And in the room, the Dragons come and go.

Talking of Sythinthimryr.

Gwen Song, she of many titles, stood outside the penthouse suite at the apex of her Plane-spanning tree, watching an Elder Dragon stare into the middle distance of the Unformed Land.

She felt sorry for him, for Slylth had presented Dhànthárian’s head on a silver platter, only for the Summer Queen to roll her eyes and state that she was not fond of rural produce.

The Gwen of yesteryear would have stood in silence like a good girl and watched Dhànthárian take a drag on his imaginary cigarette and perform his best Hello Darkness, my old Friend—but the Regent of Shalkar saw herself as no less than a peer to her board of multi-species investors. Reaching above her head and extending a white hand, she gave her Prufrockian Dragon a pat on the flanks.

“They say that you miss every shot you don’t take…” she delivered in stoic Draconic.

Dhànthárian gave her a wilting look, then deeply sighed while looking at his mitt-sized hand-claws, hoping that an answer would present itself.

“Well, shall we find some Sinneslukare to kill?” Gwen felt that, at least in the matter of interpersonal relationships, Dragons weren’t too divorced from the realm of human courtship and its many disappointments. Take herself for example. She still can’t look Evee in the eye, or eat a peach without thinking of her. “It will be a good distraction.”

“Indeed,” the Dragon straightened his simping spine to once more assume his majestic old self. “Come, Regent. Let us put this business behind us, so that when you return, all may focus on the matter of my new lair.”

Deepholm.

The Singularity.

Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt, daughter of the Lumen and now Lady Protector of the Deepholm Protectorate, paced slowly and deliberately over the infinite complexities of the runic matrices that drew power from the Planar Singularity.

Dhànthárian had done much to usurp the irradiating energies from the magma node, but the Dragon had not destroyed the conduit bridges nor the containment pillars, for these served the purpose of amplifying and directing the indiscriminate discharges of plasma that shot forth from the natural-born fusion of Magma, Earth and Radiance.

With some major renovations, a small portion of the Singularity’s output could be directed and magnified to feed the Dragon’s chamber. At the same time, the bulk of the gentler, less lethal radiation had been harnessed to fuel the Grand Smithy and the Circular Forge.

Her labour for the foreseeable future was therefore the literal re-building of their ancestral home, figuratively from the “core outward”.

Besides Hilda, Lord Engineseer Urmrak Kül, now closer to his sixth century, watched the row upon rows of Journeymen file into the Heart Furnace to take their place under the watchful eye of the Whitebeards.

The Deepdowner could no more read the expression on the Balefire giant’s ornately plated mien than her peers, but she shared its mixed feelings of elation and guilt.

Like the Thinking Engine of Haj-Zül Brumdahr even now trickling forth the runic calculations necessary to maintain the Singularity, Neo Deepholm, as the Regent calls it, was literally that—their new home.

The low-ways that now fed into the city were tethered to Shalkar, and from Deepholm’s spherical body, each path would venture into the secret places of the Planes. Yet, unlike its original iteration, Deepholm was now the sister city to the Great Citadel, a Plane-spanning Nexus that could potentially tap into any realm within the Axis Mundi.

In old Dehurorhim, stoic Balefire Golems, fuelled by the slow agony of spirit-Ancestors, had stalked its halls to subdue the city’s foes. In Neo Deepholm, an Elder Dragon, the apex predator of the Prime Elemental Plane of Earth, now coiled itself to sleep in the city’s heart, dissuading any mortal foe from encroaching on its territory.

In old Dehurorhim, the Masters of the Forge Crafts, with their venerable white beards and grey beards, performed the machine rites of the Ancestors to breathe life into Fabricator Engines and coal-eyed Golems. In Neo Deepholm, wide-eyed youth, most of whose beards barely touched their navel, stared slack-jawed at the vaulted ceilings of the city, signing themselves up as Apprentices and Journeymen under the surviving Masters, who themselves were learning from a mere handful of Deepdowners survivors.

Hilda sighed.

The old ways were gone.

But so where the city’s forever-troubles.

Food, always a scarce resource, was now rich, plentiful and decadent.

Drink, once something to be savoured, was now carelessly spilt in joyous celebration.

The Dragon, the great existential danger knocking at the city’s door, was now making its rounds with the Regent, walking with the likeness of a Dwarven Elder weighed down by a complex blueprint.

In all honesty, for the unimaginable prosperity ahead, Hilda felt lost.

Like the adage of the fulfilled Avenger, she felt as though a Himsegg feline who had caught the red dot-light. With the volume of material and manual support arriving by droves at the Citadel Below, it would take no more than a Himsegg Solar cycle to complete the restoration of the Singularity Core, the Heart Forge, the Grand Smithy and the Golem Foundaries.

Simultaneously, the Regent had promised that Deepholm would be connected not just to Shalkar, but to everywhere Dwarven refugees had settled. From Bavaria to London, her Citadel would begin the great labour of interconnecting not just their homes, but human cities, so that no singular calamity could destroy their renewed civilisation again.

All of this had energised her people to a degree not seen since the Founding, but Hilda felt afraid. As the patron saint of the Deep Dwarves, the Pale Priestess’ visage would soon be displayed in the Ancestor’s Hall alongside the founders. Yet, unlike their homebody ancestors, where would their Regent take the Dwarven people?

“Hilda!” A cheerful call from the object of her life-debt shook the Deepdowner from her deep ruminations. “A change of plans. Dhànthárian here is going to show us where to find the Lost Kin, now.”

As the pair approached the organised chaos of machines, Golem suits, smith-clads and labourers parted like a great ocean of magma rebuked by Dhànthárian. A few bowed, one young Dwarf took a trembling Lumen-pic with a Human device, and the rest stared in awe and at the twin myths in their midst.

It took Hilda a few seconds until her suit’s vox apparatus kicked back into gear.

“Of course, Regent,” Hilda replied, glad that she had informed Hanmoul Bronzeborn to restock, repair and replenish the Hammer Guards at first opportunity. She had no idea where her people would find themselves in the distant future, but their present goal was greatly desired. “The Legions have been waiting for this moment since you left.”

Deepholm.

The Dyar Morkk.

Gwen knew the Dwarves could make tunnels like anybody.

At the forefront of a new low-way, a boring Fabricator would transmute stone and warp sediments, opening a path forward. In the mid-section, a mobile Transmuter-Forge spat out girders, rails, and rebar for the construction of the rail. Behind the main engine, teams of construction Golems made quick work of the fabricated materials, soldering and transmuting them into slotable lattices. Behind the construction crew, the Rune Tuners and Engineseers in their cumbersome Cog-clads laid the pre-fabricated Mandala plates and conduit pipes.

From the stone-crushing maw of the Fabricator to the final touch of decor and light installed by the younger Journeymen, the entire “Train” of crawling plaforms was just over a kilometre long, connecting the new low-way to a supply node.

But now, they had a Elder Earthen Dragon.

With Dhànthárian leading, herself, Lulan, Strun and their contingent of vanguards needed only to stand back while the Dragon demanded the stone make itself useful.

It was… a most unsettling and uncanny phenomenon, which was saying something, considering Gwen herself commanded the horrors of the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void.

Earlier, once the group had arrived at what was the outskirts of the city, Dhànthárian had wrinkled his nose and informed them that “The bulk of the stench lay this way.”

When Gwen asked for clarification, considering they were staring at a rock wall, the Elder Dragon barked at the compacted stratum of volcanic stone, after which the interlocked sediments themselves seemed to shift and compact, all the while screaming in seismic agony.

Within a minute, a large cavern formed, large enough to fit the Dragon’s four-meter-tall self comfortably, and wide enough for two Battle-clads to stride abreast.

As the Dragon walked forward at a brisk pace, the stone receded, liquidifying itself to reform into a thick, natural-looking cladding that covered the sides of the tunnel in a roughly oval configuration.

“This is amazing,” Gwen informed their city's Protector.

“It would take less effort if I were to assume my original form,” Dhànthárian was pleased with her praise. “But then, most of you would die.”

“Well, I am grateful for your mercy,” she replied with a sly smile.

What the Dragon did not know was that Gwen was truly glad because if Dhànthárian were like Garp, and had to eat the rock and shit it back out as a cement mix, the expedition would be both traumatic and eye-watering. As it were, the Dwarves rapidly installed rails and checked the structure for stability, then laid down communicating conduits as fast as Dhànthárian could will himself forward.

An hour passed.

Then two.

Then three.

Then more.

Then Gwen and her friends broke for tea while the Dragon relived the horror of Sythinthimryr’s rebuke by mumbling to himself and creating a large cavern to blow off steam.

The journey resumed after new supplies arrived via portable Teleportation Circles, with Dhànthárian finding his focus once more as he sniffed his way forward using means unknowable to either the Dwarves, the Rat-kin, or the Himsegg sorceress.

At night, at least according to her Message Device, Gwen couldn’t help but ask the Dragon how much longer this journey would take.

“Such impatience,” Dhànthárian rocked a scaled brow-ridge. “What’s a Prime Material luna cycle or two to immortals like us? It will pass in the blink of an eye…”

“Ah…” Gwen nodded sagely. She had been mistaken, and it was her fault. The urgency of Dragons, the distance according to Dragons, and the dangers according to Dragons were on a scale far too different from Humans, and still quite a distance from the Dwarves. “Strun? Lulan? Bronzeborn?”

Her seconds were by her side at once.

As the first Dwarf to have made her acquaintance, the former Commandrum of the Hammer Guard was now the Commandrum of the Iron Legion, the highest military representative from the Red Citadel. Like his Deepdowner, Bronzeborn was now a revered name, together with Axelhoff and the oldest Murk Clans.

“Tell the Engineseers to set up the Teleportation Circles on the regular,” Gwen considered her many duties here and there, above and below. “Strun, you stay here and take over command of the Exterminators. Lulan, you’ll be the liaison between the Expedition and Shalkar, as before—please contact me the moment we make contact with our targets. Hanmoul, I am entrusting the Dwarven Fabricators and the Legion to your care. Remember, let Strun’s men go in first. Their constitution makes them immune to infestation by the Sinneslukare, and most toxins and illnesses.”

Rat, woman and Dwarve all saluted.

“Lord Dhànthárian,” she bowed her head apologetically. “I fear I will be stepping back to take care of some matters in the Himsegg. It will pertain to the construction of your lair, and our trade routes with the domain of the Yinglong and the Lady Sythinthimryr, as well as others. Is this agreeable to you?”

Dhànthárian studied her with suspicion, but nodded nonetheless. “I shall not be defending these pets of yours.” The Dragon stated bluntly. “I am the protector of what is mine. My body lies beyond anyone’s command.”

Somehow, Gwen felt that if the Summer Queen asked Dhànthárian to fetch a stick, the Elder Dragon would ask for details on the length, girth, and type of wood she preferred.

But, as she had no carnal means to motivate the Dragon, she could only nod and affirm the deal they had struck in that new temple being built in Deepholm to commemorate “The Deepholm Accord”.

“I’ll be back,” Gwen informed her expedition, then stepped through the teleporter and re-entered the Bunker, where decisions, and therefore money, must eternally flow.

The Dyar Morkk.

D251.22.33—P593.123.13—H.141.563.98 of Deepholm.

In a dazzling flash, the Regent of Shalkar materialised at the location of her Rat-kin’s latest discovery.

Taking care to refocus her mind for combat, she lightly dusted the motes of Conjuration still lingering on her crow-skin feathers, her mind rapidly compartmentalising the business of governance to free up cognitive space for murderous magic.

A month and four days.

It took that long for Dhànthárian to return to his abode with two thumbs up and the claim that his mission was accomplished. According to the Dragon, the crew had followed the stench of the Sinneslukare through unimaginable layers of Elemental Earth before finally arriving at an abandoned section of the Dyar Morkk lost to Dwarven lore.

Where she reappeared, the lights were dim, the ceiling high, and the Regent wrinkled her nose.

“Where are we?” She asked her Rat-kin commander, who had come to greet her and Lulan. “I know it's the Dyar Morkk… but the smell…”

Having lived among her stout folk, Dwarven construction can be authenticated by a very distinct odour of liquid mana, transmuted metal, and a hint of sourness that Gwen’s nose recognised as “Dwarf diesel”.

“The Para-Elemental Plane of Mud permeates this place, Mistress,” Strun lifted his foot, showing her the ooze-like consistency of the floor. “That’s why Hanmoul has requisitioned one of the Leviathan Shards from Lady Hildenbrandt.”

“We’re in Ooze world?” Gwen mentally activated a levitation spell before she stepped from the large metal platform housing the Teleportation Circle. “Tell me more.”

“Ix! Gaz! Bring it!” Strun shouted at the mass of labourers. The Exterminators, paying homage to the Pale Priestess, parted to reveal a Dwarf in a Work-clad Golem suit and a pale-furred Rat-kin with the look of a scholar.

“Your Paleness…” the Rat-kin prostrated in the mud, then rose while simultaneously using a prestigitation cantrip to cleanse his work coat. “We found this deeper into the Dyar Morkk here. It’s proof, we think, that the Lord Dragon was sincere in his promise.”

That these tiny, everyday, magi-tech devices were making their way across the full spectrum of her commercial empire came as a great solace to Gwen, for it was living proof that commerce and goods were improving the lives of her people.

Below them, held in a metal case with a glass top about the size of a bathtub, was an abandoned Golem core-segment. From its design, they could see that it was a Battle-clad, one of the inner suits worn by Dwarven pilots of larger machines working in hazardous environs like the Grand Smithy.

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“Pulled this out of the mud,” the Dwarven pilot informed them. “The transponder was broken, but the Taveir crystal still had power.”

Taveir Crystal… Gwen nodded. With Deepholm recovered and the Singularity once more in operation, they could finally make use of the original device Dwarves used to communicate across the deep dark of the Elemental Plane of Earth. A Dwarven Magi-tech staple, Taveir Crystals were resonance stones tied to the “motherlode” stored in the Heart Forge. By manipulating the resonance of child-stones, it was possible to transmit complex information through rudimentary binary code.

“Why is it in the glass?” Gwen tapped the solid-looking pane–

THUMP–! Something jumped against the panel, giving it a resounding wallop, sending her flinching backwards.

“Bloody hell—” She was glad she was wearing gauntlets, regardless of the protection already provided. “Is that a fresh one?”

“Found it hidden inside the skull. Tried to have a go at Ix here,” Strun nodded. “It ate everything. Must have been starving. The Dwarf it was piloting must have died from something… poisoned by an Ooze, more likely. The body’s a few years old, I am amazed the thing was still alive.”

“Dormant state, perhaps? Does it talk?” Gwen asked, watching the thing squirm. Calmer now, she could see that the pink-squid creature possessed no eyes, eight flailing tentacles, and a body shaped like a sleek torpedo. Thick veins covered its body, ribbed in such a way that it looked like an elongated brain. “Hmm, it looks a bit different to what we saw earlier.”

Her commander shrugged. “Ix?”

“My records suggest their physiology changes according to the individual host,” the Rat-kin pointed a finger toward the case, tapping the surface to agitate the eyeless thing. “I would love to put it in containment and observe the stages of infection. Maybe it will talk once it has a host?”

Gwen looked toward Strun. She understood the implications. It wasn’t something she would personally consider, but it was something the Regent of Shalkar would condone.

“A necessity if we wish to combat these creatures in the future,” her piebald companion affirmed his subordinant’s desire. “Shalkar aside, our allies in China and Nagaland would be happy to provide… supplementary materials. Alternatively, the tribe would be more than willing to provide… ”

“No,” Gwen put a stop to that thought before her Commander could finish. “Let’s see where the researchers can take us with our current samples. We’re here to exterminate them, and I am willing to expend the effort if it means we do it right

.”

She was sincere in her thoughts. For even if she had to secrete a litre of Golden Mead a day, there were lines her budding metropolis should not cross, or else they’d be knee deep in merry Necromancy before her tree was even grown.

With the curio examined, she joined the forward columns of the Dwarven Expedition, where Hanmoul was overseeing the deployment of a Leviathan Shard.

Just as the Core was capable of manipulating water into the world, it was also possible for the machine-mounted Elemental Engine to withdraw moisture. This way, slowly and steadily, the expedition would continue by clearing the path of Oozes while restoring function to the abandoned Dyar Morkk. At the same time, the unfathomable lengths of cables and Divination nodes installed at every interval also enabled Teleportation Circles and, most importantly, Contingency Rings.

“Yer here, Lassie–I mean, Yer Regent,” Hanmoul grinned, then caught himself and saluted.

“You can be casual with me, Hanmoul.” Gwen gave him an encouraging smile, but the Dwarve shook his head.

“Alright, as yer ken, this is an old section of the Dyar Morkk,” Hanmoul tapped the walls with the Golem’s manipulators. “We excavated a repeater Mandala while yer away up top. It’s an old section, a thousand Himsegg years, maybe more. It was used recently, then someone tore oot the resonators.”

“We’re on the right track, then?” She asked. “We will be expecting action?”

“Aye, the mana conduits almost ready. The Lads are restoring the mana couplings now—aye, ‘ere we go—” Hanmoul lifted his mounted Spellswords. “LADS AND LASSIES—Spellswords ter ye front!”

While her troops made their last checks, Gwen made ready her own role as the Regent of Shalkar and arguably the city’s premier damage dealer after Slylth. She brought into being both Ariel and Caliban, as well as Morden’s Hounds in both the Lightning and Void variety. Having received private lessons from Slylth, whose instruction translated Morden’s personal insights into the magic of his creation, she could now manifest upward of eight creatures per element, plus their Alphas. The size of her hounds as well was now approaching horses, with Ariel’s clones looking like mini Kirin-dogs, while Caliban’s eyeless minions had the lamprey heads of Void Hydras.

As always, Lulan took up a position behind and above her, hovering with her floating jadeite blades in the likeness of a lethal floral arrangement.

The main expedition sat on a train of crawlers, chaining together levitation platforms that housed Shielding Generators. The main crawler, a converted Fabricator Engine, housed the Leviathan Crystal, using the trailer-sized shard to both pacify the hostile landscape and provide amperage for the Expedition’s hundreds of complex machines.

With a lurch, the mechanised centipede began to lumber down the abandoned Dyar Morkk, clearing the way with a variation of Shape Stone that clensed the watery tunnel ahead.

Gwen watched, feeling profoundly proud of her Rat-kin and Dwarves’ ingenuity. With a sucking sound, the fallen debris ahead of them was pulverised, while an invisible force-barrier seemed to part the mud and moisture. The resultant clay was then sucked into the underside of the Fabricator barge, revealing the original flooring of the low-way, which glowed with a dull, ochre light.

“OOZE—!” One of the Hammer Guards called out. A few seconds later, a dozen jets of intense flame turned the hopping, crawling, spewing Elementals into Creature Cores.

“OOZE overhead—!”

“BLOOD OOZE—!”

“OOZE ter ya right—!”

“OOZE SWARM—!”

The real reason the expedition took the slow and safe approach was the infestation of native fauna, which had taken up the “Dwarven Underground”. Every few dozen meters, somewhere between a handful of enormous Gelatinous Oozes the size of Golems and a few hundred of what Dwarves called bjonn-Fud would explode from the vents on the walls, forced out of their hiding places by the extreme de-humidification.

Together with the bristling train of spellswords, Ariel took the initiative to cleanse the path beside and ahead. Meanwhile, Gwen’s hounds bolted back along the tracks, tackling hidden foes and deadly, oozy creatures that the passing cavalcade had missed.

“Christ, that is A LOT of Ooze,” Gwen remarked as their Leviathan Core drained the enthusiasm out of what Hanmoul dubbed the “Blood-Fire Ooze”, a semi-fungal, highly voracious slime with low cunning for intelligence. Typically, this particular Ooze was an apex predator that consumed other Oozes, concentrating their digestive toxins until it reached a blood-red state. Unfortunately for this particular specimen, losing almost ninety per cent of its moisture meant it had lost both mobility and size, becoming something like a Golem-sized putty that kept folding in on itself as it collapsed from the weight of its former victims. There were also rumoured sightings of a muti-core, sly aberrant—but Gwen could not confirm if indeed such a specimen had graced their murky descent.

By the second hour, she was beyond glad that Bronzeborn had the foresight to plan instead of padding progress with resources and bodies. If the expedition had to wade through groin-deep puddles, there was no knowing what would creep into their suits or hide in the small nooks and crannies until the pilots left their hermetically sealed torsos. Likewise, while her Rat-kin were reasonably resilient against toxin and bodily injury, the sheer agony of tearing off a flesh-rending Ochre Jelly or a metal-melting Mustard Ooze from a peer was not an experience she wished upon her citizens.

A part of her had hoped that Dhànthárian could have taken more initiative, but she understood the Earthen Dragon’s disdain for burrowing through what was quickly becoming the entrance to the Para-Plane of Mud.

Thusly scorching every inch of earth and rotating Golems to keep eyes fresh and trigger-fingers disciplined, the Regent, her rats and her Dwarven expedition continued into the murk, lighting the way with runic installations as they passed, bookmarking their passage all the way back to Shalkar.

Along the path, there were stranger encounters, too.

When the low-way split in two, Gwen used her Omni-Orb to steer the expedition in the right direction. Bronzeborn then commanded the Golems to temporary weld-shut the alternative route to prevent ambushes. The resulting clanging was enough to bring forth a Beast Tide of Far Plane Abominations, malformed body-horrors formed of roughly humanoid shapes, but infested with everything from fungi to parasites to Murk fauna. The resultant battle would have been hard won, but it was nothing to the Pale Priestess of the Gate and Key. Gwen ordered a choke point to be established by the Golems, then sent her Familiar glooping down the tunnel in its Garp form, swallowing everything and anything for about a kilometre before the rest scattered.

When her creature returned, the now reasonably intelligent Void Worm coughed up a dozen bodies of interest, all smothered in digestive ooze.

“Deep-Clads,” Bronzeborn and the senior Dwarves gathered around with their prodding manipulators. “Look here, see the Cog and Hammer? This was forged in Deepholm. The Sinneslukare have been here alright.”

Gwen double-checked her gift from Ruxin,

The Omni-orb clearly indicated that the object of her heart’s desire was… in the alternate path.

“We continue to the right,” she informed the expedition. “There’ll be more splits ahead. We’ll seal every last one.”

If anyone but the Regent had given such an uneducated command, their commanders might have questioned their lord’s wisdom. As the Pale Priestess, however, her troops followed without so much as a grunt.

As Gwen suspected, the branching paths soon became something akin to a Lichtenberg figure, a clear indication that they would soon arrive at a destination of import, for only regions once immersed in trade and industry had an investment in roadways.

Thanks to her divine guidance, their path foward never narrowed to the width of mining shafts or lesser avenues. Each turn she enabled proved her correct as the path underfoot revealed itself to be the main arterial low-way toward a major installation, something that could only be a Kjangtoth—a Dwarven Citadel.

And their guess was confirmed when they encountered an enormous Cog-gate that blocked any further progress.

“By the Sju Dorfran…” Hanmoul halted the expedition when one of the Enginseers sent over a message from the Fabricator. “Lassie, I think er ken where this is leading…”

Gwen studied their present surroundings. The low-way here was well-submerged, more so than their previous passage. It was also far less infested with ooze and other hostile creatures. The water was… dare she say it, brackish instead of something resembling carnivorous sediment. The walls of their cavern were likewise becoming more ornate, possessing the likeness of the segments closest to Shalkar.

“Enlighten me,” Gwen circulated her internal Essence, purging her fatigue.

“Tis should be a Murk Expedition’s work,” Bronzeborn said with awe, moving his arms to encompass what was a defaced circle of runes, now glowing faintly thanks to the irradiation of mana accompanying the expedition's crawling vehicles. “By the Ancestors, Lassie, we’ve found a post-Founding Himsegg Vjeit!”

CLANG—

CLANG-CLANG—

CLA-CLANG—CLA-CLANG—CLA—CLANG—

It took the Dwarves an hour to expose the control mechanisms of the gate, and a little over ten minutes to hotwire the frayed Mandalas controlling the rusted control arms.

Once the command was given, the cog-gate thrummed into life, tearing from the walls a decade of oxidised growths as its gears kissed. Before them, the cavern rumbled, the Dyar Morkk itself seemed to thrum as the portal opened, one tooth at a time, into the time capsule on the other side.

The second the gear-gate revealed a gap large enough, her Morden Hounds shot forth, ducking under the gate, their summoner’s eyes a-glow with Empathic Link and Shared Vision.

“It’s dark…” she reported immediately, “But nothing low-light vision can’t handle. I am seeing life—hold on…”

Buck, her big, sleek Void Hound, leapt on stiletto feet from rubble to rubble, clearing the sediments that had barred its entry. Behind it, a dozen dogs burst into the vicinity as a fan, tackling the mass of Oozes that had immediately come out to play.

A natural occurrence of local fauna or natural guard-dogs? Gwen wondered as her dogs sizzled, consumed, or ignored the admixture of acidic slime pelting their thickened hides. Bouyed by her present store of Essence and vitality, even her Lightning Hounds could shake off not-so-minor scrapes and regrow lost limbs.

From what she could make out, the tunnel rapidly opened up after the first fifty-odd meters. Cautiously, her hounds made their way forward, keeping their profiles low.

“Alright, I am seeing light now—there’s a mechanism here, an enormous thing that looks like a gate… no… a Levitation Platform.”

“Aye, aye,” Hanmoul’s Golem nodded, so attuned to its pilot’s actions that it even mimicked his body language. “The Himsegg Vjeit be that, Regent. It’s a node that connects a Citadel to the overworld, like the one we have at Red Peak. It’s used by the Murk Citadels for trade with the Himsegg, primarily for food and rarer materials, such as raw HDMs. Before yer Paleness set the cog straight, all the Dwarves who are put into this duty are declared Vadam–once they’ve seen the lidless world, they’re not allowed to return to Deepholm. Hence, only the low-caste and the merchants were given this task.”

A few of the Hammer Guards murmurred their thanks to Gwen, for their expedition had come from Deepholm, where the junior Guards had paid homage to their ancestors, an act many thought impossible in their and their children’s lifetimes.

“Okay, there’s a tide of slimes and Oozes here, a few of the rarer variants as well,” she reported back. “My dogs will take some time to work through them, but it's not something we can’t handle. Shall we push through?”

The Expedition’s senior advisors gave their consent, and a new jolt of power began to shift the revolving cog into its nesting position.

CLANG—

CLANG-CLANG—

CLA-CLANG—CLA-CLANG—CLA—CLANG—

The final CLANG placed the cog in place, revealing an opening generous enough for the entire train to pass.

Skitterling, mechanical legs extended from the platform as the Leviathan Core whirled once more into action. Golem suits took their positions and began to clear and rebuild what was the old passage of the low-way. Ariel and Caliban sped into the distance to help her Morden’s Hounds, while the cavalcade of skittering platforms moved forward like segments of a greedy centipede, purging the old growth with transmuting fire.

While her dank surroundings turned furnace-bright from the actions of her Dwarves, Gwen studied her Omni Orb, which had drifted overhead and was gently rotating, a sign that she had to travel upward.

After several thousand more innocent Oozes and blobs were put to the Spellsword, the Dwarven engineers dismounted and began to work on the mechanism, succeeding when, finally, after replacing all the mana sources and re-drawing the invocation Mandalas, the entire lift-structure became aglow with runic conduits.

The Regent of Shalkar looked upward.

They were below ground, several hundred meters below ground, but even so, she could see the platform above.

“Bring it down,” Gwen ordered her men as the Dwarves fanned out into a defensive position. Transitioning the crawler platforms into a defensive matrix array choked with kill zones.

KRUNG—

KRUNG-KRUNG—

KLUNK—KLUNK—KLUNK—KLUNK—

The enormous platform, just shy of the vast mechanism built into Shalkar’s Bunker, began to lower, all the while raining Oozes and slimes, debris and rust.

Gwen stood impassively as the Hammer Guards engaged in spontaneous target practice, blasting the falling foes with splattering globs of superheated plasma from their back-mounted, twin-linked Spellswords. Lulan as well, exercised her deadly craft, splattering the rarer specimens by targeting their Cores.

When the platform finally came into view, Gwen saw clear evidence of its use, not recently, but certainly indicative of a past role involving the translocation of a great many heavy bodies and heavier machinery.

“Alright, what do we need to open the hatch?” She stepped onto the platform, followed by her Hounds, Strun, Lulan, and her Familiars. “Who is coming up with me?”

Hanmoul immediately volunteered, but Gwen preferred that an experienced commander remain downstairs to coordinate matters in case a crisis arose. She thus borrowed two of Hanmoul’s Greybeard Engineseers in Battle-clads, two MKIII Golem Engines, and a few Exterminators to serve as guards for the Greybeards.

Slowly, with painful groans, the platform began to lift upward, first with hesitation, then with surprising velocity as it reached the midpoint.

There were other bays and chambers, serving as “stops”; however, these had been abandoned and subsequently become infested. Along the way, her dogs leapt into the chambers to investigate, while her entourage continued their upward ascent.

At the apex, the platform locked into place as sliding bolts pushed past the roving slimes and bit into the platform’s side cavities. Her troops fanned out, rapidly clearing the control array of any wayward blobs venturing forth to find a meal.

“EE–!” Ariel’s nose wrinkled, using its horns to point upwards, stating that it sensed open air.

“Shaa—” Caliban gave the distinct impression that it sensed life–and a great volume of life at that.

Gwen took in their surroundings. There was no more space on the platform to place fortifications for the bulky Shield Golems, and the platform was already too crowded to fight. There was more preparation she could make if she wished to spend the day or so excavating new caverns and expanding the upper staging post, but her Divination senses were not informing her of explicit, imminent danger.

Instead, she had a burning curiosity as to what lay overhead.

And besides—

Gwen took a deep, contemplative breath.

She wasn’t a young Marion Ravenwood blindly following Jones’ footsteps. Nothing she had seen so far was found through coincidence.

An old root weaver named Tyfanevius had called an old bachelor to his home and used a young investor to convince the Dragon to settle down in Deepholm. That same Dragon then fulfilled his promise and steered them into a one-way tunnel, where an Omni Orb guided them in the right direction until they reached the only exit leading skyward.

Therefore, like a Middle Earth wizard, the Regent of Shalkar was precisely where and when she needed to be.

“Master Cogthorne, Punch it,” she commanded the Engineseers.

The cavern groaned. The floor shuddered. The ceiling overhead began to lift with the tectonic likeness of a glacial collapse in reverse.

Light—actual sunlight, filtered into the chamber from the lifting coffin-lid, peaking into the tunnel’s interior, accompanied by a rush of brackish water, and a sudden stench of fecundity that spoke strongly of rotten wood, soil, and long-buried vegetation.

“Steady…” Gwen’s mind extended the invocations to a Blade Barrier as the coffin lid, long enough to house several semi-trailers and fit six abreast, came to a grinding, hacking stop. Around her, the interior lights dimmed as her eyes rapidly adjusted to the infiltration of sunlight.

Her pupils refocused. There was greenery outside, a verdant plantscape far richer than anything near Shalkar. Trees with enormous bowers too large to fully perceive, strung with hanging roots like mossy hair, filled the cropped panorama from end-to-end. From her limited vantage, she guessed that they must be a clearing of sorts, for beyond the immediate sunlight, the woods were a depthless wall of undercanopy.

“Ee–EE—!” Ariel cried out in joy and alarm; joy for the spell of fresh air, and alarm for what was now obvious to even Gwen.

“Shaa—Shaa—!” Caliban issued forth a challenge, desiring a particular body for the encounters now skittering forth from the greenery outside in clumps and droves.

A pair of skittering limbs appeared over the lid of the entrance.

Long, clawed limbs, covered in spine-like bristles of flaming red mixed with black.

Dark, beady eyes in sets of six.

Fangs as large as Gwen’s thighs, with tips as long as her forearm.

The creature clicked—a crisp CHIRRRIP.

More beings possessed of the same physiology leaned over the entrance’s wide-open portal.

Dozens—hundreds of arboreal arachids in all sizes, gazed upon the crow-black body of the Regent and her Familars.

“EE-EEEEEEEE—!”

The air grew suddenly alive.

Without sound, a tangible ripple of Dragon Fear tore through the surrounding space, centred around the haloed head of a Celestial Kirin whose mistress could not be challenged by monsters so crass and unaesthetic.

The entrance erupted.

Spiders fled.

Spiders fell.

Spiders attacked each other in maddening terror.

A single spider skittered into the chamber, then tore itself apart in a mad dash to freedom.

The Omni Orb thrummed.

If the damned thing coud emote, it would probably be giving her a wink and kiss.

“Well…” Gwen patted her Kirin on the head, wondering where The Accord had sent her now. “One thing’s for certain. We’re not in Kansas anymore, eh? Ariel?”