London.

The Ravenport Estate.

On a fine sunday morning, the Duke of Norfolk, protector of the lands of Beaumont, Maltravers, Fitz, Alan, Clun, Oswaldestre and Glossop, Lord Marshall of her Majesty’s Men at Arms, the Master of Ravens, and the leader of the House of Lords, sat down in his fine robe to purview the weekend publications.

The target of his interest was the Regent of Shalkar, her Profitess, the Priestess of our Shoggoth, Liberator of Myanmar, Devourer of Cities, Friend of Tryfan, Goddess of the Deep, Saviour of Deepholm, kin to Dragons, and of course, CEO of the Isle of Dogs Norfolk Conglomerate.

The weather outside was crisp and fresh, and his tea was perfectly prepared by his butler. His son, Quinn, was back in London after a long tour of service in Gibraltar. Charlene was back in the city to capitalise on Shalkar’s third expansion, and the Foreign Office was gearing up for some major policy shifts regarding their allies in Eastern Europe.

The morning would have continued to be perfect until he engaged in the masochistic reading of worldly affairs via London’s three major news outlets: The Sun, The Telegraph, and The METRO.

BRITS ON THE BRINK OF DOOM

So said the headliner from the Sun, followed by what was obviously a doctored, comical lumen-image of Gwen standing over a cutout of Moscow Tower, one white leg in plain view. The rag, infamous for its bricolage of what the working class gleefully call “tits and tragedy”, had composed a six page double spread poorly explaining the ramifications of Shalkar’s victory over Moscow.

“The Government must now consider the possibilities that the Russians will no longer have the capacity to contain the Undead tide emerging from the Ural mountains. This means that Britain, in its alliance with the Central Powers of Europe, must now step up in offering its men and women, and taxes, to fund a conflict it did not have to fight…”

The article was peppered with images of Novosibirsk Tower before its return to its home city, showing the extensive damage done to its exterior Force Plates and levitation engines. There were also multiple images of Yekaterinburg Tower before Gwen’s Dwarves dismantled it, showing the guts of an enormous structure lying on its side like a disembowelled patient. Yet, the implication was that both Towers were the Moscow Tower.

“Lord Milibrandt of the House of Lords has put forward a bill to officially censure the Regent of Shalkar for endangering the stability of the Commonwealth…” The paper continued, before switching to various shots of the Regent in her more fashionable moments.

“Caw–Caw–!” An enormous raven, perched on the extinguished fire mantle, cocked its head judgmentally.

“Quite so,” Ravenport sipped his tea, his morning a little less happy than before. “Tell Willikins that he may now inform our friends in The Fifth Cabal that Lord Milibrandt has been engaging in secret debauchery involving Demi-humans trafficked through the Algerian Front. Do send the invoices and the photos. Yes, the ones with the fawns. Let’s nip this in the bud.”

“Caw–” the raven launched itself gleefully through the open window.

“Feeling protective, Milord?” His guest, one exonerated Magister Eric Walken, the most popular Magister in London for good reasons, finally found the courage to make his presence known. “The girl certainly has a way with how she deals with problems.”

“We should be protective.” Ravenport felt no need to defend himself. “Our young Regent has made us an obscene amount of capital, both in life and in politics. I owe her this much, at the very least. Besides, I am simply looking out for Charlene.”

“Will your daughter be entering politics soon?” Walken’s smile continued, for there was a lot to smile about. “She is choosing the same path as Lady Astor, correct? Through the House of Commons.”

“Yes. I had advised that we wait until our Regent’s influences die down,” Ravenport signed. “But then Moscow happened. And not only that, Deepholm too. At this point, it’s out of my hands.”

As a daughter, Charlene could inherit, but only if Quinn had perished. His firstborn, however, was steady as the Rock of Gibraltar, where he served, leaving little for his daughter other than Mycroft’s political and monetary support. With the help of the Regent of Shalkar, however, his daughter had built up significant rapport within London’s NoM and Dwarven communities, and her continued labours in philanthropy had garnered her enough of a reputation to shed the shackles of her surname.

Unsure of his next topic, Eric Walken resumed his stoic attack on the scones.

The Duke of Norfolk replaced the paper in his hands and picked up the next offending title by The Telegraph.

IT’S WAR

Simple, brutal, efficient. That was the massive font plastered across the front page.

“Feckless Britons too Complacent to Fight” read the sub-heading, followed by “Popov ransomed, Moscow swears retribution.”

Who the hell writes this balderdash? Mycroft felt his morning grow a smidgen worse still. Did Moscow pay their editors personally? Britain was at the forefront of the Great War. The Empire had paid for its present political privileges in blood. The Ordos, as they speak, were out there in the world, erasing Necromancers weekly wherever they managed to intrude into the Commonwealth’s domains. The accompanying image was one of the Regent of Shalkar on her recent return, with a battered and bloodied suit of crow-skin, superimposed against a blown-up close-up of Vasili Popov’s cold, expressionless face between her legs.

A particular line caught Davenport's attention.

“The spectacular failure of Moscow’s infamous intelligence service…”

No doubt, copies of these were sent to Moscow to challenge the predominant narrative of victory over the Mageocracy there. If Popov’s revenge was secretly brooding after Shalkar, the conflicting narrative would drive the Tower Master into new heights of paranoia. There would be Purges, perhaps a generational one, to maintain his power, and in that process, the Tower Master would narrow down the missing nests of Sparrows from his carefully curated program.

“Mori–” he said to the air, summoning yet another raven from outside the house.

Ravenport squinted. “All those involved in this editorial. Check their finances.”

Another raven fluttered away.

Walken chuckled.”No doubt she’s ruffled a few hairs. Moscow was probably footing the bills of many members from our parliamentary office.”

“I am ashamed that this is true,” Mycroft rolled his eyes subtly, amused at the habit he had picked up from watching the impertinent girl. “Magister. Are you ready for your next assignment?”

“Yes, the Long Unification,” Walken nodded, then straightened himself. “I’ll have the scaffold ready to present to the floor by Wednesday, once I have consulted our demi-human stakeholders.”

“Remember to address the fringe parties,” Ravenport affirmed the Magisters’ complex task ahead. “The Dwarves always say that they’re a homogenous bunch, but that doesn’t mean they’re free from internal politics. The sheer mass of Engineseers and Journeymen moving back into Deepholm will leave the outer Citadels understaffed—and we all know what that means.”

“It means someone somewhere will be losing out on production, contracts, profit,” Walken completed his boss’ boss’ inference. “They will try to stop what they can, or at least disrupt the will of the Dwarven public. However, performing the equivalent of persuading the followers of the Nazarene not to visit a newly recovered Bethlehem would be a tall order. I have the Shadow Mages of Manipur under my command. We’ll mark the belligerents.”

Nodding, Ravenport proceeded with a cucumber sandwich. Eric Walken wasn’t one of his, but the man was a capable middle manager. His ambitions had outgrown his talents, but the girl had put the man back in his rightful place.

On the other hand, he wasn’t sure if Gwen discerned the full extent of what she had accomplished, even as the Mageocracy bore the the brunt of it. First and foremost, having achieved the generational dream of the Dwarven exiles, an aspiration that had been some three hundred years in the making and then all but died after the Beast Tide, she had fatalistically altered the trajectory of Dwarven society.

Many Dwarven Citadels, particularly those working with the Central European powers in Bavaria, had long assumed that there was no returning home. They had therefore created well-entrenched Murk communities with new lore for their citizens, over half of whom had never seen Deepholm in their lifetimes.

Yet, the impossible did happen, and not only that, Deepholm’s principal existential threat was now its custodian and protector.

Now, the Whitebeards, the Greybeards, the romantics and the traditionalists were all foaming to rebuild the place their Ancestors had first laid down their pickaxes.

Theirs were a sentiment Ravenport understood well, for in various parts of London, there were plaques to House Ravenport commemorating the construction of libraries, schools, public facilities, parks, and scenic lookouts. If Humans could obsess over the footnotes of history, how could a culture fed on ancestral worship resist the same opportunity?

Just the thought of turning to one’s kith and kin two hundred years later and saying, “My grandsire rebuilt this part of the Ancestor’s Hall with his own hands, our House appears forty-seven times in the Cognition Disks…” would rouse the oldest Dwarf to book a Dyar Morkk transit ticket to Shalkar immediately.

And the Dyar Morkk… Ravenport could not help but shiver at what had become a critical infrastructure of the Empire. As much as the government refused to sponsor the Demi-human transportation platform, and as much as it subsidised its London’s rail networks, there was simply no other system in existence that rivalled the cost-per-weight efficiency of the Regent’s underground. In response, a whole hedge of “courier” broker corporations have emerged in London and central Europe’s industrial cities, creating a new industry that deliver premium goods previously monopolised by much larger corporations with a stranglehold on oceanic freight.

And on the topic of oceanic freight… Ravenport was getting reports of Mermen carefully following the freight ships coming out of St Petersburg, foreshadowing terrible things to come if Moscow so much as twitched.

If the girl ends up controlling the railways and the sea lanes… Ravenport could clearly see where trouble was headed, but, like a slow-moving derailment, he felt equally powerless to stop what might be inevitable.

A few years prior, he could see the Crown giving the girl a title, a landhold, and maybe even granting her a sanctioned marriage with her coy Knight Companion. Now? He wasn’t so sure.

“Are you a fan of the jam?” Ravenport asked the Magister helping himself to the jam pot. “Miss Bates made these for me. She’s Quinn’s Nanny, and a valuable member of our household.”

“I’ve a deft hand in crafting conserves myself,” the Magister replied sheepishly. “Nothing like this, though. This is… art.”

Ravenport laughed. “I’ll have Miss Bates prepare a batch to share with your family. How are they? Last I heard, your daughter is now attending Cambridge? Has her health improved?”

“Angie is doing well,” Walken beamed. “Thank you for asking, milord. Following our restoration, she is keen to be of service to the state. She wishes to join the Department, in fact.”

“Bring her over before you leave London,” Ravenport was feeling generous. “If she’s a good fit, I’ll put in a word at the office and open up an intern position.”

It is a good morning, Ravenport cautioned himself. At least for this hour, let the girl not hold power over us.

“I feel like something stronger,” the Duke proposed suddenly. “Care for a glass of Islay single-malt?”

The Magister opposite paused, then opened up with a nervous burst of relief. “Absolutely, Your Grace.”

And so, the Duke and his Magister ate and drank with great resolution, each heavy with the burden of choices that could broker the fate of nations.

Hastings.

Battle Abbey.

While the Duke made the most of his morning, Theodora St. Claire, the Rectorix of Battle and Matron to the Ordo Bath, also shared her morning tea with the best of her brothers and sisters.

To her right was her right hand, Seneschal Adamus Ashburn, who sat trying to collect his thoughts regarding the latest reports from across the ocean.

To her lower left, beyond the Knight Chaplains responsible for the Ordo’s operations, sat a shining star of the Ordo, the Knight Major Elvia Lindholm and her titled Sprites, the Knight Companions Kiki and Sen-sen.

The Sprites were, as is their nature, frolicking in the garden, leaving their mistress to face the table of grim-faced men alone.

“The evidence is at the courtesy of our allies in Cusco,” the Seneschal said at least, having organised his thoughts. “Considering their relationship with the Regent, I would be inclined to believe them.”

The Rectorix had called for the long table meeting because the Ordo had been on the hunt for the past four years for the origins of Undead Mermen. These had first appeared in Antarctica, and subsequently in Tianjin, then the Elemental Plane of Water during the Regent’s usurpation of the Fifth Vel.

The Ordo has deemed the Undead Mer the single greatest threat to the existence of Human dominion over its Green Zones, more so than the Vampiric infection of Eastern Europe, and more so than the fanatical followers of Juche in the upper Korean peninsula. A part of it was because the Regent of Shalkar was convinced that Spectre had a firm hand in creating the Mermen, as a similar phage had been exercised on her Rat-kin, with the tragedy averted only because of her explicit intervention in Shalkar.

Yet, after the Fifth Vel revelation of Squid-Liches, only the Urals had confirmed reports of an undead buildup, while everywhere else, only the usual banality of human avarice held sway.

Until now.

The God-Prince of Cusco, Inti, had contacted a local branch of the Ordo’s overseas operations, which was only there to ironically monitor the Faith-wielding sects of his suyu who indulged in Necromancy as a cultural practice. The same report was also sent to the Foreign Office, though the Mageocracy’s reach ceased the moment it crossed the Atlantic, and so it had returned the enquiry to the Ordos.

In the report, Inti stated that his scouting forces had ventured from Lima, pursuing signs of Necromantic practice until it reached the border of the Orange Zone at Tacna, just north of the Chilean coast. There, they were ambushed by a large force of Rogue Mages wielding Negative Magic, and that the Corpse Hulks they fought were not traditional Flesh Golems. Instead, these monstrous chimaeras were created from what looked like land crustaceans.

Knowing the import of this information, Theodora had gathered her best forces, understanding the centrality of the discoveries they needed to make. Her inclusion of their youngest Knight Major was also deliberate, for the Ordo possessed no other member quite like Elvia Lindholm.

First and foremost, the Knights had to venture into the Orange Zone outside of Amazonia, a mere hundred kilometres from the Black Zone behind the Wall of Woods. Having a Knight Major in possession of Plant Sprites capable of communing with the naturally occurring Magical Creatures was unquestionably the single most needed skill for the expedition to survive. Secondly, although Elvia and the Regent had grown distant of late, their relationship was well known to those with their fingers on the pulse, meaning the Ordo Expedition would be warmly received by the Peruvian host, thereby negating the awkwardness of competing faiths. Thirdly, with Elvia’s unique talents, casualties in an expedition were almost an impossibility, especially combined with the Ordo’s generous investment in Contingency Rings. Fourthly, the girl herself needed the experience to fully digest the immense boon she had received from the Yinglong.

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And finally, it was the sheepdogs’ duty to defend the Lord’s flocks against blaspheming wolves lurking in the Black Zones, no matter the cost.

“As there is no opposition. We will proceed,” Ashburn delivered his verdict. “I am proposing two combat teams led by Sir Smallwater and Sir Cromwell of St George. One support team, led by Lady Lindholm. As always, Knight Major Mithas Rothwell from the Order of St Michael will accompany Lady Lindholm.”

The table stood.

“We have received your orders, Rectrix.” The table replied, a chorus of men’s voices joined by a single young woman’s.

The Rectrix bowed her head, then bid her children to sit and enjoy what was for the Poor Soldiers of Christ, a lavish meal. “Join me after tea, sister,” she said to the young woman nibbling daintily on a fruit scone. “I would love to hear of your recent adventures, Knight Major. I’ve heard that you’ve achieved great feats of late, ones fit for the Ordo’s records.”

Suzhou.

The Song Compound.

While pious men and women broke bread and humbly prayed for guidance in far away England, the far more conspicuous figure of a Dragon Princess lounged against the rigid body of her husband, casually speaking to the third seat of her host nation.

Ayxin was now heavily pregnant, though her complexion remained flawless and flushed, trading her usual aloofness for the early signs of motherhood. She wore her favourite style of garb, which was the flowing silks of the old imperial court, while her husband remained true to his love of cheap cotton shirts made by locals.

“I cannot vouch for why Gwen is offering to connect you to the low-way, but I can affirm that Ruxin was involved in her acquisition of the Dwarven city,” she said softly to the Secretary General sitting opposite with his head bowed. “Brother was very keen on informing me of the girl’s adventures. Both brothers, as it were. Golos continues to have the time of his life up in that tree of hers.”

Usually, Ayxin spent days sleeping, dreaming of the child gestating in her womb, feeling its every heartbeat as causality and Essence entwined to transcend the boundaries of mortal biology. She spared patience for Secretary-General Miao Yang-Bò, though, because the man had been instrumental in keeping her husband happy and safe, and in building the Song’s palatial mountainside villa, which faced her father’s abode.

Without reliable access to the information networks that tracked the progress of Jun’s niece, Miao could only come to her for second-hand information on the Regent of Shalkar.

Therefore, every few weeks, Ayxin took the time to entertain the future Premier of the nation, for there was no doubt now that after Tianjin, after the stabilisation of China’s southern rice bowl, Miao Yang-Bò was the man at the heart of the people’s congress.

“Could I ask for more clarification?” Secretary-General Miao sipped from his cup of steam fur-peak tea, savouring the restoration of his vitality. “Could we refuse her offer? Do you think she would move to disadvantage her erstwhile home nation?”

Ayxin turned to look at her husband, who gave her the affirming nod to speak her mind.

“Gwen is a merchant at heart,” Ayxin channelled the Draconic wisdom of her father and her siblings, for theirs is a language far more apt at communication than the stubborn tongues of Prime Material’s natives. “Merchants, by their nature, are creatures without borders. She is peddling a vision, one that is an extension of the dream her late Master had worked his whole life toward, but lacked the means to accomplish.”

“A Dream of the Mageocracy?” The Secretary-General gulped. “Henry Kilroy was…”

“No,” Ayxin silenced the man with a gentle rebuke. It was difficult to ask mortals to see a world that existed outside of their familiar spaces, but she was feeling generous enough to try. “Gentlemen Miao, do not dwell inside the banal boundaries of your national woes. The moment Gwen crowned her tree and became its Guardian, the titles she once held possessed no more meaning. Like my father, like others bearing the same roles in The Accord, she has become a pillar of the Axis Mundi, a preserver of the Prime Material. A single pillar falls, and entire continents of mortals will perish, as you have experienced yourself during the Beast Tide. Against such a consequence, what is the happiness of mere millions? ”

“Yet, I am the preserver of a single nation,” Miao sighed helplessly. “Hence, I must ask for your aid, Lady Ayxin. Our nation has undergone difficult trials lately, and it pants for breath. Tianjin's rebuilding will take another two years, Beijing’s food security...”

“Do you believe Gwen means well?” Her husband decided to help his old employer.

“That is not a question with the interests of a single nation at its heart,” Ayxin replied truthfully. “But if you must beg me for a solution, I can offer my brother’s assurances. Gwen has already completed an extensive Dwarven low-way capable of carrying massive cargoes between Shalkar and Ruxin’s domain in Nagaland. You can petition to build a singular transit way between Nagaland and your fortress city of Xian. This way, you will reap the benefits of her trade consortium with its access to the effectively infinite resources of the Elemental Plane of Water, while also retaining the means to shunt access should you wish. Of course, you will have to pay Ruxin his due… his aide, Ruì, will not allow a single LDM to go amiss…”

The Secretary-General’s expression grew strange at the mention of Ruì. “I see, that is excellent advice, Lady Ayxin. I thank you once more for your wisdom.”

“...And when Gwen finds her brother…” Ayxin continued, transcribing a future of her father’s making. “Do not stand in her way, no matter who may wish to get involved.”

“I shall take the greatest care,” The Secretary-General bowed his head. “Jun?”

“Unfilial as it may sound, I would prefer my parents and my brother kept in the dark.” Jun’s jaws grew tight. “The boy has done enough damage.”

“Indeed he has…” Miao concurred. “So it shall be.”

Ayxin agreed, for Jun’s parents were now effectively retired from their official positions, and were it not for herself, the Wangs and everyone the Songs had connections to would have been purged.

“Good. Now go forth and minister your people,” Ayxin gave her kindest dismissal. “Know that I do wish your nation its best future, whatever Gwen may do, for here is our home now.”

Ayxin winced as the child in her womb felt her psychic anxiety and made itself known with a playful kick. Smiling and soothing her swollen belly, she circulated her Essence to form a liquid lullaby, then ascended once more into the liminal plane between the Prime Material and the Unformed Land.

Tyfan.

The Pinnacle.

While a pregnant Dragon dreamed of a bouncing baby, ageless, immortal minds with half a step outside of the Prime Material pondered the actualities of the growths they had encouraged and the strange fruit it now bore.

“Husband, did you not anticipate this outcome?” The Bloom in White watched her husband’s incessant pacing across the various pocket spaces within the Grove. Once news had arrived that Deepholm was recovered, Great Tyfanevius had been unable to sleep, which is an oddity for a Dragon of his seniority. “Did an occurrence go awry?”

“What should have been clear has grown cloudy,” her husband confessed, his elfin features taut and more rigid than the mask of placidity he usually wore. “You know what that means.”

“Yes, it means our sister The Weaver has taken notice,” Solana caught her husband’s arm gently, and ushered the Dragon to sit with her on a bower of her world tree that had lowered itself to meet them. “But why fret? It was inevitable.”

“I am beginning to wonder—” Tyfanevius stopped himself before scratching a loose scale. “If our Regent has done too much, too quickly. Success beyond our wildest expectations isn’t always the best way forward, we both know that.”

“Are you afraid that Malakath will attempt to trigger another Beast Tide to offset the repairs we’ve enacted?” Solana read her husband well. “After all, we halted the Fire Sea.”

“That’s not even his name,” The Dragon growled. “You know he uses it to mock your lineage.”

“A Ljósálfar is a Ljósálfar, no matter what they choose to disavow,” The Bloom in White studied her white hand and its slender, bloodless digits. “Struggle as he might against the roots of fate, all lies within the will of the Axis Mundi. We are but its servants, after all. That is why we exist. It's why he rages, and why his rage is futile.”

“And the reason why we’ve elevated our Regent…” Tyfanevius met her eyes critically. “And before her, Sobel. And before that, Kilroy, Morden, and before them all, a great procession of pale Kings and Princes, pale and loitering, all caught in your thrall—”

Solana kissed her husband, silencing the vocalisation of his frustrations.

“Hush now. We are all denizens of the Prime Material, not made equal, but equally responsible for our home,” she whispered softly, nourishing the Dragon with strands of Essence that made the Regent’s Golden Mead less than bootleg Maotai. “Be glad that the future is unknown, for I have full confidence that our Regent will surprise us yet.”

Che’ell-Cressen.

The Web Spire.

While scheming Blooms and grumbling Dragons carefully pruned the branches of possibility, the darling object of the world’s ire sat on a divan wrought of bone and shapely silks, sipping a stout concoction the texture of thinned blood.

Elizabeth Sobel, guest of Phyr Quar-Tath, Mistress of the Long Night, took great patience and pleasure in watching her ward read the latest newspapers from the overground.

Saviour of the Deep

Moskau in die Schranken gewiesen

Two Worlds Now One

THE Prophetess OF Profit : Open for Business

un Monde reconnecté!

On the other side of the elaborate bone and ebony table, the brother of Henry’s latest adoptee was seething like a steaming kettle, muttering to himself as he read the lines describing his sister’s inhuman heroism.

How adorable. Sobel found herself in the midst of an unbidden thought. Constrained as she was by Spectre’s long-ranging ploys and plots, the boy remained endlessly entertaining. In the months they had spent here, Percy’s growth in malicious application of magic had expanded bounds and leaps, so much that her prior acolyte, the misguided Ravenport, was like a worm to a Wyrm.

What was more amazing was that even Phyr, their hostess, was finding the boy beyond amusing, and had offered a city’s ransom for a transfer of ownership.

BUT, as Sobel had carefully explained to her violet-hued sister of the Spire, Percy was a much needed piece in the great game their mutual leaders played against one another, a precious piece of leverage against Che’ell-Cressen’s external threats, far too rare to waste on the sisterly disputes governing the interior of Svartálfar web-ways.

“Percy, dearest,” Sobel spoke with a voice harmonic enough to melt the bones of lesser men. “How do you hope to best our Regent now? She has grown far… far beyond your reach and mine.”

“Surely you jest, Master,” the boy replied with a rage that made his voice tremble. “Nothing on this Prime Material is beyond your reach.”

“Well, Deepholm wasn’t,” Sobel confessed, truthfully. “Until it was. Your sister is probably going after our tentacled friends next, I’d wager. That’s going to be a bloodbath the likes of which the Murk hasn’t seen since the Dragon sacked the Dwarven city. What’s next for her? Amazonia? Our influence in central Europe has waned. Our former plans for the Steppes are in tatters, and the Russians are cowed by her carrot and stick. The polar pillars are wrecked but repairing. There’s nothing left in Oceania worth fighting for, not with Gunther at the helm, and the Summer Queen has her foot on Old One-Eye. We are check-mated everywhere, Percy.”

The boy’s demeanour, Sobel noticed, did not sour further. There was a rare and low cunning the boy possessed that made her nostalgic–though she had since caged that memory deep inside her and thrown away the key.

“I know the parasites have their base of operation here, in the south of the Americas,” Percy studied her just as she studied him. “There’s no Mageocracy here. My sister has no influence. If she pursues them to their true hiding place, she’ll be in the palm of your hand.”

“You’re far too optimistic,” Sobel silently applauded the boy’s intelligence. “Yes, the Mageocracy has no power here. But—neither do we. We are guests, Percy. We have no priviledge to conjure the Black Sun, or awaken Ancient behemoths so close to the Seven Spires of Che’ell-Cressen. Remember this. Spectre are the little weights placed on the scales to tip the balance, but we are not the balance itself—do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” Percy replied, his plump lips swollen and sultry from self-harm. “I will be patient.”

Sobel sighed. The things we do for the people we love. “Percy, do you recall what Phyr Quar-Tath said about giving you a blessing?”

The boy nodded.

“Well,” Sobel found herself smiling. “I happen to have an open channel with Lady Phyr’s patron and matriarch, the Matron of the Long Night. She owes our Lord Malakath a favour, and I can call in that favour to give you the birthright your sister has prevented you from gaining.”

Percy looked up, his eyes near-glowing in the chiaroscuro lighting of the spire’s interior.

“You can petition the Black Dragon, Master?” The boy was panting. After all, the boy had lost the Kirin Soul and by direct consequence, his chance at ascension.

“I can beg the Matron, nicely, and make a transaction,” Sobel clarified for her student. “The relationship will be similar to what Gwen exercises for Tryfan. The Matron will give you her blessing, and you will act in the interests of Che’ell-Cressen’s crusade against the Ljósálfar.”

“Is this The Accord?” Percy asked. “I’ve heard plenty, but I have no idea…”

“You shall be a tool, for now.” Sobel didn’t feel like deceiving the boy, for the truth was far more motivating. “Your sister, by the way, has progressed beyond the role of an agent and would soon sit on the table with the rest.”

“Oh…” Percy swallowed. “Ah–”

“Don’t feel down,” Sobel extended a cold hand and took the impassioned digits of her ward. Drawing the boy closer, she stole the warmth from his soft fingers, revelling in the illusion that she cared. “If you survive the battle pits, and win Quar-Tath’s blessing, then you may at least have a chance to grab Gwen’s heel and drag her down to your dreg-filled depths. Or else…”

Sobel allowed the boy to cup her hands in prayer. “... You may as well shield your eyes as she enters the radiant plane of our Demi-god Masters.”

Shalkar.

The Arboretum.

While minds around the Prime Material tried to wind their fingers around the many labours of Gwen Song, the Regent of Shalkar herself finally found herself a few hours to escape from the paperwork and enjoy a round of tea.

For the past few weeks, she had put in enough work for two months, working day and night to process the influx of new Dwarven migrants from around the world. She also had to juggle the expansion of the Fifth Vel’s Trade venue and the materials pouring in through the Dyar Morkk to expand its reach to all of Shalkar’s allies.

Or at least, she would be resting were she not stuck entertaining guests she could not afford to offend.

“You are enjoying your new abode, Prideful Dhànthárian?” asked a strikingly scarlet red-headed queen to her right, her body gently diffusing the aura of a compressed fusion reaction. “My son has spoken of little else of late. He was… insistent that I should come and visit.”

“And you’re always welcome,” Gwen spoke even as her body screamed bloody murder.

Beside her, Slylth delivered a look of pure confidence.

Gwen smiled back, terrified that her mother-in-jest might mistake an ongoing jest for reality.

SURE, she had tried to sell Dhànthárian the penthouse suite atop the tree by using the Summer Queen as a selling point. Still, she had not expected Dhànthárian to be so rural and bumpkin as to petition Slylth directly, daily, for his mother to visit.

What was more shameless was that, in a bid to show Gwen’s earnestness and to take the pressure off the Dwarves, Slylth did indeed ask his mother to attend their tea party.

And so, by whoring out his own mother, the perfect Dragon, one of the oldest beings on the Prime Material, a lady that made even Tyfanevius stand and pull out a chair, Slylth had put her between a Rock and a Red Dragon.

“Er…” Far from a potential paramour, Dhànthárian reminded her of an arrogant Englishman made to confront their matriarch, only that same sod had prior expressed his questionable, salacious fantasies for that very same dame.

What was more amazing was that Dhànthárian was sweating. Dragons did not possess sweat pores, but Gwen could swear there were beads of water swelteringly dripping from a being composed of the Elemental Plane of Earth and Magma.

Then again, who could blame the old bachelor?

In her humanoid form, Sythinthimryr was a peerless ideal. Even with her brow-bones transmuting into curled horns, the Red Dragon was the visual equivalent of an idea made flesh, a Goddess of the olden times in the regal garbs of antiquity.

Gwen was also very glad that Dhànthárian was wearing both pants and robes in the Roman style, which was enough to hide the honesty of his body should he lose control.

“I was merely saying to Slylth,” the Earthen Dragon confessed. “That I have admired Your Highness for many millennia.”

“This is known,” Sythinthimryr returned with a smouldering stare. “I do not need to be here to acknowledge it, and yet, I was badgered enough to leave my lair.”

Dhànthárian hung his head, unsure how to respond.

For Fuck’s sake, say something, you Dragon-shaped brick. Gwen forced herself to smile instead of kneading her swollen forehead. She had to turn the situation around before both Dragons grew upset with her. She had to make a distraction so that she could exit Slylth’s penthouse and hopefully take Dhànthárian with her.

“Lord Dhànthárian,” she interjected before the silence could catch fire. “You had promised us the location and whereabouts of the Sinneslukare migration. I know your palace is still under construction and will be for some time, but perhaps…”

“YES—” Dhànthárian looked up with a face full of hope. “That is indeed a matter of great import to Shalkar and my new wards, isn’t it. I promised Slylth that I would show the Dwarves the way to their rogue kin-folk. When should that expedition take place? Time is of the essence.”

The Summer Queen looked unconvinced, but Gwen had stepped too far into her white lie to backtrack now. “Yes, Lord Dhànthárian, shall we proceed back into the Dyar Morkk?”

The Earthen Dragon stood so quickly from the table that the high-tea set prepared by Sanari was almost toppled. “Let’s proceed! I wouldn’t want to disappoint my rat—er–people!”

“Slylth, please entertain Mistress Sythinthimryr, spare no expense. Show her my Tower, or perhaps tour our newest spherical addition,” she commanded the grinning young man. “Meanwhile, I’ll see to it that Lord Dhànthárian can communicate with the Dwarves without further incident.”

With a bow and a fare-thee-well, Gwen pulled herself and her unprepared Dragon from the Dragon’s lair, hoping that, having roped an Elder Dragon escort, there would be fewer complications and no additional titles at the end of the rabbit hole.