Tryfan.

The Grove.

As beings old enough to partially step into the immaterium of the Unformed Land, the Draconic Elders of The Accord exist as gravitational wells of causality. Within their domains, each surviving Dragon exists as the master of their lair, each a Demi-God survivor of the Primordial Age.

Even so, not all victors of the primordial Hunger Games are equal.

Like the mortals they cherished, tormented, manipulated or aided on a whim, some excelled in sorcery and the elements, others had stout bodies and powerful minds.

Some were perfect happenstance, such as Sythinthimryr, the Queen of Summer Flame, whose body and mind were both peerless, and whose celestial blood stood at the apex of an apex species.

Others were depthless in wisdom, such as Tyfanevius the Dreamer, master of a domain that spanned around the globular sphere of the Prime Material.

Then there were the cruel ones, heralded by the likes of Quar-Tath, Matron of the Long Night, who hadn’t so much survived as consumed or consummated every competitor in her domain.

And then, there were the rare few like Vynssarion the Blighted, who had chosen to cage their shattered minds with eternal slumber, only to be awakened in a mad world by malicious mortals.

Dhànthárian was none of the above.

He was a child of the Plane, an Elder by tenacity and grit, a creature who did not scheme, but toiled by the sweat of his scaly brow to carve out his princedom.

This humble origin was why great Dhànthárian sat in the warped wood chair provided by greater Tyfanevius, his body crudely reimagined to be roughly humanoid, listening to the arcane lecture given by a whelp one-sixth his junior.

“... by the fourth round of expansion, we saw growths of up to 154 per cent year-on-year, with about twenty-three tons of raw HDMs delivered to Nagaland, with a 14 per cent purity in Elemental Lightning…” The Thunder Dragon droned on, showing image after image of lines going up from the bottom left corner to the upper right.

As a Dragon who did not read, Dhànthárian did not understand most of the Thunder Dragon's arcane babble. Thankfully, Dragon-speak possessed mystical inflexions that deliver meaning through spectrums of thought beyond the linguistics of mortal tongue.

What Ruxin had stated was that, by using the female known as “The Regent”, he could lie unmolested beside the Singularity, and have pile-upon-piles of HDMs rain unto his hoard without so much a moving a claw. He was also using himself and his domain as an anecdote, citing a creature called Ruì, who was responsible for managing his lair.

Slowly but surely, like two tectonic plates meeting, Dhànthárian understood.

He would slumber and awake with double or triple the volume of mana lodes, every time. That’s what the Thunder whelp promised.

He glanced at his senior, The Dreamer, who wore his secretive mystique like a mask.

“I am not averse,” Dhànthárian chose his words carefully. “To this Co-Op that young Ruxin speaks in such high regard. However, what if these… profits do not come to pass?”

“The Regent has yet to fail a single delivery,” the Thunder Dragon replied respectfully. “Prideful Dhànthárian, you must understand that she has already ventured into the Fifth Vel and returned with two Leviathans, one dead and dismembered, the other under her will and sway. Your domain would be a precious laurel, but…”

Dhànthárian felt his nostrils constrict involuntarily.

He had already been scammed once. Now—

“Dhànthárian,” the thunderous and yet whisper-like voice of Tryfanevius invaded Dhànthárian’s skull. “Allow me to dispense a small nugget of wisdom. As matters stand, your circumstances are already laughable. In your inevitable victory, the Dwarven nations will never cease their harassment of your lair. The Regent, who shall surely escape, will return with a coalition of treasure seekers you cannot hope to dismiss. Slylth also has a mother who sees minor infractions against The Accord as mild irritations… or gross trespasses, if her son complains…”

Dhànthárian groaned despite himself. Here in the Dreamscape of Tryfan’s roots, he could not help but be honest.

The Dreamer laughed with what Dhànthárian felt was sympathy.

“... You appear to believe that I have summoned you to help our protégé, but that cannot be further from the truth,” Tryfanevius spoke in a tone that made Dhànthárian feel distinctly obtuse and earthy. “We’re here to maintain The Accord, young Dhànthárian. We’re here to negate a millenia of misery on your behalf—and for that, we expect grace.”

Back in the Plane of Earth, Dhànthárian felt his guts twist. If he were speaking to an equal peer, he would have roared and raged, then taught them a lesson in pain. Against so august a pair of bloodlines, however, even an Elder Dragon must swallow the broken teeth in his mouth.

“Do not fret,” Tryfanevius’ blooming voice continued to bounce around his skull. “Seek the Regent, prideful Dhànthárian, and you will find what you seek and much… much more.”

Deepholme.

The orbital low-way.

Gwen Song, the Regent of Shalkar, quivered from the immensity of vitality coursing to and fro from her victims to her tree, vicariously experiencing what it was like to be a fibre-optic server-rack networked to ten thousand iPhones with teeth.

On one end, her Hydras battled the Lizard-men, voraciously feeding upon anything remotely organic and possessed of vitality. The proceeds of her lamprey-mawed, vampiric leeches were then fed back to herself as a great sinew of life composed of thousands upon thousands of strands, bloating her metaphysical conduits.

On her other end, the great, soothing presence of the World Tree, its great bowers choked full of mana, placated the rampaging stream of life force, absorbing her gains into its majestic trunk.

As the tree’s Guardian and germinator, Gwen understood that this exchange was possible only because of the World Tree’s proximity. In the wild, away from her home, her Caliban battery had to suffice, and her limits were still determined by her body’s ability to produce Golden Mead, the amalgamation of both Sufina and Almudj’s blessings.

For what must have been ten, perhaps twelve hours, she had held the assault of the Lizardmen at bay. Dhànthárian, as with all Dragons, had their camp followers, and like her Rat-kin, they saw Dhànthárian as a God.

When fighting for one’s God, personal preservation often took a second seat to survival, even against eldritch foes from the Lovecraftian pantheon. This supernatural motivation was why her Rat-kin army was quickly gaining a reputation in the Murk and the Mageocracy, and why she was losing rats like a sinking ship.

DING–! A peony blossom of top priority flashed at the corner of her eye.

“Yes, Hilda?” She pictured the stout Deepdowner in her mind, her body half-bent over the shifting sand-scape of the globular map of Deepholme. “New incursions? News from Strun?”

“Regent, I don’t know if this is good news,” the voice on the other end sounded perplexed. “But the Lizardmen are retreating on every front.”

Somewhere in the enormous chamber behind her, Gwen could feel the Leviathan Core still upping the limits of its output.

“They’re not broken, and yet—REGENT!” Hilda’s voice took on a tone of sudden alarm. “Something is coming toward you! It’s coming from the Singularity! It’s enormous! I think it's Dhànthárian!”

The air behind Gwen sizzled with burning Conjuration, revealing the battered body of her bodyguard, Lulan. Having promised to aid her mistress, her Marshal was determined to place herself between her Regent and the approaching mass.

“Regent, it's not safe to remain here,” her Marshal advised as a fan of iron slabs spread themselves into place.

“Lulan, don’t get too worked up,” Gwen noted with some relief that though Lulan’s interlaced Dwarven battlesuit may look worse for wear, her Sword Mage was herself merely blooded by the remains of her foes. “We expected this. We didn’t expect Dhànthárian to come and see us only a few days into the flood, but we did expect this.

”

There was a slight tremor in her voice, though the liquid, golden courage in her veins was enough to keep her lucid even in the face of a tectonic avalanche. It was a strange paradox that filled her conduits with fire and her head with a high like the moment before a rolling coaster dropped.

“Is Dhànthárian arriving in a fit of rage?” Gwen calmly demanded of the Message Glyph. “How is he working through the waterlogged parts?”

“The Elder Dragon is…” Hilda’s voice seemed to have borrowed her confidence as the Deepdowner mentally calculated the approaching mass. “... slowing down. He is shrinking in size as well.”

“Oh?” Gwen tried to picture the Earthen Dragon as anything other than a mass of ultraviolence barely kept in check by a thin string of sanity. “Are we talking ramming speed? Or slow enough not to obliterate whatever he is currently passing through. Does that mean the Singularity is currently unoccupied? Perhaps we should…”

Before Hilda could answer, the tunnel began to vibrate.

“Whelp,” the walls spoke with the gravitas of belching lava. “Extinguish your accused Water Core. Prepare for my arrival. We shall converse. Dragon to Dragon. Bring the Red whelp and the Dökkálfar.”

Gwen looked to Lulan, whose chinadoll face offered no more comprehension than her suspicious, though hopeful mind.

“Hilda, did you hear that?” she asked the Message Glyph.

“The whole cavern spoke,” Hilda’s Message replied. “Lord Axelhoff and I shall be at your location shortly. Are we able to trust Dhànthárian? Shall we be… sincere?”

“If he’s asking for Slylth, we should be fine,” Gwen cautioned herself even as her rational mind made its best calculations. “If something happens, hide behind him. If something happens to Slylth, even an Elder Dragon will find itself being turned slowly over an open fire.”

“I’ll inform Lord Morden now,” the Deepdowner seemed to have made up her mind. “I’ll leave a will for my seconds, then myself and Lord Axehoff shall join you. Shall we disable the Leviathan Canon? Restarting it will require significant calibrations of the mounting module.”

“Minimise output, and tell Strun to guard it in case this is all a ruse,” Gwen affirmed her decision with a nod to herself. It was good that they could come to a resolution, even if that resolution were decisive violence. While she had absolute faith in Richard to deal with the Russian incursion above, it made her queasy to leave so much pressure on the shoulders of her barely-thirty cousin. “Pump the water from my area if you’re able. Let’s not make our guest… uncomfortable.”

The Message spell died, and Gwen forced her mind to play out the next scenario over and over.

Dhànthárian’s rampage.

Her defence.

Slylth’s involvement.

The safety of her Dwarves.

And Lulan, who would probably try to accost Dhànthárian without a care for their power difference.

Truth be told, there was little real-world possibility that a creature who had waited between three to five thousand years for the occupation of the Singularity would shrug and leave. Dragons were, after all, founts of power attached to primordial brains, learning civility only by merit of their tethers to the Hvítálfar. For a free-range fellow like Dhànthárian, resolution by diplomacy was like stopping a landslide with good intentions.

Her thoughts were disrupted by the shuddering of space-time somewhere to her right. A blast of intense heat escaped the fractured meniscus of the Prime Material, then Slylth stepped out with nary a hair out of place, his face flushed with eagerness.

“I take it things are going well upstairs,” Gwen read the Dragon’s expression like a book. “Did Richard repel the Russians?”

Slylth’s sly smile was enough to give her an impression of her cousin adjusting his spectacles. “It’s done. Our guest Tower Master is resting in his abode on the top floor, and his Tower has been teleported back by burning its entire HDM reserves. Novosibirsk has been captured, unshielded, and tethered to our city’s outskirts. Richard and Lady Grey are negotiating with Moscow as we speak through the Foreign Office, and only a few thousand of your citizens died. It’s our total victory.”

Gwen paused to digest the seemingly fictional turn of events. She would have wanted to speak more, but the cog-shaped seal at the entrance of the low-way passage began to groan and creak, revealing the enormous silhouettes of Hilda and Axehoff in their mastercrafted, ornate Deepdowner suits, each custom-built by the Forge Masters of their respective Clans.

Axelhoff’s geometric, brutalist bipedal suit was a Dwarf taller than Hilda’s sleeker, more ceremonial design in its rune-wrought deep-diver facade. Both had come unarmed, for they had little more to bring to the table beyond sincerity.

“EE-ee—”

“Shaa—!”

Her recalled Familars moved to the flanks, forming a semi-circle line.

Ariel informed her that their guest had arrived.

Despite the skin-on-skin nature of her Da-peng suit, the hair on her arms rose end-on-end. Before Dhànthárian even appeared, an all-pervading Dragon Fear announced his presence like a trumpeting herald.

“Rude,” Slylth sighed, imitating his mother. “As if anyone here would be affected by the fear exuded by an Earthen wyrm.”

Gwen felt that her companion’s specism was a bit much, though it was true that not even the Dwarves were shaken. However, she still vividly recalled Dhànthárian’s brutalist body, for there was nothing quite like having a skyscraper stare at one’s face through a city-gate the size of an apartment with six eyes while licking its chops.

To their surprise, the six-storey half-torn cog-seal dislodged from its rails did not fly off its hinges with a terrific blast.

Instead, Dhànthárian materialised as the silouette of a humanoid goliath stepping through the broken low-way portal, head held high, back ramrod straight and…

Gwen felt a flush of heat colouring her bloodless cheeks as her mind instantly turned to Yue’s gift of the two-pronged hairpin a few lifetimes ago.

Bloody rural Dragons… Did Dhànthárian think he was Lyndon B. Johnson? Her mind struggled to contain the shock. Is he taking his two-headed Jumbo out for a walk?

“Wow,” Slylth made his caution known behind her. “You know, we’re all capable of polymorphy, so this isn’t something of concern.”

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What should have been a clash of auras that sizzled the air rapidly changed into a stalemate of political politeness as Dhànthárian approached, his tail swinging to and fro. Hair ornament aside, the Elder Earthen Dragon stood at almost twice Gwen’s height with a broad shoulder to match, supported on trunk-like legs that looked like they could kick through a MKII Dusty.

The facial likeness Dhànthárian chose wasn’t the hybrid likeness of an Elf. It was closer to the mien of a tyrant lizard’s head mounted on a bull's neck, with rocky ridges that irradiated heat between the fine-line fractures of its interlocking scales.

“Milord Dhànthárian,” Gwen bowed her head, and her entourage followed. When looking up, she met the creature’s eyes—for Dhànthárian possessed two large, yellow-gold eyes, and two smaller pairs, one above and one behind the largest skull-ridge. “Welcome. It makes me and my companions glad you have found the grace to speak to us.”

The tunnel vibrated.

Brutal.

Powerful.

Unforgiving.

That was the impression Dhànthárian’s human form made, though his intimidating presence was offset by the awkward gait of a man wearing an alien skin.

What would Dhànthárian want? Gwen calmed herself by circulating her Golden Essence. How can she convince this creature to relent without blowing up what they’ve accomplished? What if she were wrong, and the Earthen Dragon was merely an agent? What if it asked for the Singularity to possess? What if he demanded something impossible, like Slylth or herself?

“Is it true?” Dhànthárian spoke in ancient but crude Draconic, a tongue Slylth classified as the Dragon’s equivalent of a bogan accent. “You can give me a twenty per cent year-on-year accumulated return?

”

A dead silence flooded the enormous cathedral cavern, leaving only the faint echoes of Dhànthárian’s question.

Gwen’s mag-lev train of thought lost all power for several seconds as the engine derailed, followed shortly by the mangled carriages of her follow-up hypothesis. She opened her mouth a few times to speak, but not even Almudj could concisely answer such a demanding task.

Returns? Investment returns? Her brain desperately rebooted itself until the IoDNC logo reappeared. Why would an Earthen Dragon, too rural for trousers, ask about investment portfolios, and why is it asking her about the possibility of perpetual growth?

“You are interested in investments, great Dhànthárian?” Gwen forced her mouth to move while the other stared with continued incomprehension. “Is this a personal interest, or have your lordship been working through proxies?”

Dhànthárian looked her up and down like a butcher measuring a marbled cut of wagyu. “I have spoken to your betters, who have offered a solution to our stalemate. They said that, if we make peace, you will invest in my hoard and grow it while I slumber.”

Gwen searched her mind for these “betters” and naturally arrived at the ivory likeness of the Bloom in White and her spouse and Guardian, the ageless Lord of Tyfan. If those two were pulling the strings here, then Dhànthárian’s offer of compromise wasn’t the end of her ordeal, but the beginning of a more complex and convoluted one. A lesser Regent or Magister would have felt more grateful, but she had already been Yinglong’s blessed victim, and could therefore read between the lines. And speaking of the Yinglong, she could count only one Dragon in this world that received annual reports from her company.

“I can certainly do that,” Gwen nodded. “With your cooperation, Lord Dhànthárian, many investments can be made. Deepholm needs to be rebuilt, and the Dyar Morkk needs to be repaired. This entire Elemental Plane region can be opened for business. Minerals, rare metals, Monsterous Creature Cores, agriculture, logistics, all are possible with your blessing, Lord Dragon.”

Dhànthárian, to her amazement, understood her words in a genuine sense.

“However,” Gwen noted the discomfort of her Dwarven companions. “There’s the matter of Deepholm itself, particularly the Singularity…”

“The Heart of the Earth belongs to me,” Dhànthárian cracked his neck unintentionally as he spoke, dislodging stones from above. “The Dökkálfar came in my sleep and built their home around it, but it is mine. Not even the Council can deny this.”

“I understand.” Gwen made a few subtle movements with her hands to calm the Deepdowners before they protested. “We need the city back, Lord, if you wish to invest. This much is beyond our means to compromise. For that, we need the Singularity. The sooner we have it back, the greater your… returns.”

Dhànthárian huffed. Unlike Golos, the Earthen Dragon’s mineral diet made his breath smell like rust after a monsoonal shower.

“I shall remain beside the Heart of the Earth, but leave these Dökkálfar be,” Dhànthárian said, looking at her Dwarven companions. “They are to build me an abode and heap my treasures within it.”

Feeling hopeful, Gwen looked to her companions.

Axehoff looked composed and contemplative.

Hilda’s shoulders shook.

“He broke into our home,” the Deepdowner said in high Dwarven, her voice directed at the ground, but really at her Regent. “He murdered hundreds of thousands of our kin. He pursued them to their hiding places and turned them into stone. He rampaged through the Ancestor’s places and turned our Balefire forebearers to slag. Now, he wants us to be his slaves? His neighbours?”

Good points! Gwen conceded. But good pathos is not the same as good logic. With Dhànthárian as an investment, Deepholm could reasonably do whatever it wanted for the foreseeable future. The “Dragon Tax” wasn’t even that much, for she could budget a percentage of the city’s finances as a sink fund for Dhànthárian. Naturally, as the city grew, the “Bank of Dhànthárian” would swell and bloat with the city’s restoration and expansion. If she established it as a literal HDM Reserve Bank, twenty per cent year-on-year growth was a mere baseline.

Of course, perpetual growth was impossible. However, that would be hundreds, perhaps thousands of years in an unforeseeable future. In the present and now, they could not afford to fight Dhànthárian to the last Dwarf, for all that remained would be the wrecks of an ancient civilisation, and an angry Dragon who would ensure the Dwarves never set foot in the Plane of Earth again.

“Slylth, could you keep Lord Dhànthárian company while I speak to our Dwarven companions?” Gwen nodded confidently at the Dragon, then moved the Dwarves a little distance away. “Hilda…”

“Why is the Dökkálfar priestess displeased?” The Earthen Dragon had no chill as well. “I’ve consumed thousands of tribes of my kin to attain greatness, and their descendants bear no grudge toward me and instead worship me as a God. Your pets lost their city because they had grown weak. Recall that their Ancestors had kept me at bay for millennia. If they were stronger, there would have been Dökkálfar in the city to banish me. To desire respect when they are corrupted and powerless is foolish. Besides, I was invited by your kin.”

To Gwen’s surprise, Hilda did not strike back with a clap, but instead approached Dhànthárian. “Invited? Does the great Dragon have proof?”

“You doubt my words?” The air suddenly stank of brimstone.

Lulan moved forward, stepping between her Regent and the Dragon.

“Great uncle, she means no insult,” Slylth intervened. “For my sake, can you clarify what you mean?”

For a few intense seconds, Gwen was positive Dhànthárian would tear Hilda out of her Deepdowner suit and swallow the Dwarf wholesale. Then, perhaps thinking of Tryfan and his investments, the Earthen Dragon shrugged.

“A Dökkálfar opened a portal beacon using mana from the Heart of Earth,” Dhànthárian replied curtly. “I made use of it and appeared inside the city. I secured my new home, and the rats fled or died.”

“I trust this is truth,” Slylth spoke before the Dwarves could. “There will be proof of the ritual in the Heart Engine’s scripts. From what I know of your Runic crafts, moving a Dragon will take no less volume of mana than using Planar Jaunt to move Gwen’s new Tower from one ocean to another. If our uncle did manifest as he claimed, the mana traces will speak for themselves.”

Hilda sighed long and hard. “I know this, Master Slylth. But how can I face the kin of those who had died? How can I face the Ancestors if I hold hands with our ruinous foe?”

“Well, for one,” Gwen kept her words as delicate as possible. “It means everything Dhànthárian knocked over can be rebuilt. It means that the next generation will have a thriving home, rather than a sad memory told by sundowners. And… if you allow me to play the devil’s advocate, I believe Lord Dhànthárian is speaking the truth when he says he was the first to find the Singularity. If we take the Ancestor’s claim and Lord Dhànthárian’s recount as both true, there can be no better compromise than we have now.”

“I know…” Hilda was fighting to choke back her impotent frustration. Gaskets in the Deepdowners’ suit gently hissed. “I know…”

Axehoff patted his younger counterpart on the back. “Lass…”

Gwen sighed in tandem. She wanted to give the Dwarves more time, but Dhànthárian was here and now.

“If it will alleviate your stubbornness,” The Earthen Dragon looked untouched by the trauma he caused. “I can tell you where the strange Dökkálfar has fled. These are the ones who had abandoned, then sealed your city’s walls. Assuming your people were not tributes given to me, I can now see they were there to keep me occupied while they escaped.”

Hilda and Axehoff looked up at once, their eyes so wide that Axehoff’s spectacle became dislodged.

“You know where the infected went?” Gwen was shocked as well.

“Were they ill?” Dhànthárian grimaced, perhaps wondering if he had eaten spoiled food. “I know, yes. I can trace their magic through my domain. The stench of their passing lingers for many cycles, etched into the stones themselves.”

“Very nice.” Gwen turned to her Deepdowners. “How about that? Is the added promise of vengeance enough to consider that the enemy of my enemy is not my enemy?”

Axehoff looked to be saying something to Hilda, but the female Deepdowner held up a hand to halt her compatriot.

“Lord Regent,” Hilda’s face was full of determination. “If indeed we can unearth my lost kin—be they changlings or slaves, then I am willing to concede to Lord Dhànthárian’s mercy, and build him a palace beside the Singularity. No precedence exists for such a thing in our history, but I am willing to bear the Ancestor’s grudge.”

“You are not alone, sister,” Axehoff laid an enormous, mechanical gauntlet on the younger Deepdowner’s paldrons. “Worry not about the Council of Elders. When we return with Deepholm itself, you and I shall speak with an authority that the schemers cannot bear.”

Gwen returned her attention to the growing impatience of the Elder Dragon.

“I believe we have our accord

, Lord Dhànthárian,” she nodded at the humanoid Dragon. “You will have your chamber adjacent to the Singularity, and it shall be an abode of wonderous design, crafted to house your future riches. At the first opportunity, I shall draft a contract with you as Lord Protector of Deepholm, with Tryfan as witness. A portion of the city’s taxes shall go to you to invest or store as you will. As the city grows—and it will grow rapidly, I might add—”

“There will be a twenty per cent year-on-year accumulated return?” Dhànthárian repeated the mantra he’d been mumbling since earlier. “This is what you’ve delivered to the Thunder whelp and more.”

“Ah, Ruxin, he is one of our Directors of the Board.” Gwan paused. “Would you like to be a Board member, Lord Dhànthárian? Of course, some of your wealth must be invested in the company, though the returns are rich indeed. Once we repopulate Deepholm, I dare say the first few years of trading will see returns of… a few hundred per cent… for the discerning member, then peter out to the numbers you desire.”

Gwen had no idea what manner of magic Ruxin had cast on Dhànthárian, but she could sense that the Elder Dragon’s breathing had just gotten heavier.

“I shall expect reports.” The Dragon noted with complete seriousness. “With the colourful pies and bars.”

“Absolutely,” Gwen promised without blinking while making a mental note for the audit team’s future health. “The bars will be larger every year. More colourful too as we diversify your holdings.”

Dhànthárian appeared satisfied.

“One thing,” Gwen decided she would ask in place of the Dwarves, who were emotionally and morally preoccupied with a decision that was six parts salvation and four parts treason. “We’ll need you to pull the Lizardmen out of the city. They can come to Shalkar if they like. I have uses… I mean places, for them.”

“These tribals are of no concern to me,” Dhànthárian replied, his golden eyes already focused on a future promised by her sweet words. “Expel them, exterminate them, do as you will.”

Gwen shuddered at her new board member’s ethical liberties. As goofy as the Dragon sounded, she reminded herself to remind the entirety of Deepholm’s future administration that their Lord Protector would not be protecting the city’s people, but the Reserve Bank of Dhànthárian(™).

“Very well. Hilda? Axehoff? Is our preliminary compromise agreeable to Deepholm?”

The Dwarves bowed, first toward Gwen, then toward Dhànthárian.

The Dragon glared at the stout pair of Deepdowners, then softened as he sighed. “For an endless number of cycles, we’ve contested the Earthen Heart. Why couldn’t this have happened in the time of your Ancestors?”

“Well, you were trying to eat them, prideful Dhànthárian,” Slylth pointed out the obvious. “And it wasn’t as though they were lacking in attempts to trap or kill you. The difference is our Regent here, who could act as a bridge of diplomacy. That and Tryfan, if I had to guess.”

Dhànthárian made a hmm, then pulled out something from his side with a wince.

Gwen watched as a hand larger than her torso opened up to reveal… a single obsidian scale radiating a palpable aura of Dragon Fear.

Now this is a nostalgic scene, her memory informed her.

“Show this to the Shaman Queen of the Shalehide Tribe,” The Earthen Dragon tossed her the scale. When she caught it, the weight of the palm-sized shard almost sent her toppling over until the enhancements of her Da-peng armour activated. “She will know that you are my emissary and obey without question. If she doesn’t…”

Gwen passed the scale to Slylth. “Alex, if you could? Your teleport and pathfinding are infinitely better than mine. They’re far more likely to listen to a pureblood as well.”

The Red Dragon nodded, then stepped into the fractured space of the Elemental Plane of Fire.

“Where will you go now, Lord Dhànthárian?” Gwen asked, wondering if she could invite the Dragon to Shalkar for a meal, a photo-op, and most important, a visit to the tailors.

“Where else, little whelp?” Dhànthárian spared them only a glance more. “Once the Red Whelp is done, have him escort me to your city so that all parties may witness our accord. Tarry not too long in building my lair, Dökkálfar. I am eternal, but far from patient.”

Her cohort stood in silence as the Dragon dived through the shattered cog-seal. There was a cacophonic groan of metal as Dhànthárian restored itself to its gargantuan self, his passage growing distant almost instantly as it moved unimpeded through the city’s layers.

In the vibrating din that remained, Gwen turned to address her allies, only to find the Dwarves each on one knee.

“I, Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt, scion of Varekan-Kül, Daughter of the Lumen, inheritor of Deepholm, pledge my Debt to you, Gwen Song, Regent of Shalkar.”

Before Gwen could pull the woman up, Axehoff delivered his Vow of Haj-Zül.

“I, Axehoff Zugspitze, Forge Master of Vethr Hjodlik Kjangtoth under the White Citadel, pledge my Debt to the Regent of Shalkar for restoring Deepholm to our lost kin.”

Gwen’s heartfelt desire was to say that she didn’t need their pledge of allegiance, but that Dragon had slipped home with Dhànthárian, who would next arrive in Shalkar to witch the world with his disregard for pantaloons.

“I, Gwen Song, Magister of Cambridge and Regent of Shalkar, accept your Debts,” she returned the Vow with archaic Dwarven provided by her Master’s translation stone. “Let us be brothers and sisters, however. Within the Hallowed Halls of Deepholm, we are companions of equal stratum, not master and servant. If you say otherwise, then I shall disavow your service.”

Her answer wasn’t orthodox, but Gwen had no doubt that their conversation today would be etched into large blocks of stone placed at the heart of the Ancestors Hall for a long, long time.

The Dwarves rose, aided by their suits.

The trio hugged, wedging their skinny Regent between two stoutly armoured bodies.

A dozen clangs and clunks later, a Message arrived from Strun stating that Slylth had pacified the Lizardmen and that their foes were mustering their forces to present themselves to their new mistress on the surface.

Before her teleportation activated, Gwen took a moment to gaze at the historical site where Deepholm had been recovered, where a monument would soon be erected.

Having an Elder Dragon as the Patron Saint of Deepholm was far from a perfect solution, but it was a solution.

Having the Dwarves put their grudges aside was asking for a lot, but the opportunity to rebuild their home in peace and hunt down the Sinneslukare would deliver much more than was being asked.

What she anticipated now was the germination of the seed Tryfan had so generously planted to help her.

“Oh yeah—” Gwen hastily reminded herself as she side-stepped into the Astral Plane. She should probably check in on the Russian infestation upstairs. That, and inform her dear Ollie Edwards of the humble new addition to her Frontier Regency.

Shalkar.

The Bunker.

In the largest, most ceremonial conference room of the Bunker, the stakeholders of the city and the wayward Tower parked against the residential block sat in deeply cushioned armchairs, glaring at one another.

On the left sat the city’s highest officials, namely the Vice-Regent Richard Huang, its chief Administrator Olly Edwards, and its CFO Charlene Ravenport, joined by its board members, the Honourable Magister Maxine Loftus and Thomas Holland.

To the lower left, present as representatives of the Shalkar’s various peoples, sat a trio of Engineseers from the Citadel Below, Khudu, Cherbi of the Khan of Khans, a foursome of Rat-kin Elders representing the Pale Priestess’ faithful, and an empty chair reserved for Sanari, Druid Hierophant.

On the right of where the Regent would have presided over business sat their unfriendly allies from the Federation, headed by the unmistakable Master Vasili Popov of Moscow, joined by Magister Oleg Zinichev, his Middle Faction confidant, six elite Magisters from the diplomatic corps, and the pale-faced, shivering figure of Boris Govorov, Tower Master of Novosibirsk.

“It seems that we are at a stalemate,” Richard Huang, vice Regent, confessed that spitting hammer and sickles at the serpent-toothed Masters of Moscow was taking their negotiations nowhere. Yet, with the subtle bloom of a Message spell beside his ears, his confidence was restored, and his mental energies recharged. “But HARK— What is that sound I hear?”

He smiled for all to see as he stood and stretched, banishing his accumulated frustrations. Moscow’s brinkmanship had been masterful, so much that he dared not call on their outlandish bluffs.

“Our Regent has returned as promised, gentlemen!” The Vice-Regent announced. “Let us go and hear her opinion, shall we? Perhaps she can be more persuasive.”

Richard paused as the Message spell continued.

“Say…” The eyes behind his gold-rimmed spectacles became two smiling slits. “You folks ever seen an Elder Earth Dragon… in the flesh?”