Without permission from the Arch-Warden of Tryfan, the Cambridge-trained Magister Song instructed her lieutenant-Magus Huang to take sneaky crystal-core lumen recordings of the biohazard below.

Curiously, though the fungi conversion had come on like a tidal swell, it was nonetheless subject to the ebb and flow of life, constrained by a natural rhythm that starkly juxtaposed the mechanical motions of Human Spellcraft.

After the bloom of colours turned the pitiable, white-eyed fish and crustaceans into blocks of sod, the pods erupted. These spores then begin new reactions, finding new hosts—until the lingering miasma of death lost its dominance, leaving only the shambling mounds of un-living hosts.

The process took hours—perhaps longer, as there were no daylight shifts in the Pocket Plane of Illhîweth to tell the time reliably. Just as well, Gwen did not trust the clock on her Communication device, lest time flowed differently, as it did in Sufina's Grot.

But time did pass, and sometime after the Necromancers' eviction into the Void, there was no sound but the swirling wind.

Visibly, coalescing in cotton candy strands of rime, the air grew cold.

The swirling, spontaneous aurora offered a strange, synergetic phenomenon, informing Gwen that, without doubt, the Elemental Ice was returning rapidly to the region and that whatever clime that had once inundated the Grove of Illhîweth was being restored to the status quo.

Flanked by her cousin and Lulan, guarded by Golos and Ariel overhead, Gwen descended from the air to a space made for her by the gathering Rime Wardens, forming a semi-circle of glittering ice with their scything bow-glaives and long, elongated limbs.

The time it took for the fungi to do its work had given her time to pant, though she was in no condition to conjure Caliban.

Below, the Frost Wardens formed a semi-circle barrier, creating a ring of bodies a hundred deep from lip to wall.

Behind the blade barrier, the giant tree-root body of Illaelitharian rose like a living Great Wall of China, towering above its guardians.

And sheltered within the coiled frame of the Frost Wyrm, the Pillar of Frost, that metaphysical node anchoring the elemental Planes of the South Pole, rose into the vague dimensions of the World Tree's Pocket Plane.

Though Lulan's palm on the small of her back was firm and Richard's presence was assuring, even with her creatures watching above, she felt incredibly minuscule and vulnerable, like that first night she had stepped into the Blackheath.

The trio landed, followed by Ariel, whom she kissed and un-conjured, and Golos, who took on his humanoid form.

The warrior Wardens and the Rime Witches remained stoic as sentinels while Gwen bowed, rose, and then unveiled her face by unlatching her beak-like mask.

She studied the Elves in turn, noting that the Frost Elves possessed brilliant blue irises of metallic cobalt and that these crystalline chambers reflected no more emotion than Eldrin's golden orbs.

"Hail," Gwen spoke in High Elven, or at least, her Master's Ioun Stone did. "I am Magister Gwen Song of London Tower. I speak for my employer, the Commonwealth of the Britannic Mageocracy. May I speak with your leader?"

The warrior Wardens' forest of sword limbs parted, followed by the Rime Witches with their glacial skin and pale-blue lips, soundlessly drifting apart, forming an archway framed by weaponry and sorcery. The leader, a silver-maned female taller than the rest and possessing a marginally more human bearing, coaxed Gwen forward with slender fingers tipped by what Gwen hoped were an armoured gauntlet and not natural, insectile digits.

"Do not fear, Child," the Rime Witch spoke in a way that even her Translation Stone struggled to transmute, a fact exasperated by what looked like mandibles curled up within the recess of the Witch's petite mouth. "Release the tongue of Tryfan so that the Frost Maiden may commune with our lost brethren."

After a moment's pause over the wording of "tongue", Gwen retrieved the Ilias Leaf that had previously returned to her breast pocket.

The leaf shimmered as it caught the frigid light of the Pocket Plane, then began to pulse.

At the same time, Gwen felt a presence coalesce, or _descend_ , as it were, travelling through the nodes and veins represented by the warrior Wardens and Witches until the vague silhouette of something akin to an ice sculpture began to materialise in the space cleared by the Elves.

A dozen breaths later, a super-dense cluster of Elemental Ice materialised, striding into the world from the aether with a regal bearing greater than any being she had yet beheld, more than even The Bloom in White, who felt to Gwen to be a homebody.

Gwen bowed, as did her companions, the Wyvern included.

"Thou may address this one as Illhîwenthiel," the _being_ spoke with a tone tinged with just enough humanity to convey a smidgen of acknowledgement. "We know of thee. Thou art the present Vessel of the Rainbow who sleeps in the Well of the World. _And_ thou art Kilroy's vessel of hope. Well met, child. Thy Master's extinction was a rare shock, even for one such as _we_ , for whom cessation has lost all meaning."

"Well met." Gwen wasn't sure how to continue, as her mind was torn between the loaded adjective of _present_ and the implication that her Master was someone who had trafficked with Erebus' Elves. "I come to represent the interests of the Mageocracy—which is the restoration of the natural balance here—and the erasure of foreign agents from Spectre."

"Lift thine face, child," the voice said. "I wish to see thine eyes."

Lifting her chin confidently, Gwen met the Frost Flower's all-seeing, cobalt pupils, trying her best not to shudder.

The inhumanity of the immortal Demi-Goddess was self-evident.

Gwen wondered if it was possible for a "being" like Illhîwenthiel to find empathy for mortals with temporal existences no more permanent than a season of snow.

"Thou has performed thy duties to satisfaction." The Frost Flower nodded mechanically, almost akin to a pilot testing the unfamiliar limits of a Golem chassis. "And rewards are a given, though I shall not be the one to dispense it—Now, allow me to commune with the heretic."

"The…" Gwen paused at the word, wondering if her Translation Stone had been working correctly. "Your Grace, do you mean this Leaf?"

The Frost Flower nodded.

Two Rime Witches approached and dropped to their knees, supplicating not to Gwen but to the glowing leaf.

Gingerly, Gwen allowed their talon-like fingers to pick Tryfan's gift from her hands with an Elven Mage Hand spell, moving the Ilias Leaf until it hovered in front of Illhîwenthiel.

"Sister…" The _High Elven_ from Illhîwenthiel made her Translation Stone grow hot as it unravelled the unfamiliar codex, warming the base of Gwen's neck with the excessive mana it now drew from her body.

"Sister…" came an audible response, the voice of Tryfan's Bloom in White. "As forewarned, even if the Groves of Illhîweth and Lhîweth seek no interest in the Prime Material's conflict—conflict has a way of becoming interested in thee."

"And how would these mortal blasphemers know of our seasons? Of when Illaelitharian slumber and wakes?" The Frost Elf's tone radiated so much chill that Gwen had to circulate mana to prevent her extremities from growing numb. "Is it not thine scion, the wayward Warden, who gave hope to these blasphemers of the Great Tree?"

Gwen's ears perked up.

Unfortunately, the retort emitted from the lips of The Bloom in White could no longer be deciphered by her stone. Instead, they sounded like insectile clicks and snips, with lisps and swirls that were primordial and alien.

"No. Nothing is proven, _Sister, not even if we were to fall."_ Illhîwenthiel's side of the conversation, for some reason, remained comprehensible. "As always, neither the Frost Tree of Lhîweth nor Illhîweth shall join thine futile mutiny."

With a tone of The Bloom's characteristic imposition, more protest blasted back at the Frost Flower. Gwen listened, standing a dozen meters away with utmost concentration, soaking up every clue and inference like a sponge.

After a few minutes, the Frost Flower's eyes moved from the leaf toward Gwen.

Gwen looked away, finding a sudden interest in the snow underfoot.

"Child." The vocal cords of Illhîwenthiel were a rare melody, even if Gwen could not ascertain if the Elf possessed such an organ as the larynx.

"Yes?" Gwen faced the Frost Flower.

"Our and our Sister's bickerings art not for thee." Gwen could swear she saw a smirk on the Frost Elf's marble-statue face. "But fret not—we shall now deliver thee to Ancient Illaelitharian. Come past us, child. Move to Illaelitharian's side, where he shall invite thee into his abode."

Gwen swallowed her nerves, walked a half-meter ahead of Richard, the stone-faced Lulu and Golos with his flaring nostrils, then approached as was told.

Past the quarrelling "Blooms" once more conversing in machine gun Italian, she faced the wall, which was the torso of Illaelitharian, the great Frost Wyrm guardian of the Grove.

"There's no... door here," Gwen said to her companions. "Your advice?"

"Touch the Great Wyrm's scales." The Thunder Wyvern was in awe. "In this Pocket Space, we are already within his domain, but by his invitation, we may speak to Lord Illaelitharian directly."

"Within his belly?" Gwen said seriously.

The Wyvern returned her scepticism with a judgemental stare.

Gwen touched a palm to the wall of overlapping scales, noting that each head-sized block was worth a thousand times its weight in HDMs.

She fell inward.

Or perhaps it was outwards.

Her internal compass informed her that she had fallen. However, her vertigo possessed no momentum, transforming her from standing to free fall in a split-second.

And then she was not falling, but standing in the middle of a grove of evergreens, only the needle leaves were not waxy green spines, but needles of crystalline ice.

Underfoot, the ground was blanked in the same ice needles so fine that the furry carpet felt springy and strange.

In the middle of the enormous grot-arch, a male silhouette stood with his back to them. Gwen, who had long seen the humanoid guise of Golos, Ruxin and Ayxin, instantly recognised the aura and the unnaturally Polymorphed form.

This being— this _Illaelitharian—_ was the Great Frost Wyrm of the South Seat of Frost, and not only that, one of the oldest Dragons she had witnessed to date. Though she had no way of knowing if the Wyrm she now faced had any relations to the Yinglong, she innately understood from the trembling of her Essence that it was the Master of Huangshan's elder by a significant margin.

At first, she thought she was alone, for such was the overwhelming presence of the Frost Wyrm. A moment later, when placidity returned to her mind, she smelled the hulking odour of Golos, now in his human form, standing behind her.

It would seem that only "Dragons" had invitations.

Thankfully, her armour was untouched, even the parts stained or damaged, informing her that their present space was at least metaphysical.

Reflexively, Gwen straightened her body, putting her best face forward. She had no idea if aesthetics mattered to a lizard that might have eaten dinosaurs in the past, but the show of deference, she imagined, was what mattered.

With no less melodrama than Morpheus' slow reveal to Neo, Illaelitharian turned to face the pair.

"I do apologise," the Frost Drake spoke from a face that did not move a muscle, with its Draconic thoughts seemingly injecting themselves into their brains. "Do humanoids still make use of implements such as these?"

At the Wyrm's behest, an enormous oval table of ice materialised, crafted with a design which Gwen assumed to predate the Greeks. A second later, chairs unfolded from the air, forming stone lawn ornaments more suitable for museum displays.

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

"Thank you, Great Illaelitharian," Gwen answered with reverence. "We still use chairs and tables, yes."

The chairs slid from the table.

"Sit," the Frost Wyrm commanded.

Gwen sat like an obedient cat.

The chair-stool-throne, if it could be called such a thing, was bone-chillingly cold, penetrating her armour so completely that she remained smiling only on account of her Draconic Essence. Golos followed suit, perfectly unaffected by the cold.

Illaelitharian regarded the chair he made with suspicion, then also sat.

While the polite silence endured, Gwen studied the Ancient Frost Wyrm, likely Almudj's cousin, removed only by a few aeons. Like Golos, Illaelitharian did not care for perfection, crafting a handsome guise that remained reptilian in its impassivity. In a mildly comical sense, the Dragon's mane began too close to his brows so that its full head of flowing, silvery hair framed the top half of his face in the likeness of a Wookie. The lower half was overtly virile, with a powerful, jutting jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a broad chin, all wrapped up in an unkept lumberjack beard. For clothes, the Ancient Drake wore the largest pelt of Polar Bear fur she had ever seen, wrapped around his shoulder and waist and covering his lower body like a kilt.

The more she thought about it, the more Gwen felt that Illaelitharian had a Hanmoul-likeness to him, incongruent with the pointy ears protruding through the nimbus of his metallic-silver fur.

"Lord Illaelitharian," Gwen made to speak after the silence wore on too long for politeness. "How is it that we may serve you in this trying time?"

The Frost Wyrm's eyes were two motes of glowing coal burning blue with frost-fire. "A trying time? What aid from your ilk might you infer?"

Gwen felt her chest clench.

"Pardon my youthful bluntness," she spoke up when Golos did not. Dragons, by nature, are assertive, and too much deference would only lower her worth in the eyes of the ancient Wyrm. "I know not how else I may infer our timely arrival with reinforcements from Tryfan."

"Tryfan…" Illaelitharian's gaze swept over her like an icy tide. "Is the concern of Elves. Between thyself and I, tis the business of kin."

"I see the distinction. Please enlighten Sir Golos and me." Gwen's tone masked her ambivalence. She had been wondering why the Frost Elves had been so frosty in their reception, and now she confirmed that her reward—if there ever was one, sat with Illaelitharian and not the Lady of the Grove. "We young drakes are inexperienced in the matter… of Planar Politics."

Illaelitharian gave her a curt nod, which she took to mean approval.

"Your aid," the Dragon said slowly and meticulously as if assembling the words from a scrabble pile. "Is _welcome_ , though not required. You have not saved Illhîweth, as Illhîweth requires no salvation to return to its former glory. What you have done is spared me grief and time, worthless as the latter might be, and relieved the World Tree of a disease."

Golos made a low, demure rumble to express his dissatisfied agreement.

Gwen, conversely, could sense the pride tickling away at Illaelitharian's tonsils, like an itch the Dragon could not scratch. As the sponsored representative of Almudj and the deliverer of its emerald lightning, she understood the Wyrm's point. After all, even if Almudj were to burn down its World Tree over a thousand years and turn the centre of Terra Australis into a Black Zone, it persisted, and there was no "cost" to itself. If someone had intervened, did they then "save" the Serpent? The "Tree" might be saved—but its guardian's gratitude was far more uncertain.

Weighing her chips, she gave Illaelitharian a brilliant smile of supreme confidence. "That goes without saying, Lord Illaelitharian. We are merely the incessant motes of destiny sent adrift into the great Planar aether. It just so happens that Illhîweth is where our spores landed. I would not take credit for fortune, O Ancient One, nor for the aid given to our long-eared brethren."

"You are a wily Coatl." Illaelitharian's voice seemed to relax now that its debt was no longer in danger of being used as a bargaining chip. "However, credit or otherwise, let it not be said that Illaelitharian is a miser among our noble assembly..."

The face of Illaelitharian appeared to ponder its next thoughts.

"You," Illaelitharian spoke past Gwen to the nervous Drake sweating beside her. "Child of the Tempest."

"Lord?" Golos stood. Then sat. Then made a move to stand again before Gwen settled her Wyvern with a pat on the shoulder.

"What do you wish as a reward?"

Gwen secretly punched the air at the confirmation of a "Quest Reward" but otherwise held her reins on Golos' Astral Soul in case the Wyvern said something outrageous.

Feeling the tugging from their entwined souls, the adolescent Dragon-kin looked to her for assurance.

For all of Golos' ruthless absurdities, Gwen had to admit that she had grown soft for the Wyvern that once attempted to murder her and do unspeakable things should she have survived. Since Huangshan, the two of them had gone through more "Calamities" than she could count, licking each other's wounds hundreds of times in the aftermath of embroiling battles. The Wyvern's eyes, inhuman as they were, were now as alive as any of her other companions, rich with emotion, desire, and well-rooted companionship.

And somewhere within that entwined ball of loyalty and rebellion was her Planar Ally contract, compelling Golos' obedience—but the number of times she had to invoke its ball and chain were few and far.

_Do not ask for food_. Gwen jolted her Empathic Link.

_AND DO NOT ASK FOR SEX._ She had to save Golos from himself if nothing else.

"I wish to be closer in kind—" Golos said firmly, modulating the yearning in his voice with her mental support. "—to my brother, Ruxin."

The Ancient Wyrm appeared pleased by her Thunder Wyvern's response. "An admirable ambition, young Drake."

Illaelitharian's hands disappeared inside its enormous robe of polar fur. When it emerged, he materialised on the table a Creature Core about the size of Gwen's torso resembling a massive shard of citrine. As the surface of the Core kissed the air, it suddenly came alive with sparking electricity, frazzling Gwen's hair and making her skin numb.

Somewhere within her Astral Soul, Ariel drooled and whined at the Thunder Wyvern's good fortune, imploring its Master to snatch the treasure before the stupid Wyvern could take its prize.

"From an old friend and an ancestor of yours." the Frost Wyrm allowed the Core to drift across the table, past Gwen's eyes, illuminated by the golden electricity into the colour of money. "Her name has not been spoken for aeons, and her Spirit has long since melded with the Unformed Land. What remains of her, I gift to you whose Essence Pool has grown impressive for one so young—"

To Gwen's shock, Golos left his seat, dropped to his knees, then made a gesture of supplication, first to the Creature Core, then to Illaelitharian.

Then, with undisguised greediness, the Wyvern cradled the Core to his chest, meeting her eyes with a clear demand that he alone take full advantage of his prize.

_It's yours._ Gwen assured the childish Thunder Wyvern even as she calmed her Kirin, promising she would find something just as delicious in time for her Familiar. After all, once embroiled in this matter of Trees and Maidens and Snakes, there would be no return to the ignorant status quo of happy Purges and profits. Upon her return to the Mageocracy, a great upheaval would be afoot, and she, Charlene, the Mageocracy, and the Trees and Drakes that tent-poled the Prime Material would all be seeing a Brave New World.

Once Golos managed to hide the Core in what Gwen hoped was his Ayxin-enhanced Storage Ring, the weight of the conversation shifted to herself and the Frost Wyrm.

"And now for our _Vessel._ " Illaelitharian's voice was deep and resonant. "Your part is greater, and therefore, your reward as well. However, allow this Old One to ramble before you make your choice."

"Please." Gwen hoped the Frost Wyrm wasn't fishing for a discount on its debt.

"You are here to withhold a _Calamity_ from your world." Illaelitharian's emphasis on the C-word was particularly grating, for it felt like the Wyrm was reading her mind. "And for that, your triumph here is debatable. Through the ravages of these Elemental defilers and their allies, that rogue of Tryfan and his minions, I can perceive their designs and what this assault upon Lhîweth and Illhîweth aims to achieve. Yet, such an assault is nothing to us who dream only of the Unformed Land, and our Tree and its Guardians will recover over time—a resource immaterial to our concern. But for _your_ ilk, O'Apostle of the Rainbow, there shall be many _Calamities_ that plague the Prime Material."

"Right," Gwen concurred. It was good to receive assurance that an anthropomorphic climate could confirm the impacts of Climate Change.

"As an existential matter of principle and being," Illaelitharian continued. "We do not meddle in the matters of the Prime Material. We are its guardians, and so long as it stands, what races occupy its sacred spaces is of no value to us. Through the aeons, be it the Green-skinned hosts of the plains, the Horse-Lords of the desert, or your amphibious selves or the Sea-folk, each would have their time—just as the tide ebbs and flows, and the seasons change."

The Frost Wyrm's tone then grew suddenly cold.

"But—for _kin_ of the Wardens to draw themselves into the cyclic conflicts of the mortal races by assailing a Tree itself, much less our Seats of Frost, is a _Calamity_ too far for our patience. Thereby, I shall offer you the gift of _intervention_..."

Gwen swallowed as Illaelitharian produced what looked like a pair of bulbous seeds. Ones she was very much familiar with, thanks to Tryfan's ploys.

"In a dire time. I shall allow the Frost Wardens of Illhîweth to visit the Prime Material. What they may achieve, or how they may serve your cause, I cannot control nor say—but they will defend you—or they will perish, after which your aid in our unpleasant hour is repaid."

Gwen waited on Frost Wyrm's unfinished words.

"Conversely, you may ask me for other forms of intervention. Perhaps, you would like to know about your allies in Tryfan or your patron who slumbers in the Well of the World, or perhaps, you would like to elevate that mewling creature within your Astral Soul. Beyond that, my trove isn't the largest of our kind, but it is _old_. I am willing to part with a portion, should you wish that instead. And should that dissatisfy, ask what else you will."

Upon Frost Wyrm's awaiting words, Gwen noted that here was the most difficult decision she had ever made as a sorceress.

First—to have someone like Eldrin showing up through a Trellis Portal and wreck havoc on one's foes in a time of need was amazing as a bargaining chip, one that needed not to be truly actualised because she could always pop out the seedlings and inform her opponents of her intentions. For this reason, the mere "favour" was worth far more than the actuality of what she might be able to conjure.

Then, there was the option of insight.

To understand the _Accord_ of the Elves and the goals of Tryfan, to know their motives and desires, was a priceless boon.

Alternatively, the actual means to understand Almudj, to beg Illaelitharian for a way to communicate with Mythic beings, was itself amazingly priceless.

Likewise, the gift of wealth might seem a poor choice to many—but who was she? Give her an LDM, and she'll show them an HDM! If the Dragon could give her ten million or more in materials and Cores, she may be able to produce a billion's worth of effects and outcomes in her new Tower.

And there were MORE options?

What if she asked Illaelitharian to _hook the Dwarves back up with their Dyar Morkk?_

_Christ!_ Give it a decade, and Dwarves and Humans would have an infrastructure network more useful and total than oceanic shipping!

Just the tariffs alone… were worth the Ancient Wyrm's horde.

Compared to that, adding Dragon-parts to Ariel could wait.

_And yet_ —Gwen gulped greedily—she had greater ambitions than that.

"I have… a question." Gwen calmed herself before she could blurt forth her direst, most profitable desires. "Regarding the nature of Guardians and Trees, if that's alright. If the answer is not free, please give me a moment to ponder my reward."

"Ask." Illaelitharian inclined his chin with interest.

"Let's say I wanted to _plant a World Tree_ ," Gwen asked as she suppressed her internal trembling. "With Al— with the _Slumberer in the Well of the World_. Would the other Guardians of the existing World Trees oppose such an act?"

The air grew frigid.

For the first time since their conversation, Illaelitharian's facial expressions moved, transforming from passivity to incredulity.

"Not to _fell_ a Grove—" Illaelitharian's voice sounded different as well. "—But to grow one? A new Grove? Not follow the cycle of decay and regrowth, entropy and life, but the creation of that which is wholly new?"

"Well, I don't know if it's NEW," Gwen said carefully. "As I said, we'll be taking aid from my patron, the Rainbow Serpent. The Tree is new, but it isn't... _new_."

"A tree, from a source as ancient as the Well of the World..." Illaelitharian grew contemplative. When the Dragon looked up, it somehow appeared guilty. "I… do not have an answer."

"You don't?" Gwen was taken aback by the Frost Wyrm's sudden bashfulness. "Is growing a tree taboo?"

"No." The Wyrm shook his great head. "It hasn't happened in recent memory, and we have long memories."

"So I can do it?" Gwen felt her optimism blossom.

"Only time may answer that question," Illaelitharian answered with ambivalence. "With absolute certainty, some will be opposed, just as some may support you, while many will remain indifferent. However, if you wish it, I will advocate on your behalf when your hour arrives."

"And that would be repaying my favour?" Gwen had to make sure she and Illaelitharian were on the same page. After witnessing Erebus, the Undead, and seeing the vandalism done to a primordial World Tree, she was very much for the idea that her Tower and Sufina's World Tree should be close neighbours, if not a singular structure—especially in the tumultuous future that would soon come upon them. Perhaps, she imagined, this was the only chance she had to restore a few motes of sanity to a global stage on the verge of mass hysteria.

It was a nebulous wish, one full of risk and uncertainties.

But it could also be an unexpectedly vital investment.

"To grow a tree is no simple wish..." the Ancient Wyrm reminded her. "Even one as old as the Rainbow is not without... opposition."

Unhurriedly, Gwen took her time to ponder the immediacy of present gifts and militant guarantees against future promises.

There were many temptations, but she could not shake the thought of Erebus on fire, the Undead tide sweeping across the Grove, and that this should happen to _her_ domain, _her_ Tower, _her_ people. There was also the stark reminder that her expedition to Erebus was, after all, her final Magisterial trial.

When she returned with Charlene with the worst news possible for Humanity, the Mageocracy would carve out a little plot for her to govern.

After which, the next chapter of her life will begin.

"I wish it," Gwen said, feeling the weight of the dilemma slide from her shoulders like a glacier as she clarified her intentions. Today, she would gain the support of Illaelitharian, and later, there would be another, and hopefully another and another. "This is my choice, Great Illaelitharian. I wish for your advocacy."

The Ancient Wyrm gave her a final look that seemed full of strange sympathy, then sealed the deal with a nod.

But Gwen was now beyond doubt. TO have a host of Ancient Wyrms golf clap as she snipped the ribbon to her golden city was an effective signal to geopolitical powers with designs on her future Tower and a call for unbridled investment unequalled by any other.

And in time, Sufina's limbs would stretch and yawn until she kissed the firmament, while around her roots, a living rainbow would lie, repelling all that dared to disrupt the peace of Tower Master Song's demesne.

If Force Ghosts should exist in this world—she comforted herself with a Gwenism—then surely, Henry must be smiling and nodding, with a twinkling tear of joy clouding his eyes.


"Magister! You're back!" Lulan's tone was one of palpable relief when Gwen re-materialised outside Laelitharian's lair. Though her guard and cousin were safe, they had been left out in the cold while the Elven Blooms aired their secret grievances. And since neither Richard nor Lulan could understand the "High Gothic" Elven, they had no choice but to play the part of ice statues while discussions that would shake the Prime Material took place.

"Thank God for that." Richard's relief was equally genuine. "So, did you get your loot?"

"I bartered for a promise," Gwen confirmed with a thumbs up. "Compared to me, Gogo got amazing loot. We'll be expecting great things from him in the future."

Their eyes turned to Golos, who managed to look abashed.

After a moment more to document that everyone had their bits and wits in the right place, the group awaited their turn to be addressed by the Llias Leaf holding Illhîwenthiel.

"Child of Kilroy." The Elf appeared done with her communication device. Gingerly, the Maiden of Frost placed the precious specimen in the palm of a Frost Witch's hand, who then hand-delivered it to Gwen.

"Great Lady, it has been my pleasure." Gwen bowed her head before returning the leaf to her breast pocket. "Is our business here concluded?"

As one, the Frost Elves turned their cobalt orbs toward her, turning two hundred and more craning heads to converge their gaze upon her impertinent lips.

"How else may we be of service?" Gwen quickly changed her tune. Bloody Dragon... Gwen swore internally as her back grew damp with cold sweat. The business of the Elves is that of Elves, my ass.

"Child." Thankfully, the Bloom of Frost did not appear upset, not that Gwen could read her expression. "Your duty is not yet concluded. Our Grove will regenerate, but our reach does not extend beyond the Great Tree's roots. To restore the depression in the Prime Material, you have yet more labour outside the Grove."

Starkly, Gwen's mind meandered toward that dark, dense sea of offal and fish oil outside. She doubted that Eldrin would be willing to channel the power of Tryfan and lend her a solution that was equal parts frugal and "fungal".

Illhîweth and Tryfan's limited mobility implied long labours for her Mages, Charlene's ship, and Hanmoul's men. The Undead, though mindless and confused, still possessed enough hostility that they had to be carefully pruned. Their only advantage was that, unlike Amazonia, the tundra and the snow drifts contained Elementals with scant biomass and could not contribute to the perpetuation of Undead.

Of course, the Fire Elementals were still spewing from Erebus. These eruptions would eventually return to their unusual incidence, though she deeply suspected the creatures of flame would be a continuous disruption during the Royal Raven's clean-up operations.

In the worst scenario…

A Shoggoth might be necessary.

"I acknowledge our duty, Lady of Frost." Gwen bowed from the waist. "We will restore the exterior of the Grove to its original condition to the best of our abilities."

Without sentiment, Illhîwenthiel retreated with a curt nod, immediately after which her Frost Witches closed ranks, indicating that their conversation was at an end. Though the Lady had been cordial, Gwen suspected their interaction was closer to a tired mother coaxing a greedy toddler into cleaning her room.

"Gwen, shall we?" Richard pointed to the rising landscape that housed the Elves of Tryfan.

"Calamity, I want to return to the ship," Golos announced rudely. "I need to… absorb my gift."

"Right." Gwen toned down the protest from Ariel, who continued to blast her with resounding calls of "EE-EE!" Gimme-Gimee.

With no one else to fare her well, Gwen and her group picked themselves from the floor and flew back toward the rent from which they had entered the Grove of Illhîweth. Awaiting for them were the rows of Tryfanian Elves, headed by a beetle-black Arch Warden.

"Lord Eldrin," Gwen greeted the phalanx of Magister-tier Elementalists standing like shiny statues in the newly fallen snow. "Is there any other way Tryfan may require our aid?"

Eldrin's impassive gaze remained as stoic as it was critical. After a too-long pause, the Arch Warden appeared to force his mouth to move. "Do you wish to return with us?"

Gwen raised both brows. "Return?"

"To Tryfan." The Elf indicated to the Trellis Portal. "Then… to your home, I would presume. The Bloom has offered you a kindness rarely afforded by any other, as… interest… in the befouling tongue of your mortal greed."

At the Warden's words, Gwen felt the sharp temptation of running home to Evee tugging on her heart like a pair of kittens pulling a yarn string. However, she knew very well that there was no abandoning the men and women she had brought to Erebus.

"I will remain here," addressed Eldrin by turning to Lulan and Richard.

Her companions returned her assurance by squaring their confident shoulders.

"However, may I trouble the Bloom to deliver a report to Cambridge? I shall seal it in a storage ring—" Gwen raised her gauntlet. "Please gift it to Magister Brown of the Advanced Arcane Studies Faculty."

The Warden did not immediately respond, although Eldrin's jaws moved a little as he listened to what Gwen assumed was the disembodied voice of his queen bee.

"You… may." The Warden extended a hand.

"In that case, I'll need… three hours." Gwen smiled sweetly with a wicked, confident air. "After all, I hadn't planned for this. We need to sort out data and crystals, and I need to compile a preliminary report of our findings here. Would that be alright?"

If Eldrin's golden orbs were capable of shedding Radiance, she would have cooked in her crow skin like a Thanks Giving turkey.

With no protest from the Arch Warden, Gwen moved her crew a safe distance away, then produced from her rings a coffee table, several lawn chairs for her team, and implements for inscribing her report on the data slate. Richard hastily prepared the recordings crystals so that Cambridge received the original while she held the spares.

The Storage Ring she would use to transport the goods was of Dwarven make. Though Gwen doubted the robust design could withstand Elven prying, her confidence lay in that the Bloom would not care or resort to such underhanded methods at gaining information. For the same reason, she had full confidence there was nothing to be achieved by altering the news she would submit to Cambridge, who would then present the findings to the Shard and the Mageocracy's stakeholders.

Thanks to Richard's expert aid, the report took only two hours. Her Storage Ring was unlocked, packed with goods and information, and then sealed again with a cypher only her Magister would know.

The Elves stood as still as plants the whole time, seemingly soaking up the mana as though they were armoured asparagus. Some appeared to be meditating, while others merely stared ahead, demonstrating an inhuman discipline.

"There we are, Milord." Gwen allowed the ring to fall from her palm into Eldrin's gauntlet. "Please thank your Bloom for all she has done for Tryfan's interests. May the Bloom's bloom, bloom Eternal."

The Warden's fingers coiled upon his courier package. "Perform your labour well, Child of Kilroy. There will not be another opportunity to gain the favour of the Frost Flower of Illhîweth. If you wish to harness the power of the Serpent who dwells in the Well of the World, you shall need many favours like it."

Gwen sighed in defeat. "Those long ears aren't just for show, eh? Fare thee well, Arch-Warden Eldrin. I have an inkling we'll be partnering lots in the future."

The exposed pointy bit of Eldrin's ears, protruding through his beetle helm like a pair of fleshy antennae, twitched a little.

"Farewell." The Arch Warden turned on his heels. At once, Tryfan's Wardens followed suit, coalescing until they formed a rank four abreast to enter the wormhole created by the Trellis Gate.

A few minutes later, Gwen and her crew were left to watch the withering form of the Trellis Gate rapidly turn yellow, then frost over from the impending cold.

"Calamity..." Golos' patience was wearing thin.

"Alright, alright. Come on, Gogo." Gwen's mind was already consumed by the logistical planning of the Herculean labour outside. "What's the rush, Drake? We're going to be here for a long-long while..."

According to Charlene, Gwen and her party were gone for a week.

That time dilated within the Pocket Plane was a known phenomenon. As such, the Royal Raven had patiently bided by its time, with the Dwarves digging into Erebus' foundations to draw upon the magma below. Within days, a glimmering multi-layered barrier was erected, sheltering the ley-tapping Fabricator Engine at the ship's centre. Outside its walls, patrols of Golems, aided by the recognisance-in-force of Cambridge Maguses and Gwen's Shadow Mages, had cleared a perimeter of about twenty kilometres in readiness for an extended stay.

On the sixth day, the ship's Diviners had recorded a great disturbance in the formation of necrotic energy inundating the polar region, which Charlene took to mean that Gwen and her company had succeeded in their negotiations with the Frost Elves.

When Gwen finally returned, her crew appeared confident and eager to take on the next stage of their assignment.

"This means we'll be here for… six months." Charlene's brows knitted at first but then quickly accepted the role they would play on the chessboard of Planar politics. "Three months in the frost, then three months in the thaw."

"And many clashes against the Undead and the Fire Elementals, assuming they're just as stranded as us." Now comfortably dressed in the ship's official casual clothing, Gwen followed their navigator's fingers as she updated the landmarks.

"And Erebus?" Charlene's fingers paced back and forth as the numbers fell into place. "I don't think we can push them back, even with Lord Hanmoul's barrage. What do you think, Petra?"

"A continuous expedition to clear out the Undead will have taxed our crystal fabrication." The Enchanter threw up a few graphs from Gwen's PowerPoint School of Illusion. "We won't be able to engage on both fronts, even if we have the manpower."

"True. Me lads are keen," Hanmoul grunted. "But aye, the Golems are a thirsty lot if yer needs to keep the Spellswords HOT fer aeons."

"Worry not; the Elemental Fire will ebb rapidly," Gwen promised. "And if it doesn't, we can always unleash a Shoggy. There's nothing here other than us… it can be happy and free and run rampant—as long as we keep it away from the Elven Grove."

Charlene pondered the matter with a pinch of her knitted brows, massaging her worries until her forehead was once more smooth and unblemished.

"Alright," their Expedition leader said after a moment more to review the space between a rock and a hard place. "Ladies and Lords, take your places… here is our home for the foreseeable months ahead. Assuming everything works out, we'll be back before—"

"Don't say Christmas," Gwen butted in with a Gwenism.

"—Why?" Charlene bit back her next words.

"Bad juju…" Gwen said ominously.

"Fine… we'll be leaving around the Summer Bank Holiday. After that, it'll be three weeks of full steam to return to London."

Gwen relaxed after turning Charlene away from a premonition of destruction. For her Christmas, her thoughts were of Elvia's choir, which she would have to organise for Evee's charity. This year, they should put on a big show to harness influence for the future troubles of the Mageocracy. She could hire some popular Illusionists and celebrities. Maybe call it "Live-Aid" to harness Faith and donations for uplifting those impacted by the change in the climate. Hopefully, they would arrive in time for the holiday snow.

Kalimantan.

Samarinda.

Bambang, minted in recent months as "Father Bambang" watched the "Exodus" of his kin-folk from the only home they had ever known.

The distance from the mountain villages to the port was only a short jaunt—but the trouble of moving some fifty thousand faithful followers was no simple feat. Around his neck hung the wooden idol likeness of his Goddess—together with a sanctified cross. Compared to before, Father Bambang was now illuminated, at least enough to know that Knight Companion Elvia Lindholm was a member of the Order of the Poor Soldiers of Christ, an instrument of intervention rather than the all-watching benevolence itself.

In the distance, where the men from the land of light had originally cleared a space for the new port—the newly developed lower city had undergone yet another metamorphosis.

From ruins, it had been rebuilt.

Now, it was once more ruins.

Though their Goddess could do many things: heal the sick, mend broken limbs, and breathe life into those half-ravaged by the Rakshasa, she could not predict the future. Therefore, no member of her Ordo had prepared the village for the torrential rain and its accompaniment of flattening hail. A month ago, Father Bambang was sure that the whole of Samarinda would perish, for palm trees taller than the tallest building on the island were sailing through the air like ensorceled spears, toppling houses and punching holes in the side of the metal ships used by the clergymen.

Even with the Goddess' powers, there was little she could do other than cover the prayer hall, where thousands of the faithful had gathered, in thick vine-netting conjured by her Ginseng. Against the brutal battery of the wet season's unexpected arrival, even the Knights had to find shelter or rely on their golden barriers to remain standing.

In the aftermath, almost twenty thousand of Father Bambang's island flock perished. Most were the ones without faith who had wanted to retain the old ways, hoping that another Dewa Cawu would bring salvation.

Even for these heretics, their golden Priestess had toiled with tears in her eyes, excavating collapsed buildings and uprooting entire trees so that they might reveal the buried below, praying with all her might for their recovery.

Father Bambang had announced that these, who had been given months to covert, did not wish to be saved—but the Knight Companion instead urged him to have compassion, saying that God loved all equally, regardless of their faith.

Father Bambang could not understand her kindness, at least not before a week of tuition from Knight Chaplain Adam, but he nodded and smiled and told the Goddess that he would do his best.

And he did.

And now, the village would be no more.

Samarinda, home to Bambang and his father's father, would lie buried. Like the Rakshasa Bedawangiwiwi, their village and its lore would be consigned to the landscape.

According to the Goddess' teacher, the always wise Lord Ashburn, there would be another hurricane—and then another—and another until the island's vegetation was stripped to a fleshless carcass, and new Rakshasas acclimatised to the wind and water would take soon take over. When publically, the news was broken by a tearful Knight Companion Lindholm, all had been stunned.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Once their wits recovered, some began to cry, and others stood up in rage.

Comparatively, the faithful found reason in that their Exodus was a trial. They calmed the others, and implored silence, first with words, then with stronger words. In the end, most agreed to the relocation. Seneschal Ashburn had then informed them that many of the islands in their archipelago were similarly on the move, with the local region fast becoming inhospitable to man. Only under the sheltering shields of Singapore's inner islands would his people be safe—for in the wisdom of the Seneschal, a fate of flying from the frying pan into the fire was still better than becoming fodder. Mayhap this way—one day, the sons and daughters of Samarinda will return to reclaim the island, as their Knights had done for their cities three decades ago.

The alternative… would be extinction.

Northern China.

The Yantai coast.

Mei felt her heart flutter as Provisional Magus Percy Song, his lapel bright with the gold stripes of a Second Lieutenant, ran a salt-encrusted hand through his dark, voluminous hair. Her fiancé and his Mage Flight were currently above the eastern rim of Taozi Harbour. Here, the latest incursion from the newly appeared Undead Mermen had taken its toll on the harbour city responsible for the Dalian supply line.

"Is that the last of them?" Officer Cadet Mei observed the smoking vista below her fiancé's combat boots. She and Percy's team had been assigned to Yantai since January, and the task had been gruelling and thankless.

Which was fine, for that was the general purpose of their exile from the Green Zones.

The "Long March" was a test of leadership and skill, one which the high command of the CCP expected its young talents to pass without complaint. By design, in the Orange Zone facing the North Korean peninsula, there would be no comfort nor rest for the progenies of power. Here was where the CCP's future blades were whetted, and should they grow dull or break, they would be discarded.

The latter was a worry that did not apply to the genius Percy Song.

Even though Mei's Yang family was well-provisioned in the "Guan-xi" central to promotion within the People's Liberation Army, Percy's talent and connections were on a different scale entirely.

In only a few years, her senior school sweetheart had mastered Conjuration, Evocation and Abjuration, becoming an unmatched existence within his generation. Many in the PLA were already labelling him the next Jun Song, though Percy's powers were less destructive and, by that same measure, less self-destructive.

Her fiancé's fame and accolades also meant that Percy gained innumerable enemies throughout his rise. Within the PLA's power progenies, egos ran high, and the notion of household honour inferred death was preferable to disgrace.

And then there was the stereotype that defeating a young master almost always summoned cousins, siblings, and sometimes fathers and uncles like woodlice from a rotten beam.

What surprised Mei was how happily Percy accepted such hostilities, especially considering the myriad ways he would be accosted mid-mission. Most of these encounters, at least the ones that Mei knew of, became "food" for her fiancé. It was a very peculiar expression that Mei took to mean that Percy grew through gambits of life-or-death combat. When Percy seriously maimed his opponents a few times, his Grandfather or Uncle Jun had to step in—though neither appeared opposed to his prideful upholding of House Song's growing reputation. The ordeals had earned him the moniker of a battle maniac who grew more famous with every duel.

"Yes, we're done here." Percy's face, more handsome than when he was in his adolescence, now resembled his square-jawed uncle, an existence Mei admired with all her heart. "Let's move to our next location, Cadet Yang?"

"Yessir!" Mei saluted before turning to the tired faces of the young men and women behind them, making up the other two Mage Flights. "Five minutes for potions and restoration! Bandage if you need to. Meditate and recover your mana else we will leave you behind. We move to the next node at 1300!"

Without overt complaints, the rest of the young elites fell into place.

Percy's ruthless invitations for combat, paired with Jun's role as the unassailable "consort" of Ayxin, scion to the Yinglong, had created an insurmountable barrier for any who wished to challenge her fiancé through overt means. With a grandfather who kept a watchful eye over the PLA's secretive communications and an Uncle who even the Secretariat fawned over, Percy's career had been nothing but cloudy steps of jadeite leading to the high heavens.

But of course, the higher the privilege, the greater the expectations. In every engagement, the nephew of the Ashbringer was the spear tip, crashing into walls of Undead with cleansing wedges of sanctified powder, spreading purification through the Elemental synergy of Salt.

Following in the footsteps of his Uncle, Percy likewise seemed impervious to the Negative Energy emanated by the Undead Casters' curses and debuffs. It was a part of her fiancé's mystique, one neither the PLA nor their teammates dared to pry—though Percy had confided in Mei, revealing that his gift was a part of the Song's heirloom.

When they were on R&R, she had laid on Percy's chest after a long night of passion and sensed the pulsing vitality from the mutton-jade necklace. In a moment of tenderness, her fiancé had told Mei that this was his greatest secret and treasure—a birthright initially falsely given to his sister until she generously bestowed it back upon himself.

When Mei pried further, allowing the Kirin Amulet to rest against the palm of her hand, Percy's skin had grown suddenly clammy, startling Mei so profoundly that she immediately allowed the pendent to relax against his chest. When she looked up to see why Percy had gone cold, the boy's face was such a mask of repressed rage and internal agony that every mote of passion drained from Mei as though she had been dumped unclothed into the northern snow.

"Don't tug." Percy's voice trembled. "And don't… don't tell anyone about my pendant."

There was no mistaking Percy's tone, and Mei knew enough of the older families to understand that Percy had broken a taboo of sorts.

"I promise on my life…" she had sworn on the honour of her ancestors and the existence of her Astral Soul. She had felt frightened by the unexpected threat, but a part of Mei grew warm and liquid at the thought of Percy sharing with her his greatest treasure—one that may have mortal consequences should it escape either of their mouths. In this way, they were one, more so than in body, for an heirloom secret bound two families far closer than the mere intimacy of flesh…

"Mei!" Percy's voice pieced through the gloom. "Where's our next target?"

Mei returned her consciousness to the smoky battlefield below, quickly triangulating their whereabouts. Like her favourite sister, Percy had a difficult time with directions… another secret only she and her fiancé shared.

Another chain in the link that wound around their souls, binding them for life.

Old Tjupurrula, standing on one withered leg, raised a hand to the sky to taste the unexpected moisture.

He did not have to wait long, for what answered him was a cacophonic rumble of thunder so loud that the earth shook, and red dust cascaded from the crags and nooks scarring the sacred rise of Uluru.

In the far distance, a thousand flocks from the sand-coloured zebra finch to the red-plumed kingfisher, accompanied by cabals of iron-feather buzzards and the shrill opera of Emu-Wrens, fled from the incoming change in pressure.

The red earth, usually so dry that the slightest breeze might whip the particles into a dust devil, now lay dormant, shivering at the sight of the incoming storm.

CRACK!

The sky split asunder.

Where the tender fabric of the Prime Material had long been weakened by Almudj's rage, it now opened into the space between Planes, unleashing gales the likes of which the land had not seen for centuries.

Old Tjupurrula inhaled the ozone-heavy air, enjoying every sensation of new vigour, breathing into the husk of life resting at the centre of the ancient continent. His skin, long since petrified by slow time, cracked and bled as his limbs moved for the first time in centuries.

From beyond the highest firmament, it began to pour.

Uluru, awash with rain and rumbling under the perpetual thunder, took on the colour of blood. A hundred white serpents, spontaneously bursting from the Well of the World, gushed forth with the force of tsunamis, turning the ochre surface of the World Tree's stump from oxide red into fertile loam in the span of a dozen breaths.

Droplets as large as a Mage's Water Missiles hammered the suddenly-forming inland sea, stirring up such a frenzy that its turbulence resembled tomato soup returned to an indignant deli chef.

Above the once-sacred stump, frothing water bucketed outwards, crashing against Old Tjupurrula's feet, ankles, knees, then waist. For a being less attuned than Old Tjupurrula, the force would have torn them limb from limb, but for an old Spirit Walker, it was a much-desired shower, a rare sensation of the Elemental Planes in flux.

Hours passed, and the rain continued, quenching the thirst of a land without water since time immemorial.

Already, Old Tjupurrula could feel the ancient seeds, some from species unseen since the chaotic reign of Dragons, absorb the unexpected fecundity.

Beyond the horizon, a chain of lakes large and small, long dead and turned into dust bowls, likewise heard the clarion call of life, for underneath their caked soil slept the dormant eggs of ancient Mer older than the Mageocracy's first cities.

Old Tjupurrula pulled one foot from the soggy mud, now sucking him downwards as the water nourished the cracked earth, filling its ancient aquifers for the next century.

"No Tree, No Snake…" The ancient Spirit Walker looked to the unrelenting skies. "And no Kalinda. What is an old ghost to make of this cheekiness?"

He scratched his head. Then, the torrent swallowed him wholesale, leaving no trace but a pair of prints, fast disappearing under the suck of the inland sea.

Shalkar.

The Fire Sea.

New Shalkar, now officially mapped by the cartographers as Shalkaryah since the Priestess' departure, was a paradise for pups and fawns of all breeds and species.

To the south, the Brass Legion had all but retreated deep into the portal boiling the southern coast of the Caspian. Their missing presence, punctuated by the absence of Zordiam, the Efreeti Prince of Fire, had resulted in the gradual shrinkage of the gash itself, which, according to the Magisters who remained behind to shepherd the Khanate, saw a reduction for the first time in three decades.

Additionally, sudden influxes of torrential downpours made the desert plains from Ashgabat to Bukhara awash with little streams, bringing forth long dormant growths of wildflowers fields that once made the region famous for its fertility.

The River Darya, together with the dozens of lakes it fed, grew rich with loam and life, with fish stocks almost appearing overnight as the eternal drought ended. Borders between Demi-human Clans, shaped by access to the oasis and estuaries, vanished. The raging fires of resource wars, fought so bloodily by the Khanate, were extinguished by unprecedented fecundity.

The Sand Worms, long since a decor of the upper desert, drank long and deep—then retreated into the Murk where they would moult and slumber, awaiting a more hospitable climate to return. For ones too young to slink back to their Demi-Planes, their mildew-drenched bodies grew sluggish, becoming easy prey for the resurgent Tasmüyiz tribes, particularly the Rat-kin under Strun Jıldam of Shalkaryah.

It had not even been a year—but the swelling growth of Clan Jıldam made up for a decade or more by absorbing any who would convert to the faith of the Priestess into its namesake, branding them with the unquestionable belief that here was the promised land, the final bastion of the long-suffering, and that there would be no second chance for the Rat-folk beyond this fragile gift from the heavens.

When furthermore the Prophet Strun had returned from the Human cities with tales of gleaming spires and friendly scholars, the Clans of the Tasmüyiz who gathered—The Rat-kin, the Kobold, the Goat-kin and even scattered tribes of lizard men, came together at Shalkar to marvel at its sky-grasping baobab pillars, said to be created by Demi-gods of the Prime Material to aid Clan Jıldam.

Then there were the trade routes.

With the Darya once more filled to the banks, the fabled barges of the old Silk Road once more appeared, now transporting the foodstuffs of Shalkar southward and northward to be traded at way stations established by the Priestess' kin-folk.

The immense thirst for labour and the abundance of bartered goods, together with the security established by the Horse Lords in this time of plenty, created such a wonder the desert had not seen since the century before the Great War.

Between land and water, there was no rest for the Centaur folk who had grown numb from the sudden abundance and whose new duties as guards, transporters, traders and enforcers had stretched the Khan's yurts to their limits.

Even as the Tasmüyiz broke off into their little regions, the Horse-Lords paid them no mind—for they could always reap the wheat after the fertile autumn, as they had always done since the Golden reign of the first Khanate.

For both the Horse Lords and their no longer starving slaves, now was an unexpected respite.

And all of this, proclaimed Regional Executor Strun, was the gift of their Pale Priestess, Her Officership of the Shalkaryah Trading Corporation, a subsidiary of the Isle of Dog-Norfolk Conglomerate, the one and only Magister Gwen Song, CEO.

Cuzco.

The Temple of Inti.

In Sacsahuamán, the navel of the world, the nation's Living Sun, the undisputed Master of the four Suyus, held court with his Chiefs.

As a part of his growing pains, Inti would take over state affairs while his father toured the Suyus to hear the people's grievances, dispensing justice as he saw fit.

And in recent months, there have been many instances of unhappiness indeed.

The Sun God had been moody.

Inexplicably, the summer rains did not fall into the sky-lakes, preventing the refilling of lagoons and, therefore, the harvest in fall.

And then there were floods where the clouds were so low that they banked as thick as molasses against the cliffs of La Rinconada, drowning the Mana mines there and paralysing the entire region's economy.

And there were other flash-fires of trouble as well, sprouting like seedings after a great tree falls in Amazonia, exposing the rich undersoil to the exploitation of its neighbours.

"Tika," the gold-slathered Inti, his bronze skin radiating the vitality of his nation's faith, implored his wife to continue her report from the Temple of Mama Cuna. "How fares our letter runners from the south lands?"

"There is stirring chaos in lower Amazonia," his young bride reported. The Temple has received many messenger birds of late, all speaking of roaming monstrosities in the forest. The lack of rain there has continued into September, meaning the forest's inhabitants are now in a state of all-out territorial conflict over the estuaries of the undergrowth."

Inti sighed. Tika agreed. A stirring Amazonia meant dire trouble for the nation's borders.

For his Kingdom of the Sun, their side of the Andes rose above the emergent layer of Amazonia, meaning what happened within the forest stopped beyond the canopy. However, if a section were to collapse, it would instantly disrupt the balance of predator and prey that held the forest's dangers in check.

At worst, a tide of "refugee" Greenskin Demi-humans would emerge, hungry and desperate, to wreak havoc upon the agricultural regions of Sapa Inti's empire.

"The Temple has also received requests for aid." Tica rose from her kneeling position, making the sign of the sun as her spritely figure stretched out like a youthful sapling. On her shoulder, her Sundew Familiar cooed, relaying the minutes of the report to its mistress in the secretive tongue of plants. "From our cousins to the north, whose holy war is yet unended."

"Our kin of the Feathered Serpent requires OUR aid?" Inti appeared genuinely surprised. "With what?"

"Sir Tupac will explain." Tika stepped aside to reveal the kneeling form of Inti's friend, the Shifter-warrior Tupac.

The gentle giant stood, making the sign of the risen sun.

"Their runners have arrived with Creature Cores, trading for skins, grains for sowing, metal and magical materials," Tupac read off the report in his hand. "The reaping winds of Quetzalcoatl have not been kind of late. Since the middle of the imperial calendar, their trading cities in the lowlands have all suffered the displeasure of the Winged God. From what we've gathered from our traders, sacrifices have been offered by the tens of thousands. The Puma Warriors are even capturing the fair-skinned folk from the New World, hoping that their aberrant hearts would allow Quetzalcoatl to feel appeased."

Knowing full well the zealousness of their theocratic and thankfully distant cousins, the court permitted several moments of silence.

Tika made a gentle cough.

"It is not our cousins who are upsetting Lord Quetzalcoatl. Something is making the Winged Serpent very unhappy." Inti read his wife's intentions at once. "I think we shouldn't get involved, lest it turns its all-seeing eye upon our Kingdom."

"How shall we deal with the traders?" Tika poised the question the four rulers of the Suyus were keen to answer.

Inti turned his head toward his uncle, Amaru, Administrator of Cuzco and Inti's tutor in governance matters.

The old snake smiled and said nothing.

"Release a sizeable stock of maise and corn," Inti gave the best command he could. "Suspend any shipments of magical metal and HDMs beyond our original agreements. However, allow up to fifty per cent more medicinal purchases."

"Sapa Inti is wise," Tupac replied with a bow.

Tika arrived by her husband's side. "My Inti… as our friends from the Mageocracy like to say. I fear that the Four Suyu shall soon live in interesting times."

Beside her, the Living Sun frowned, contorting the flawless visage of his peerless face, said to be identical to the nation's first God-King, the great Manco Cápac.

Touching her collarbone with a tender finger, Inti slouched ever-so-slightly on his throne, immediately attracting a nasty nip from the cane of Amaru, his uncle-advisor.

Tika suppressed a hiss.

Inti rubbed his shoulder without regarding his uncle.

"Yes…" the young man appeared tired despite the Faith of his people permeating his body. "Interesting times indeed..."

Northern Ireland.

Carrauntoohil.

High above the foggy shrouds of Corrán Tuathail, the Ancient Red Dragon Sythinthimryr allowed her colossal body to stretch over the scree of Fire-aligned Mana Crystals, bathing her blood-red scales in mana so thick as to resemble wine.

Slowly, with the meticulousness of a chef savouring the aroma of a rare dish, her nostrils drew in the mist, sending the entirety of the cloudscape into a swirling, tectonic metamorphosis.

"Dask…" the face of a Drake, just old enough to resemble a Dragon but lacking the dignity of its mother-sire, emerged from the depthless blanket of red steam. "The Kin of Danu have come to deliver a warning. The one-eyed King stirs before his time."

"They… dare?" Sythinthimryr's nostrils flared as blue as her displeasure. "Mere manifests of the Elemental Planes, believing that they can pierce the veil between places outside the Accord?"

"Yes, Mother, the fabric of spaces grows threadbare. Great changes are happening everywhere." The wyrmling's voice was sharp and eager.

"Nonsense, child." Sythinthimryr's tone was enough to send her son's frills flattening against his skull. "Change is change—what you observe now is merely a disturbance."

"But the Human empire to the south—" her pup sulked.

"Will titter, child…" Sythinthimryr's voice once more grew serene.

"Will it fall?" Her boy asked in a sulky voice. Her child's curiosity, the Ancient Red sighed, had always been acute. Was it because he had once been abducted and placed in the heart of the Human city? Was that why he would abscond every other season to play "Mages" with the unsuspecting humans fighting the Fomori?

"The humans have a saying." The Ancient Red swirled her thoughts through her vast memory. "The dead Oliphant is still taller than a horse."

"I don't think they say that, Dask…" her boy appeared unconvinced.

"… but it will still bring the Scythian Vultures."

The young Drake grew silent.

"That's… that's not a saying…" the boy was adamant. "Unless they said that in the time before their cities..."

Sythinthimryr eyed the heavens.

"I want to meet the Vessel..." her boy mumbled. "The one who has the favour of Lord Illaelitharian, who ignored me."

"Go back to sleep, Slylth." the Red Queen nuzzled her child until the boy was smothered back into the enormous bed of Fire-tinged crystals. "You've much growing yet… before you dream of meddling in the planar politics of the Accord. At least earn your true form..."


October.

The Royal Docklands.

Mycroft Ravenport, Lord Marshall of her Majesty's men at arms, stood stoic as a Gargoyle sentinel on the battlements of the Royal Docks as blanketing mist drifted over the placid steel waters.

He was a picture of fatigue, and though the Good Lord had himself rested on the Day of Sabbath, there was no such solace for a father who had dearly missed his youngest child.

Therefore, Mycroft Ravenport, Patriarch of the Ducal House, stood in the rain, sorting data in his weary mind as the tugboats took their time to coast the Royal Raven into its assigned dockyard.

The past half a year had taken a toll on himself and the Office of the Lord Marshall. In the manner the girl had prescribed, inexplicable planar disasters were unfolding all over the Mageocracy's domains, stretching their resources as fine as gold beaten to airy thinness, so much that certain sectors had to be foregone entirely.

For example, the Militants' ambitions in the Nigerian Delta were now entirely abandoned to disorderly climate change, with all reserves rerouted instead to shore up essential infrastructure in Port Saīd, the Suez Canal, and most importantly, Gibraltar. The loss of new Frontiers was difficult but inevitable, and without the Mageocracy's tacit support, allies who wished to remain could only fend for themselves—arguably an impossible endeavour. Many gentries had to sell property—and in direr instances, auction daughters to industrialists to repay their debts.

Comparatively, the softening of the Greys' attitudes toward House Holland meant that their particular branch of the Militant families had returned to respectable profitability, especially with the Isle of Dogs Norfolk Conglomerate transporting the Houses' goods.

More recently, the Mageocracy's official stance had been to condense its armed forces from the Horn of Africa to the Coral Sea east of Australia, buying itself time to adjust to what the girl had foretold to be a decade of uncertainty—assuming optimal management of the Elemental incursions throughout the Prime Material. With the data from both Polar nodes now officialised by the Shard, little doubt remained as to what Humanity faced, even if they knew not what awaited them. Still, their allied nations took to the revelation with the typical Human impassivity of denial, opportunism and learned apathy.

Thankfully, the rulers of Albion knew not to take the matter lightly… and that inaction would invite calamity on a scale the naysayers could scarcely begin to imagine. They were lucky, for dissonance to the other Empires of the Prime Material, a rare nod and a word from House Winsor was all it took for Westminster to make plans and pass budgets.

From the mist, with ponderous slowness, the thrum of the tug boats bringing home the Royal Raven emerged, bringing with it the enormous silhouette of the battle barge.

"Miles," the Duke of Norfolk addressed an aide as the swirling mist meandered. "Does our ship look haggard to you? Moreso than anticipated?"

"If you would recall, milord." The aide with a name leaned in closer. "Milady had reported from Singapore that they've been rescuing distressed ships from Mermen Tides. The Dwarves have been cannibalising the ship's materials to mobilise their impromptu flotilla. There had been four fleets since Antarctica, first from the Coral Sea, then the Bay of Bengal, and finally through the Red Sea. In Eritrea, the Royal Raven was delayed by the September insurgency in Asmara and had to defend the Shielding Station on the coast."

"The lycanthropic rebels have spread to the cotton coast?" Ravenport recollected the foreshadowing reports. "Hmm... yes, I do recall. Charlene did say they were investigating a gate into the Dyar Morkk there on behalf of Lord Hanmoul's crew. The results were…?"

"Sound. The Dwarven Transit node has been recovered, milord. Likewise, Cotton exports have been partially restored thanks to the young Miss' intervention. Though for how long, we're unable to estimate. Last week, our Diviners documented that the Demi-human tribes are currently in a continent-wide mass migration, following the shifting wet band in central Africa."

Mycroft considered his aide's studied information. The Royal Raven's state of disrepair was one of necessity and choice, having spared much of its materials for the rehabilitation and construction of sites and ships during its long journey from the Antarctic to the East Coast of Australia, then threading through the Bay of Bengal until finally, it squeezed through the Suez Canal to sail past the Tyrrhenian Sea. At the Rock of Gibraltar, the Royal Raven had restocked and resupplied just enough for the final leg of the arch through the North Atlantic.

"I see. I'll take it from here, Miles."

"Yes, milord." His team of crow-black suited aides retreated far enough to remain un-intrusive.

Though Ravenport had told Charlene that he would _personally_ receive her, the arrival of a Carrier Class Cruiser was nonetheless attended by thousand-odd workers, dozens of Golem units, various military officers of the Royal Navy, and reporters from the city's major papers. Behind the official thong were the crew members' family and companions, including the impatient faces from the girl's Isle of Dogs.

The foremost of the news rags was the METRO, owned by the ship's infamous War Mage, now triumphantly returned from her trial, leaving no doubt about her credentials. By now, the METRO's circulation, though not its profitability, has far exceeded the Sun and the Telegraph, making many in the House of Lords nervous about its influence among the unlearned masses.

Almost a year ago, Shalkar had been a test, and the girl had proven resourceful beyond doubt.

The Southern Expedition had been a different test: one that stressed the girl's resources to their utmost limits.

From the report released by the Oxbridge Magisterial Committee to the Shard, the girl's _connexions_ had been revealed as both transcontinental and trans-Planar, far beyond the means of even London's most well-connected Magisters. Her's were different to the Shard's most senior Magisters, whose ties were tethered to Humanity and its cities.

_How did the girl reach this point?_ The Duke knew, of course, but the results remained astounding.

The girl had trafficked with not one but TWO of the Blooms who governed the Axis Mundi and was on speaking terms with at least THREE Mythics, two of whom predated the civilisation of Humanity. Even on paper, the print stretched the imaginations of the common Tower Mage.

And, according to Charlene's transmissions, the Scion of the Yinglong who "hung out" with the girl as her Planar Ally had now taken on the form of a true-blooded, four-legged Draconid. In the Bay of Bengal, when the girl had sent her Shadow Mages home to Myăma, the newly minted Thunder Dragon had decimated a Shoal of Mermen before the Royal Raven could bring its Dwarven artillery to bear. By his daughter's accounts, the Wyvern-turned-Dragon would now be in "Isolation Training" with its elder brother, the Thunder Dragon Ruxin, ruler and partner to the Mageocracy's efforts in Nagaland.

What the girl's newly revealed circumstance entailed, therefore, was the acknowledgement that mere favours and promises of influence and wealth were no longer enough to keep her lashed to the Shard. Like the Tower's Meisters and its rare Magi, the leash that held the reigns of men and women like Gwen must be woven with Mithril and Orichalcum, then custom-fitted to be comfortably flexible.

Which meant the Mageocracy would soon need an escalation.

For any other, a tried tactic would involve the uncomplicated application of matrimony. To be wedded to the family of an influential Duke or Marquess, or in the most ardent of circumstances, an off-shoot of the royal House itself, was the norm.

However, for a child of Kilroy, and considering the girl's ties to the Lindholm lass, that option was so far into the aether as to never return. Coercing the girl was also not an option, considering her connections to Gunther Shultz, now Master of the Mageocracy's most resource-rich and stable Frontier.

And in thinking of Shultz, Mycroft was forced to remind himself that the girl had claimed responsibility for the erasure of a Cabal of Necromancers that may or may not have had a Lich among them. Sydney Tower's Morning Star had verified the bounty. According to Gunther, there _was_ a Lich—though its phylactery was not recovered. However, as none thought it wise to question the Lord Master of Sydney, they agreed to his terms.

The reward was almost a quarter of a million HDMs.

But the money was no object. What worried Mycroft was the girl's ability to subsume her victim's innate "Affinity" for certain genres of arcanistry. Sooner than anticipated, he feared, the Towers may very well be welcoming its next Master, a sorceress capable of wielding Omni-Magic, furthermore complicated by her "unnatural" Affinity for Humanity's oldest original Spellcraft— _Necromancy_.

Even with certain details omitted, the report had shaken the upper echelons of the Shard. To address their concerns, Mycroft Ravenport had informed them that any hope of stifling the girl's growth was a ship that had set sail with the Royal Raven. Now, like the matter of the changing climate itself, they were in a position to steer the gunport away and toward their foes. Should they truly feel threatened, scuttling the ship would first involve the Hollands, who now stood firmly in her court—with success meaning, at _best_ , the offender would face the Morning Star; at _worst_ , the ire of Tryfan and thereby, infringe upon _The Accord_.

When questioned, Mycroft's advice for settling the girl had been to offer a term similar to that of her erstwhile Master; the same Gunther Shultz had been provided. While retaining her services, she must be given a land to rule—an ideal Frontier that was both pivotal and far away enough from the centre of power to keep her fruitfully employed. A place that was both out of reach of the conspiring power brokers of the Mageocracy and yet close enough to obliterate should the necessity arise.

A place like the newly established Orange Zone of Shalkar al-Jadeedah, a Frontier burgeoning with potential, bordering no significant bases of power, with no Human cities, with Black Zones to the south, Orange Zones to the north, and Purple Zones to the West, was perfect. As a location forged from elemental instability, does it not make the ideal home for one whose professed ambition was to establish a Tower and whose work would invariably be tied to the Accord?

Morrigan had reported that most of the Lords were in favour, while a minority ardently opposed the rise of a second Henry Kilroy.

The Duke of Norfolk would have liked more time to mull over the situation, though the ship's noisy docking procedures now took precedence over the recollection.

As the transforming hulls slid apart, then unpacked themselves like intricate origami into loading bays, a miasma of smells flooded the shipyard. Old oils, alcohol, engine grease, the outpouring of excess mana from HDMs slabs, spirits, unwashed Dwarves, thrumming Golems, liquor, and what could only be evaporating firewater poured over the Royal Docklands, making the shore crew recoil.

"Father!" the nightingale voice from the gangway was enough to dispel Mycroft's desire to vacate the dockland for the odour-controlled air of Westminster.

Charlene Ravenport, looking like a half-wilted flower, her once luminous hair matted and dull, drifted ashore, striding through the air to land in his open arms. She had not used her Dust sorcery much, though their family's Spellcraft _had_ been used, meaning months of rehabilitation would be required to restore her health.

Behind his daughter, he could see the rest of her crew, including the girl in question, her cousins, the Chinese Daoshi, and the various children of his contemporaries who had chosen to follow Charlene on what had initially seemed tomfoolery. According to Charlene's reports, seventeen of those children would not return—though that number was more optimistic than Mycroft could have hoped.

After allowing his daughter to soil his heirloom Draconic-cashmere coat with the unmistakable stench of Dwarven quaffing, he kissed her oily cheeks. A moment later, he allowed her to slide from his embrace before facing their pet War Mage.

"Magister Song." Ravenport extended a hand. "You are truly worthy of that title now, Magister. Cambridge has informed me that your official inauguration will be in a few days."

The girl shook his hand with a firm grasp.

How strange it was, Ravenport pondered, that only a few years ago, when the girl first arrived, he had taken her into his car to speak to her. She had seemed so frightened then, like a lamb staring in horror at an abattoir. Now, the young woman not only shook his hand but appeared no more impressed by the gesture than if she had purchased a club sandwich.

Others would deem the inoffensive nonchalance offensive in itself—though Ravenport understood all too well. When one has met Dragons and Blooms aplenty, mortal relations and titles just felt so… temporal. When one's mind dwelled upon the fabric of the Prime Material itself, competition among the Peerage felt as bland as a cup of poorly brewed English Breakfast.

Still, it was good to remain grounded.

The Axis Mundi was a big-big thing. To move it alone was futility, be it Gwen Song, Spectre, the Elemental Princes or even the Blooms and their Dragons.

Around them, the lumen bulbs of the recorders flashed and flashed again, taking stock of the moment in which the Duke of Norfolk personally received the Royal Raven's crew. As a result of the image, Mycroft was sure: stock prices would rise, others would fall, and backroom deals would bisect like criss-crossing fungi.

Mycroft exchanged cursory words with the girl, and the two parted for their businesses. He would return with Charlene to the manor, where his child could clean up, dine, and then relate the tale of their return from the Antarctic.

As for the girl, Mycroft imagined that she would be burdened by her bid to return the Dwarves to their homes, simultaneously transporting the Golems and the Fabricator Engine back to the Isle of Dogs. Also, the Royal Raven had to be unloaded of its loot of the world, though that would be the duty of lesser men and women in service to either Charlene or the girl.

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With a casual wave of his hand, Mycroft dismissed the reporters. Those who disobeyed were sternly reminded by his aides that _the Duke of Norfolk did not ask twice_. With another gesture from a signet ring, he opened a portal—one that directly led to the Teleportation Circle under Westminster, from where he would immediately access home. It was a privilege few could afford and rarely exercised, though this much was the least he could do for Charlene. Later, in the wake of her triumphant return, her career as a Ravenport would begin in earnest.

Before he stepped through, with one foot in the aether, he watched the girl command her men, at which point his thoughts inadvertently strayed a little to his youngest.

The fatherly part of Mycroft swallowed the hollow void in his heart.

As for the Duke, the Lord Marshall was already kilometres away, thinking of how he might broach to the Shard the subject of the girl's next assignment.

Unlike the privileged daughter of the Duke of Norfolk, the orphaned War Mage Gwen Song had only herself to work to an early death upon her return to Albion's shores.

First and foremost, naval transportation of the Golem units she had loaned with Hanmoul's Iron Guards had to be safely extracted and delivered to the Isle of Dogs. Her rationale dwelled on the newly built Dyar Morkk Node Station the Dwarves had established for the Isle, a part of the evolving negotiations The Shard and Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth had hammered out as a result of the increased dangers in sea-ferrying goods.

As for her nest egg, the Isle's development had reached the fourth phase, with new skyscrapers and shopping complexes rising all over the old docklands.

Eric Walken, who was himself worked to the bone, had a small mountain of papers for her to review and stamp. His core grievance was from developers jealous of Elvia's soup kitchen and orphanage, which remained a part of the Isle's core complexes sectioned out for charitable works, now bisected by an enormous riverside park Gwen jokingly labelled "Mansfield", charitably free for all to visit.

However, even with Walken's memo minutes droning on like a hive of angry bees, Gwen understood her priorities.

As soon as the Dwarves were on their merry way and Lorenzo's folk had taken over, she lifted into the air with her Omni-orb aloft, willing it to guide her to her heart's desire. Against a dreary, windy sky, her crow skin flapped, slicing through the air with effortless grace.

" _Young WOMAN!_ " Eric Walken's voice howled from below. "Return at once! The Marquess of Ely is waiting for you to attend her welcome-back party tonight! The Shard has requested your presence to verify your reports! I need you to sign off on the audit forms!"

"I'll be back!" Gwen called to the milling forms of the folks below, some still taking pictures, others waving to catch her attention.

"You're expected at Cambridge!" Walken's hollering continued. "Seven PM at the latest! The whole faculty is expecting you! Including Gracie and Brown!"

"I'll do my best," Gwen promised through her Message device. "But I make no promises."

"Where the hell is she going?" Walken's open Message growled, barely controlling himself from setting the documents in his hands to ride the wind.

Gwen felt sorry for her old foe and instructor, for the bloke looked like he wanted to fly up and drag her back to the Bunker. Before her ground crew drifted out of view, she saw Petra give the old Magister a pat on the shoulder to calm his farm and explain why their boss was in such a hurry.

As to where Gwen was going—that was for her to know alone, for she had sent off a Message the moment they came within Divination Tower range, and only an hour ago had the response returned.

To those who were not family, she felt no need to disclose her heartfelt desire. After so long in the Antarctic and a month and more at sea murdering seafood, she was sick to the core of the life she had inadvertently chosen. To keep herself sane, she needed solace, and only one place could provide the serenity she sought to feel less like a mirrored Sobel.

Battle.

East Sussex.

Though the world was in flux, the millennia-old Monastery Fortress of the Order of the Bath remained untouched by change.

Belying the world's chaos, its Knights and Companions walked through green lawns carpeted by scarlet leaves, with windows swathed by flaming foliage, turning the cloisters a rich amber. East of Sussex, Battle was a world away from the world itself, sheltered by Faith thanks to the Ordo's most precious relics, maintaining a serenity that had remained uncontested since the victory of William the Conqueror in the eleventh century.

This year, like every other year in which their lauded Knight Companion had called the Abbey home, Battle's avenues were punctuated by endless floral blooms, some cultivated, others wild, which dressed the orderly rows of gardens in flamboyance. Additional flowers lined the stone pavements, usually bone-white and ivory, meandering through the grounds like rainbow serpents, adding colour to the otherwise sombre setting.

For those who were here to convalesce and study, the season of autumn was a rare joy before the onset of desolate winter, where snow would smother every living thing, and the trees would wear gothic.

And it was here that Magister Gwen Song, a recent returnee from the Southern Expedition, landed in her crow skins, turning eyes and raising brows from every avenue, window and battlement.

"We've been expecting you, Magister Song," the meek voice from an acolyte soon greeted her, emerging with a strained huff from tall corridors. "Our Abbotess has gifted you and Companion Lindholm privacy in the East Garden."

"Thank you." Gwen retrieved her Omni-orb, which even now was roving eastward. "I know the way."

Her guide said nothing, happy to follow the orders she'd been given regardless of Gwen's willingness to obey. Out of deference, Gwen chose patience, allowing herself to be led by the demure nun until she arrived at an entrance east of the Edenic central courtyard.

Though not a Pocket Plane, she nonetheless pierced a veil of magic before arriving at the garden's enormous interior.

Past the threshold of a pair of trellis gates, Gwen immediately caught the drifting notes of an aria, its lifting notes hanging long and lovingly through the air. Piercing the garden's row of eye-level hedges, she found her Evee in the middle of a song, addressing her Familiars in a Disney-patented manner.

Resisting the little worms bloody masticating her heart, Gwen took a deep breath and counted to ten. On her second repetition, the object of her dearest desire noted her arrival.

Evee.

Evee.

_Evee—_ Golden and glorious, kind and wonderful, walked from the wooded shelter of the gazebo with a smile that could melt all the frost that had invaded Gwen's body from her six-month stint in the Antarctic.

Having been apart for so long, Elvia appeared more mature than she recalled, for her face had lost some of that puppy-dog cuteness. Gwen, herself provisioned by the Essence of an immortal being, knew that Elvia's maturity was not due to the tyranny of a clock hand's leaden circles. Rather, it was the stress, the woe, and the worries of the world that had taxed her dearest friend.

On route past Singapore, Gwen had visited the refugee camps in Pulau Ubin, where the islander asylum seekers had been dispossessed. From the caretaker, she had learned of Elvia's failed mission and walked among the folk her dearest Elvia had sought to save.

Within weeks, the talented few among the refugees had been plucked by Singapore's industrious Tower from the shelters, leaving only the mediocre and the NoMs to fend for themselves in a camp that made Shanghai's Districts look like five-star hotels. When the refugees had left their homes, the promise had been that they would find shelter and security from monsters—and this the city had delivered—only now, the men and women there were at the mercy of monsters wearing human skin. Some of the camps had taken on work from the city and had established a semi-autonomous council of foremen and peacekeepers. The majority, however, had descended into a crucible of vice, becoming the playthings of gangs and strongmen or officials who saw their bitter labour as tedium and insult.

For the "Faithful" who had followed Elvia, Gwen had made arrangements with the local government to ease their eventual passage into the city's economy. As for the rest—her time and charity were bankrupt—for she owed them nothing. Her only motivation was that, should Elvia return someday to witness the end of her Ordo's goodwill, she would be less sad knowing that most had lived hard, if fruitful, lives.

"Gwennie…" The instant their gazes crossed, her Knight Companion blossomed like an unfurling rose, her cheeks growing as pink as pippins and just as adorable.

From behind her dearest _friend_ , Kiki and Sen-sen's inhuman faces peek out from the underbrush, still too wary of Caliban's scent to approach too close.

Gwen responded kindly, sending Ariel forth to frolic so Elvia's Familiar and Spirit could be at ease.

As for Caliban—her Void fiend had grown lethargic of late, meaning more precise instruments were needed to exactly ascertain the effects of consuming a very confused and unsuspecting Lich. One that, according to Gunther, did indeed escape Caliban's Pocket Plane gullet, only to find itself in a Quasi-Elemental Plane of all-consuming life, one that was equally partial to the digestion of Un-life. Consequently, her command over the Sanctioned Magic left by her Master had grown… an alarming prospect, but one she welcomed, especially considering what was to come.

Thankfully, it took less than a split-second for her mind to return to the sublime vision of Evee striding through the unnatural floral garden as though Alphonse Mucha had brought a secret epic to life.

"Practicing for Christmas already?" Gwen couldn't stop grinning, for her mouth had acquired a separate, happy sentience. "Evee, I've missed you so…"

"I heard…" Elvia shimmied close, then closer, until her forehead was almost at Gwen's chin.

Gwen inhaled. The scent of jasmines from Elvia's hair, likely a product of Kiki's making, made her want to confess her greatest sins.

"… that you helped Father Bambang and the others at Singapore… thank you, Gwen, truly."

"It was nothing," Gwen replied without hesitation, for the effort was truly nothing. For she who had returned successfully from the Antarctic Black Zone, uplifting NoMs was barely considered a favour by Singapore Tower. "There's going to be far more chaos to come. More refugees will soon flood into the Frontiers… I can't even begin to imagine."

"They'll need a lot of help and aid." Evee took her hand and began to guide her deeper into the garden until they were inside the dainty gazebo, within which was a nice little picnic basket, as well as plates and glasses.

"So that's why you weren't out there to greet me." Gwen felt her chest flutter. "What's the occasion?"

"To thank you." Elvia's hand squeeze her fingers. "You've done so much for us… for me, the Ordo, and the people— _everywhere_."

"I am doing this out of necessity." Gwen still wasn't sure whether her venture was going to be a profitable one or if she was going to be out of pocket. The Bloom in White's reward had yet to materialise. And even if it did, she wasn't sure if an Elven Monarch's payment could be meaningfully liquidated into currency. "It's just as much for myself as it is for anyone. After all, don't I live in the Prime Material? Doesn't Gunther and Alesia? You and Yue?"

"You're too modest." Elvia invited her to sit.

Together, the two made themselves comfortable. Elvia filled their glasses with wine from the abbey's private collection, and they sipped on fermented grape juice while Gwen regaled her tale of Antarctica, the Blooms, the Elementals and the Undead.

Her story drew laughter, tears, and awe and fear from her listener, who seemed very much invested in Gwen's hypothesis regarding the nature of _The Accord_ and the role played by the Blooms and their lizards in sustaining the Great Trees of the Axis Mundi.

By the time Gwen's tale had returned to Sydney's shores with Yue's promotion, the sun was sinking into the English horizon, staining Albion's firmament a darkly brewed Earl Grey. The sweetmeats, cheeses and biscuits Elvia had brought were also depleted, signalling that they were near the end of their _recess_.

"I wish I could be as strong as you, Gwennie.." her soulmate stared into the depth of her oversized wine glass, her cheeks now the colour of ripe peaches. "I try, and I try… and still couldn't do it. I couldn't save them, Gwen. I took them away from the Elementals feeding on their children, only to have them abandon their homes, then leave them in Singapore."

Before Gwen could move to soothe her companion's trauma, Elvia suddenly looked up.

"I wrote a song in our time apart," her soulmate said suddenly. "It's meant to be for the Carols by Candlelight, but I want you to hear it first. Will you hear it, Gwennie?"

"Is there any doubt I would kill for the privilege?" Gwen raised both brows in defiance of Elvia's accusation that she might not be fully attentive to a song written by an angel. "Let's hear it!"

A little embarrassed, Elvia started to hum, then corrected herself a few times before finally launching into song. A few bars in, Gwen recognised it as the one the girl was practising earlier.

Calming herself, she allowed the lyrics to flow through her mind.

_May I wake you before morning?_

_When the trees are painted amber_

_To a breakfast of our making_

_Of forgotten feelings, few remember—_

_Outside, the mayflies are many_

_Outside, the brightest blossoms unfold_

_Swayed by the bell beat of companionable swans_

_Whose hearts will never grow old_

_Then a cold wind blows_

_Winter strips the yews_

_A cold wind blows_

_Though I am warm by you_

_Why frets if the day was lost or won?_

_Or if our hours grow lean and few?_

_The sea may rise, and the whole world drown_

_Care not— for my world is here with you—_

As Elvia sang, Kiki and Sen-sen came to sit beside them, as did Ariel. Like a child wondering at her finest picture book, Gwen sat entranced, enjoying the private, impromptu concert. The chorus repeated itself twice, stumbling here and there. When finally, Evee's humming drew to an end, her lips moved as though she wanted to say something truly profound.

After a few false starts, the girl shook her flaxen head.

"I…I can't… It's too hard." Evee's head hung low, moving to avert Gwen's gaze. "I can't do it. Gwennie."

"Don't be sad, Evee." Gwen replaced her wine glass. "Don't be like that. You did what you could. The Ordo did as much as it was willing. That's the fact of life. That's all we can do and all we need to do."

"You don't know, Gwennie. There's _so much more_ I need to do." Elvia appeared to be talking to herself, or at least, to the wine. "Sometimes, I wish I hadn't chosen this path—but then I remind myself, this is what I wanted. _All_ of this is what I had chosen for myself. Here is my sovereignty; I must lie in it."

Gwen brought the girl's head closer to her own, then kissed the soft hair, feeling the warmth transmute through her lips like a spark to tingle her insides. "Don't overthink it, Evee. Whatever it is that you need, I'll help you. As your God is my witness, I can be very helpful."

For a moment, she daringly wondered if Elvia would tilt her head back, their eyes would meet like in those old Hollywood classics, and then… everything would be alright.

But Elvia instead leaned forward, slipping from her grasp.

Elvia wiped away the excess moisture from her eyes. Her face again restored to its adorable self. "Let's finished up. Didn't you say that you had a dinner party to attend? It's almost dark. All those important people want to see you, speak to you, and seek your guidance and blessing. Wouldn't they be upset? It's an important party, _right_? You need to save the world."

Gwen felt the beckoning call of the Message Device on her wrist. Had she not disabled it before coming to see her Evee, the "Dings" would resemble a street percussion performance.

"O Evee…" She wanted more time with Elvia before returning to her unhappy reality. And if she was as influential as Elvia said, then she had time. "As long as you're here, the party… _doesn't matter._ "