical Academy, was woken up by his bright-faced assistants.

"Something's happening on Rakuira!" the youthful faces yammered, explaining that there was an immense elemental surge of sorts.

Kawhena remained unfazed, for here was Aotearoa! A land of Halflings and Titans! A land where on Wednesday, one could experience a sudden surge of Elemental Fire so close to Auckland that the ground would shake—after which the faculty went back to lunch.

Oban was their southernmost station, constructed in the unpopulated Purple Zone with a skeleton staff of one. The reports from Oban had rarely contained anything of interest, and over the years, Kawhena had near-forgot that the place even existed.

"What's the matter now?" Magister Kawhena broke the crust from his eyes, stowed his research papers with a swipe of his Storage Ring, then yawned to dispel his fatigue.

"The readings are off the charts!" One of the students waved the script back and fro. "And I think… Oban's gone."

"Gone?" Kawhena's mind instantly grew clear at the unfortunate news. "Give it here."

His eyes scanned the script.

The readings, as it were, were "off the charts", not as a figure of speech. The Elemental Spectrometer readings from Oban Station's final transmission was of such magnitude that the numbers were beyond the scope of its Divination Engines to compute. Had Oban itself not reported its destruction, the Magister would have foremostly considered the readings an error.

"Anything else?" The Magister asked his students, despite knowing that the Divination Station was too isolated and weak to transmute vocal Messages or Lumen-casts. Nonetheless, if he took the readings to be accurate, then Wellington would very soon encounter an unfathomable trial.

The students understandably shook their heads.

"Sir?" One of them must have noted his facial expression. "Are you ill?"

Kawhena touched a hand to his forehead.

He was sweating, he realised. In mid-January, Wellington was prone to heatwaves, but as February marched in, the temperature usually peaked in the brisk twenties and dropped into the lower teens.

"Come with me," Kawhena decided to inform Auckland Tower at once, true or otherwise, that was his duty as Chief Geomancer. "We're going to the LR Message chamber. We need to—"

The building shook, as did their bones.

A clash of raw, relentless thunder rolled across the sky over Wellington, so powerful that deep inside WETA's reinforced academic building, dust from the ceiling fell across the Master and student like fine, powdered snow.

"What was that?" One of the students said, perhaps finally realising things were about to get real.

"Thunder?" Another remained optimistic.

"No, not thunder," Kawhena said aloud. A scholar of his tenure knew very well the weather forecast for the next week. Likewise, his student should have known that no weather phenomenon manifested as a single thunderclap.

_Ding—DING—DING!_

Before the Kawhena could station his train of thought, a stylised chime for urgent notifications blossomed beside his ear as a burst of red mist. Putting the output on public, Kawhena activated the incoming Message.

"Kawhena here." The Magister kept his voice level. "What's happening?"

"Sir." The voice from the other end was from his Apprentice, a Magus Geomancer from the Akaroa Outpost, sheltered in a volcanic inlet. "I just received pings from our buoys south of Oamaru. There's a tsunami currently moving northward toward Timaru. It should reach our station in twenty minutes."

"How bad?" Kawhena asked.

"We're getting ready to evacuate," the voice replied. "From our readings, it's travelling at close to three hundred knots and moving at a depth of about a hundred meters to fifty meters. It should reach Wellington in the next eighty minutes."

"Anticipated wave height?"

"Uncertain. I'll report as soon as the primary crest passes the outer rim of the station."

"Anticipated damage to the substation?"

"Catastrophic is my guess. Thankfully, the spontaneity and speed of the Tai āniwhaniwh indicate this to be a natural occurrence, likely from tectonic movements in the south. The fastest Leviathan we've recorded can barely manage fifty knots without its brigades of Mermen, so it can't be an invasion."

"Understood. Pass on the warning to Auckland. With preparation, the Tower should be able to minimise the damage and organise the city's defence. Very well done, Magus Everett."

"You've taught me well, Master."

"I don't recall teaching you flattery." Kawhena wanted to smile, but his facial muscles were too rigid for feigning hope. His Senior Apprentice was an experienced Geomancer. If the young man's calculations remained true, then the sea wall and the reinforced Shield Barriers south of Wellington would not be nearly enough to stop a tsunami of this magnitude.

"All of you, come with me to the observation room," he informed his students, then mentally punched in another Glyph into the active Message spell. "Ena, Ruhi, go inform the militia. Moki, confirm the bad news with the city guards. I'll contact the Tower. Ahi, go help organise the evacuation."

The call took half a minute to finally make its way through the rudimentary Divination Towers that snaked across the north island, past the Halfling settlement of Hamilton, then Auckland. The delay, frustrating as it was, was the best their Frontier could manage. Unlike the first-tier cities, having middle-tier Diviners manning Divination hubs was a luxury they could not afford.

"Maka—" The voice that answered him was calm. "It's good that you've called. We've all heard the commotion. How bad is it?"

"Paladin. I regret to inform you that Oban's obliterated," Kawhena said. "There's a Tai āniwhaniwh wrapping around the north coast in the next sixty to eighty minutes going three hundred knots. We'll take the brunt of it, but enough of it will reach Auckland to make reinforcements... complicated."

"The cause?"

"The readings indicate a spontaneous natural event."

"… I see," the voice of Auckland Tower's premier Battle Mage, Magister Te Wherowhero, sounded relieved. "Nonetheless, I suspect we shall require aid from Sydney and Melbourne. I'll mobilise the Tower in the meanwhile and have Whetu organise the reserves. Master Hildenbrandt will officially request our Halflings allies at Hamilton to ready relief supplies for Wellington. Likewise, we'll spare what we can for your defence. Stay safe, Maka."

"You too, mate," Magister Kawhena allowed himself the luxury of speaking informally to his old friend and colleague. "I am confident Wellington will survive and rebuild, just like Sydney."

In the lobby of WETA's academic hall, the arriving Kawhena addressed the hundred or so of his colleagues who had by now emerged from their labs for the observation hall, the designated meeting place for emergencies.

Altogether, there were only three Magisters and something south of forty Magus-tier casters in the entire city of Wellington. Kawhena's saving grace, he supposed, was that only a hundred thousand NoMs serviced the port city, a stark contrast to the milling million Kiwis in Auckland.

Nonetheless, with the sirens blaring and the population well-trained against natural disasters and Mermen incursions, he had no doubt any citizens with good sense should be able to find shelter, or at least escaped to higher ground by the time the Tai āniwhaniwh made landfall.

All that was left was to defend Wellington from the residual tidal surges as best as they could, then hope to Māui that no Elder-tier Elementals had decided to take the opportunity to tour their hapless settlement.

Within ten minutes, as had been drilled dozens of times before, Kawhena split WETA's Mages as best as he could.

Then, while making for the observation room, Kawhena took the readings from Oban and studied the numbers.

Only a dozen pages managed to make the leap from Oban to Wellington, making the cause of the disaster woefully unclear.

One graph, or whatever could be transmitted, indicated an overabundance of Elemental Fire in the hour prior, reaching a peak of some twenty-six thousand per cent of the yearly average. At the same time, Elemental Earth in the region showed growth of some fifteen thousand per cent. Likewise, Elemental Ash, Smoke, and an assortment of flame-aligned elements also inundated the chart, causing a depression in the spectrometric volume of Elemental Water, Air, and Ice that dominated the region. For an area possessing ninety-nine per cent water, ice and frigid air, Kawhena too would have doubted the validity of the instruments.

In hindsight, the numbers matched a sudden volcanic eruption, though the total lack of build-up before the detonation was a matter of great suspect.

Regardless, the origin of their present woe could only come from one source.

Mount Erebus.

For aeons, the dormant volcano had remained a bastion of Elemental Fire against the all-pervading cold. When it last erupted in '97, Kawhena had been a Magus studying in Auckland and was lucky enough to be selected for an expedition to witness the eternal battles between the Magma and Ice Elementals that reigned in Antarctica's northern Black Zone.

Still, Kawhena felt an unwelcome queasiness.

If the Tai āniwhaniwh caused by an eruption in or near Erebus was enough to wipe out Oban station, then how large must the blast be?

With a heavy heart, Kawhena did his best to match the readings to a mental image of the sky-rending ash cloud now spreading over the white linen snow of the Antarctic—transforming the infamous seat of pristine frost into a wasteland of choking ash.

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

What did such a thing portend for the days to come?

Regrettably, as a Frontier Magister and administrator, Maka Hawhena could honestly say that he had no idea.

Mycroft Ravenport received the report of the eruption of Mount Erebus no less than an hour after Auckland Tower's mobilisation.

His first reaction was to suppress the deeply felt suspicion that Morrigan's conjecture was correct and that Spectre's next target required an over-extension of the state's forces. Already, he had sent forth agents from the Sixth Cabal into the Wildlands of the southern Frontiers.

But that was a week ago.

And despite the vigilance of his agents, there would be a few weeks before he received a full report. The delay was frustrating but necessary—for regardless of their zealotry for threats against the Mageocracy, no Human instruments existed to monitor the south pole beyond Spectrometric Stations on Falkland Island and Oban.

And now, both were gone, and the Antarctic Black Zone was presumably on fire.

In a less complicated time, were he to call upon Morrigan's record-searching expertise, the crow would croak that magma bursts were a dozen-a-decade affair, and they occurred without rhyme or rhythm, or at least one that the Mageocracy could discern.

Against such "known" tectonic anomalies, the Mageocracy had well-built insurances in place. Ironically, certain settlements existed solely to survey such regions. For a well-shielded Frontier, a volcano wasn't just a source of danger but a source of immense resources, for whether caused by planar disjunctions or simply the natural flow of elemental energies in flux, every destructive aftermath left behind countless new HDM growths ripe for the picking. For this reason, regions like Auckland may lack in Mages and manpower but rarely lack infrastructural investments.

Had Mycroft not received Morrigan's warning, the eruption should have been a cause for celebration.

Once Auckland and Wellington endured and was in the recovery process, Mages could be ferried from Singapore and the coastal cities of Australia to mine the newly exposed wealth. Though utterly inhospitable, a well-armed expedition on a fully equipped ice breaker barge could penetrate the South Sea, then serve as a temporary operating base.

There or near Erebus, once the warring Elemental Monsters were "Purged", the acquired materials and HDMs would be split between the Mageocracy, its Commonwealth colony, and the mercenaries hired by the Tower to do its bidding. Unless something catastrophic occurred, such as a sustained Mermen Tide or the awakening of something ancient and opinionated, all parties walked away satisfied and laden with riches.

However, the dangers were real, and so were his lack of men.

Ashbridge had already summoned the available manpower the state could spare at a moment's notice, meaning the Royal Docks were presently loading the HMS Argus with Golems, tents, supplies and materials for the temporary command centre off Greenland's coast.

To summon as many men again for a second Breaker Carrier, but this time for the underside of Terra, was not only improbable but potentially unprofitable. Thanks to a certain newspaper, the losses sustained in the Niger Delta had the Militant Faction blushing for shame, meaning the Grey and Middle Faction had to unsubtly encourage their privateering cousin utilising garish promises and upfront reinforcements, like tossing meat to a ravening Manticore to steer the end with three mouths toward one's foes.

Nonetheless, Mycroft's appointment meant he MUST make a recommendation to parliament. At the same time, his suggestion had to attain rapport with all three Factions of the Tower—and pass muster with the Crown.

His only reprieve was that he needed not juggle Factional considerations to find a capable Commander, unlike the Fire Sea expedition. As the matter occurred nearest to Auckland, the Commonwealth's treaties naturally left the organisation of relief and recovery to the closest Tower and its Master. London's dispatches would operate under Auckland, even if in name only.

In a simpler time, Mycroft may not have bothered sending Mages at all, not when HDMs and supplies were sufficient.

The Paladin of Auckland and Gunther's old contemporary was Magister Te Wherowhero, an Earthen specialist with a wealth of experience going back to the Beast Tide. Under his care, most of the north island's terrestrial Demi-humans were allies of the Tower and could count on their aid. Likewise, Auckland would call for assistance from Sydney and Melbourne. On that front, Mycroft could predict with absolute confidence that The Morning Star would take the opportunity to repay the kindness Auckland had exhibited three years ago.

Across the miasma-choked air of Westminster, the dull echoes of Big Ben's mechanisms announced the time.

Rubbing his eyes, Mycroft took a moment to vent his annoyance at the tyrannical march of Big Ben's heartless tolls. His original plan a week ago had been to spare an evening for a toast with Charlene, or at least a gesture of congratulation over a luncheon—but now, he could barely recall when he last had tea without the interruption of reports.

Once the discomfort in his eyes faded, Mycroft considered his options.

Any work in Antarctica required the attention of a well-suited Magister from the Shard. One he did not have.

There were candidates—but these were haughty men and women with little regard and even less respect for the sovereignty of their southernly Commonwealth compatriots. On the surface, they had no trouble processing the grand scale of the Mageocracy's assumed fairness. Still, Mycroft knew these Magisters better than themselves, especially when given a fully-equipped research vessel equating a mobile mini-Tower.

For a Magister to accrue accreditation and succeed in his assignments, help and favours were inevitable. A clean and uncomplicated Purge required complex networks borrowed from their sponsors. Correspondingly, to terraform a section of an Orange Zone into a pacified Green Zone, mountains of HDMs had to be poured into the building of Shielding Stations, roadways and to attract NoMs and labourers to settle into a newly "recovered" Frontier. Most importantly, failure almost always accompanied such successes, meaning political buffers had to be erected through gifting profits and favours to ensure that the Magister's evaluation emerged favourably.

Conversely, the "Down Under" region of Australia and New Zealand was just a little too far from the bountiful bosom of the green isle in the north to remain in its sphere of control. That was why Henry Kilroy had exiled himself after the violent ex-communication of his wife. Likewise, that the Towers of Europe had given the man a wide berth for almost three decades meant the Empire's ex-penal colony had affected an assumed independence.

That and the region's war leaders were Wherowhero and Gunther Shultz.

Paladin Wherowhero, a renounced "king" of the Maori and a shaman-turned-Magister, exhibited only ambivalence for the Mageocracy's promise of "common" wealth.

As for Shultz…

Mycroft was sorry to say that a man whose prowess was used to categorise the War Mage tiers could arguably do whatever he wished. Around two decades ago, when Kilroy announced that he would take Gunther with him to reclaim the eastern coast of Australia, it was not outrage that the Mageocracy had expressed but a shared sense of relief. Thanks to Shultz's bloodline, a dozen domains across both the Kingdom and the continent had felt threatened by his inevitable claim to power.

Therefore, the making of Gunther Shultz into the Tower Master of a perpetually besieged mining colony was the most remarkable outcome anyone could have imagined, leaving many in awe of Kilroy's generosity.

That was why Shultz's proposal to rebuild Sydney as a tier 1 city in the south had not only been met with applause, but every Faction had pitched in to keep the man busy and forgetful of his birthrights in Europe.

"Morrigan," Mycroft called for his Spirit.

The crow-woman manifested at once. Of late, Morrigan had rarely left Mycroft's side as matters in the north continued to unfold.

"What's the girl doing?"

"Making use of the NoM Artificer from MIT," Morrigan answered happily.

"Trying to get her grubby mugs on Golems?" Mycroft furrowed his brows. If the girl started building Golems in her Print Works, the Fifth Cabal would be very interested. Once the girl had her Tower, she could manage it as she wished—but for now, for what possible "private" use could a War Mage have for Custom Golem casings?

Morrigan looked up with a smug look of mischief. "No, Master. She's working on the Llias Leaf. The NoM says he may be able to replicate some of its functions."

"Good, as long as it isn't Golems," Mycroft spoke on reflex, then slowly allowed his exhausted mind to catch up with the surprise and irritation suddenly swelling his temples. "… Gwen's doing what now?"

"Our 'Mistress of the Dogs' is trying to dissect the Hvítálfar magic associated with the Llias Leaf," Morrigan's lips were so red with excitement that for a moment, Mycroft mistook the colour for blood. "She's trying to glean its secrets by having the NoM approach the Elven Glyphs. Something about using similar Dwarven Glyphs as a medium."

The Duke of Norfolk pictured his daughter standing next to Gwen at the All England.

Charlene was such a good girl, he thought to himself. All his little bird desired was to overturn the old power pyramid to benefit more of the Mageocracy's citizens—and gain power for herself in the process. It was a very admirable goal. Why couldn't Kilroy's Apprentice also be a good girl like Charlene?

A part of Mycroft wanted to teleport to the Isle of Dogs and slap the Llias Leaf from the girl's hands, then strike her thrice on the head with his raven-headed cane.

Another part of him, the logical portion he valued more than his health and life, told him that the Llias Leaf was a gift from Tryfan to Gwen and that Tryfan was more than capable of protecting its secrets if it so desired.

Therefore, mindful of his feelings on the Accord, the Duke of Norfolk poured himself a cup of cold tea, swished the bitter liquid in his mouth, then swallowed.

In all honesty, sending the girl down south felt absurd.

She was too young, too inexperienced, and far too talented, a terrible combination when the desired outcome should be "predictable".

If, by chance, the girl made "Shalkar" happen in the Antarctic Black Zone, would the Great Tree of Tryfan spontaneously combust?

But that didn't mean he had a better candidate in mind.

If Antarctica turned out as Morrigan had suspected—would sending Gwen not be a stroke of genius?

Mycroft reminded himself that the girl was indeed an Apprentice of Kilroy, a man instrumental in establishing the current Accord and that Kilroy's history with the Hvítálfar was as thick as sheaves under the World Tree. Thereby, if she did make unhappy contact with Illhîweth, Tryfan should step in to prevent an escalation.

As for the Mermen—Mycroft recalled the girl possessed a deft hand at dealing with Mermen.

At worst, he was confident Gunther Shultz would personally attend to the girl's blunders.

With his confidence bolstered, the mindscape of England's Lord Marshall began to entwine the strings of cause and consequence.

The Shard MUST send an expedition, one that involved a Breaker Carrier, to the northern tip of Antarctica to observe the rapidly changing conditions there.

At best, the discharge at Mount Erebus was a natural occurrence, meaning Auckland and the expedition could excavate a Dragon's hoard of HDMs and Creature Cores, then retreat to the safety of the Shield Walls.

At worst, if indeed Spectre was involved, then the girl would be wholly motivated to Void them, and should she prove insufficient, The Morning Star would teleport to her aid together with the Scarlet Sorceress without a second thought. Likewise, should the matter grow dire, the Tower Master of Sydney had already amassed enough HDMs from the sale of the Leviathan's offals to move his renovated Tower across the South Ocean.

When Mycroft tried to envision Gunther Shultz appearing as a blazing sphere of pure Radiance above the endless snow of Antarctica to rain down god rays of absolution upon Spectre's agents, even he couldn't help but affect a secret smile. Terrifying as Sobel could be, the Mageocracy never did lack in giving as good as it got.

But of course, Kilroy's youngest was still a student. She may not act like one, nor behave as such, or possess the same limitations as a regular Magister candidate, but Gwen was, without a doubt, an undergraduate of Cambridge.

Yet, many Mages had distinguished themselves during the Beast Tide in his generation despite their status as juniors. Later, a great many of these ambitious men and women, Mycroft included, went on to reclaim Humanities waterlogged cities, settling themselves into the new political fabric of the Commonwealth.

Thereby, it was thanks to a great many antecedences that The Shard possessed no problems bestowing the necessary titles—and Mycroft doubted it would shy away from the same liberties today, so long as the girl performed.

Presently, the girl already had Shalkar under her name.

Should Antarctica prove more than a milk run, and assuming the girl succeeds—Mycroft sipped his cold tea.

The transition from a Magus to Magister required certified contributions to the Tower, the Commonwealth, and Humanity itself. Two tours—and the gains to show it—was more than enough to attain such a title, regardless of her academic achievements.

An undergraduate Magister?

An undergraduate Tower Master?

The paradox made Mycroft's temple throb—but at the same time, he couldn't help but feel a tiny and expectant flutter of the heart.

For now, he would ask the girl to volunteer with a coalition of the willing to Wellington.

And as she accrued credits and continued her lessons, he would put the mechanisms in place for a second expedition to the south.

As for the leader of the expedition...

Now that Charlene had debuted into the political world. Wasn't it natural for a good father to put his best daughter forward?

Sydney.

The Tower.

Gunther Shultz, Morning Star and Tower Master, calmly ate his burnt eggs, crushing the charcoal between pearly teeth to ease its passing with bitter coffee.

From his open kitchen, he could see the entirety of Sydney's harbour, now ten times the size of its predecessor and entirely a man-made construct excavated from the bizarre formations of the Leviathan's hollowed-out carcass.

His wife, the always lovely, consistently fiery Alesia de Botton, readied herself for work, entirely forgetting the garlic bread in the oven and the spilt packets of raw bacon still sitting on the counter. There were spent eggshells as well, inexpertly cracked, still on the cooktop, and a burnt pan sat unwashed in the sink, crying out for redress.

Many husbands would find the scene disheartening, perhaps even annoying enough to cause a minor scuffle or disagreement.

Gunther did not feel any such need.

For a man of his prowess and responsibilities, he felt that the minutes he would spend around the kitchen cleaning up after a wife who could not but insisted on cooking was a rare bliss.

The one regret that assailed him when Gunther looked out over the peaceful harbour and ate Alesia's half-cooked, over-cooked, or uncooked meals, was that his Master wasn't here rolling his eyes and teasing Allie.

The clock chimed.

Another ten minutes, and he would teleport back to reality.

Gunther knew with absolute certainty that such idle days of domestic bliss were merely a pacifying drug to will away the time while something direr brewed. If it pleased Alesia to play the housewife while she could, then he would play the role of a mortal husband, one who wasn't responsible for the five million lives up and down the east coast.

He quickly swallowed the last of his burnt egg-on-toast.

Two days ago, the news had arrived in the form of a Tower-shaking boom with uncertain origins. Hours later, Gunther received an urgent message from the Tower Master of Auckland, hoping that Sydney and Melbourne might give them the necessary aid to repel the Mermen Tide now that the immediate threat of the tsunami had passed.

Shortly after, Sydney and Melbourne had entered a state of emergency, activating coastal defences and powering up their Tower Cores to repel the tidal waters.

Melbourne reported minimal disruptions and damage thanks to its inlet locale.

Much to Gunther's pleasure, Sydney reported a complete containment of the flood water thanks to its new infrastructure and Leviathan-powered Shielding Stations.

As for the original victims of the unexpected disaster, Wellington's collapse was sufficiently suppressed by overworking the Shielding Generators, sacrificing a few outlying engines to create localised maelstroms feeding the incoming tide into the Elemental Plane of Water.

As a result, the city centre had been preserved at the cost of losing seventy-five per cent of its resonator capacity and thirty-three out of the forty-five Shielding Stations in the Cook Strait. The city's sea wall had been overwhelmed, though not to such a degree that the harbour districts were unrepairable. Likewise, though the lower sections of the Wondrous Energies Technical Academy were flooded with debris, the recovery period still fell within the limitations of time and HDMs available to Auckland.

What worried Te Wherowhero was what came next.

A tsunami of this magnitude often travelled deep and long, meaning every Mermen Shoal between the South Ocean and the Tasman Sea would be alerted to the fact that the closest human settlements, Wellington and Auckland, would be understaffed and under defended and that the dreaded resonating crystals would likely be out of sync.

For the Seven Kingdoms of Mermen, one of which lay northward in the Coral Sea and the other east of New Zealand's coast in the South Pacific, there was no reason NOT to assail the weakened settlements.

By mobilising its Tower, Auckland should be able to repel the Mermen Tide—but Wellington, with its breached defences and lack of manpower, would have the impossible tasks of a botched evacuation or an improbable city defence. To Gunther's knowledge, a worse-still scenario was the usually amicable relationship the Maori shared with the coastal Mermen who freely traded with the city. Would the half-million of these former "allies" defend the city? Or would they flee? Or, more likely, would they join the "Great Shoal" making its way toward the inundated coastline?

Wellington needed aid, and the support had to be swift.

As the Tower Master of Sydney, he couldn't just upend his work and leave for Wellington, not to mention the Auckland Frontier wasn't his to govern. What he could spare was a Senior Mage Flight and Sydney Tower's rising star—Alesia's "Little Scarlet", which, together with Melbourne Tower's contributions, should significantly bolster Wellington's military potential.

"When are Yue and the boys leaving for Auckland?" Alesia caught his wandering gaze, then read his mind.

"Tomorrow," Gunther recalled the girl who barged into his office demanding to be let in on the Mage Flight, explaining that she had to fight for her mates across the ocean. "Jonas is returning to Sydney as we speak. He should arrive tonight. Billy's already reported to the barracks."

His wife nodded. "Do you think it's anything serious?"

"A tsunami and a Mermen tide not serious enough?" Gunther joked.

"You know what I mean."

"I don't know," Gunther confessed his ignorance, something he loathed. Of all the pitfalls of the Frontier, he hated the lack of LR Message devices and reliable Divination Towers the most. In that regard, the vast distances between Australia's cities made the lack of readily accessible information exchange particularly painful. As for the continent's interior, he currently possessed no hope of tapping its resources. "The report sent to London says that the eruption was spontaneous and without magical interference, though I don't think it's reliable. Oban was the closest Spectrometric outpost, and it's so distant from Antarctica that we could fly for two days and not see a hint of the shoreline."

"Alright. If all we have is ignorance—" Alesia's expression suggested she was trying and failing to imagine the distance. "— then is the problem far enough from Sydney to ignore?"

"We might not have a choice." Gunther's voice held a rare trace of misery. "Erebus is almost four thousand kilometres away from us in a Black Zone with no shelter or supplies, inundated by Elementals from the primordial age. Short of burning every HDM we've squirrelled away and flying the Tower over the ocean, no presence Sydney can muster will make a difference. If Melbourne and Brisbane joined us, we could put together an expedition, but that would take almost a year, not to mention we lack the warships. Also, do you recall Master saying that the Hvítálfar has an outpost there? A Great Tree of rime and frost that extends from the Prime Material into the Astral? Maybe there's even a Mythic Frost Guardian? Who knows? Without burning HDMs we can't spare—ignorance is our only recourse."

His wife shrugged. "Well, whatever. It's not like Yue's going deeper than Wellington. Will London be sending a team to Auckland? Our parochial rulers usually do, don't they? We're still a part of the Commonwealth, after all. They'll have a meander, then loot the town in the name of aid."

"I am sure London's 'generosity' is on its way." Gunther nodded. "They'll pass through Sydney. Who do you think they'll send?"

"Some musty old dog who won't even give me the time of day," Alesia predicted with a smile. "You won't stand for it, right? Gunther?"

"Absolutely." Gunther broke into a smile as well. "How dare these imperial hard heads not know of the Scarlet Sorceress?"

Alesia's laughter rang across the spacious living room. "Will Te stand for it? The Shard isn't going to let matters go if there isn't much to loot."

"Then they'll receive nothing," Gunther agreed with a grin. "Paladin Te Wherowhero has my full support. I'd love to see who dares to challenge our judgment. I'll make it worth their while, but mark my words, London won't receive a single HDM more than the effort they bring to Auckland."