The flight back to the first point of civilisation in what Gwen now mentally framed as “faux-Amazonia” took just over forty minutes using her Mass Flight. The spell was usually not made for speed, though with her Affinity, and Lulan and Strun’s stamina, the trio roared through the atmosphere as heralds of the storm to come.

Vocally, they flew in silence, with Lulan and Strun discussing the course of events via a Silent Message while their Regent planned to make good on her promise to Vestra.

The first thing.

The very first thing was to make a mountain out of the molehill of injustice and sell it to the council of Mythics. This was because the only frightening thing about Che’ell-Cressen, from what she had seen, was the sleeping Tzar Bomb known as Quar-Tath.

But like all nuclear weapons, the bomb was beside the point—for a rampaging Quar-Tath would blight the world and upset Dragons everywhere on the Prime Material, an outcome not even the Matron of the Long Night desired. This meant that, if she was to take on Quar-Tath’s children, the point had to be very clear that her quarrel was at the tier of a localised, well-controlled application of personal grievances.

No harm shall come to the world within Quar-Tath’s womb, but woe to the Elf who ventures from Amazonia to traffic in the Prime Material’s politics.

Ergo, to weed the tendrils of Spectre and extract the roots, she needed to weave a web of her own. As much as she loved to drop a Shoggoth on the Chilean Coast, the likelihood of consuming hundreds of Svartálfar, each with varying degrees of Quar-Tath’s blessing, meant it was infeasible to AoE first and ask questions later.

Likewise, it wasn’t as though she had beef with Quar-Tath. Her grief was with Sobel and her friends, any space they used for rest and peaceful development. To deny Spectre a base meant that she needed to be occupying the Black Zone of the Chilean Coast, much like her occupation of Shalkar. It meant that Lei-bup and his cult needed to construct a port of call to facilitate a forward operating base that would deny Spectre’s Mer-bitions along the east coast of the South American continent. It also meant that the future Sapa Inti would play a very prominent role in her plans.

And for her to achieve this, she needed a casus belli and an affirmation from the powers that be.

Right now, she had Tyfanevius and Big D in her pocket.

With Slylth, she should be able to convince Sythinthimryr.

Illaelitharian was harder. He was the Dragon most representative of the status quo that the mortal races should be left to self-destruct, though he shouldn’t veto her interference of interference.

The main thing then was to see if she could stir the Yinglong, and that meant she would need to make a detour to Burma to speak with Ruxin, or China to visit Ayxin.

So much for taking a break while her Tower was being furnished. Gwen sighed inwardly.

With her mind thusly made up, the taut muscles of her neck finally relaxed, allowing her a moment to enjoy the immensity of the verdant greenery below, indicative of a rainforest that had remained consistent since the age of tyrant lizards.

“Regent, the Divination signal is restored. Relaying our arrival now,” Lulan informed her through a line-of-sight Message.

“How’s the time dilation?” Gwen asked. If she were to deal with the Vessels of Quar-tath, then timing was of the essence.

“None,” Lulan reported after fiddling with her Dwarven device.

“Really? Strun?”

“Affirmative. There's no… what did Master Hanmoul call it? Elastic time?” Her Rat-kin was looking rather dapper in his aviator’s goggles.

“That’s unexpected.” Gwen furrowed her brows as they landed, nodding at the bowing heads of the Mages who had patiently awaited their return. “Even Tryfan has a convex dilation, and our recent mission in the Elemental Plane of Earth had its own disturbances. Che’ell-Cressen is marketed to be entirely isolated from the Prime Material, so why expend the effort to tether itself to a metronome without purpose?”

“Collusion?” Lulan’s observation made Gwen proud of her former berserker. “Hard to collude if you’re a week or two late or early every other month.”

“Mistress, is it even possible that a Vessels is working against the Matron Dragon’s wishes?” Strun was more sceptical, for being so tethered, her Commander could not begin to dream of subverting his Regent’s will.

“Certainly, if they believe it's the Matron’s will. But who, for how long, and how much of it was under the watchful eye of our Matron Dragon?” Gwen returned her commander’s enquiry with one of her own. “I guess we’ll find out when Lei-bup swams the coast.”

Both Lulan and Strun hovered in place without further question, their faces full of assurance that Gwen held the world in her delicate hands. The loyalty was nice, but Gwen did not trust herself so thoroughly. This was why she also liked to consult her Draconic allies; for none of them, even Golos, thought twice about her position or her feelings when voicing what they assumed to be their own unassailable wisdom.

On the ground, Cuzco’s Mages performed a few perfunctory duties in checking their papers and logging their use of the ISTC portal, then retreated with glee after Gwen dispensed bundles of HDMs as compensation for their time.

The trio stepped through the portal.

An actual time-dilated minute later, Gwen and company reappeared at Cuzco’s Mage Tower, greeted by Amaru’s assistants. She requested a meeting with Inti and was promptly guided outside to make her way back to the Temple of the Sun, where the time taken to scale the elevated path was symbolic and purposely designed.

A few hundred meters from the temple, she was waylaid by the radiant Prince himself, who steered her through the side entrance to a meeting room styled in Peruvian art-deco to acknowledge the Suyus of every direction paying homage to the Sun King.

Out of politeness and not wanting to cause a scandal, Gwen excused herself to get changed into a new attire of Elven-make, presenting herself in the garb of an ambassador to set the tone for the meeting to come. On the Sun Dais, she was given her own seat opposite Inti and his father, while Tica and her companions stood in the cool, breezy shade and were offered refreshments.

Impressed by the gold despite herself, Gwen made herself comfortable by folding her leafy, autumn-hued halter-neck dress in a regal fashion about her sandals.

“How bad is it?” Inti’s eye darted to his wife for approval before resting once more on Gwen, an act that made the Regent feel a pang of jealousy. “Is there going to be war?”

“No. Nothing of the sort,” Gwen spoke truly, much to the relief of the Prince and his fatherly sovereign, the Sapa Inti. “The Svartálfar are playing stupid games, and they’ll be winning stupid prizes, but none of it is aimed directly at Cuzco.”

“But we will be impacted.” The Sapa Inti stated the facts plainly. “May I ask how badly?”

“If you do nothing—catastrophically,” Gwen replied without euphemism. “It’s a complex issue, though the solution isn’t too complicated. Let me explain…”

As she roughly outlined what she had seen of the Vessels in the Web Spire at the heart of Amazonia, she could feel a little tingle at the back of her subconscious, which she took to be her Divination treading the line in the sand as a tabled member of The Accord. Mortals, she had been informed, can be made to understand their roles within the grand design—but not the layered truths that sustained the Axis Mundi.

This was a rule that Gwen was happy to abide by, for she knew Humanity far too well to trust anyone having the fortitude not to press a big red buttoned painted “Do Not Press: World will End,” for the world would implode before the paint could dry. Comparatively, according to what she’d heard from Slylth and Golos, Dragon-kind had already fucked around and found out, thereby accounting for their current state of deep chill.

“... Which leaves us with the question of who is working with Spectre. Phyr? Qila, or Sinsura? And if Quar-Tath even cares, especially considering Amazonia is inviolable.”

The Sapa Inti made no effort to disguise his burgeoning headache.

“We thank you deeply, Regent.” Inti lifted her hand so he could press his forehead against her fingertips. “By Cuzco alone, we would have never uncovered the threats lurking in the depths of Uku Pacha. Is there anything we can do to facilitate the return of Saint Lindholm?”

“Not for Elvia, though I do need your support.” Gwen felt it was now time to move on to the crux of their meeting. “I hope to cut off Spectre’s foundation of support wherever I can discover it. In the near future, my allied forces, who have a genuine grudge against the Necromancers, will mount an assault that will cleanse the Chilean Coast. Once it's done, they will return to the depth—leaving us an immense opportunity.”

“You mean, for a decade, the Black Zone will be purged.” Inti caught on at once. “Gwen, that’s tremendous.”

“We will be catching many birds with one fish.” She nodded at both King and Prince. “To be clear, the Merman Consortium under my care require a space to establish a trading station in this part of the Prime Material. As one already exists inside my city, I wish for the second outpost to be located here, in a place called Iquique. From your borderland, we can supply Cuzco with whatever trade goods you may desire.”

“Grain from Shalkar?” Inti’s eyes darted quickly between his wife and his Regent. “Is that possible?”

“I’ll have them blessed personally, if you’ll allow the outpost,” Gwen smiled with confidence. “We can also sign a Free Trade Agreement for a period preferred by your own finance department. Naturally, we can also negotiate a mutual defence pact regarding the south coast, or more, if you wish.”

The Sapa Inti’s breath quickened. “Inti, my son…”

“Father. Gwen is trustworthy,” Inti inclined his chin at his patriarch. “The Mageocracy not so much, but the Regent, we can trust.”

“The purpose of prosperity, other than providing a foothold for my Mermen, is to keep Che’ell-Cressen in check,” Gwen explained. “I trust that they do wish to remain confined to the Quar-Tath’s metaphysical world—though Spectre seems to be inviting them out of it. I want my Dwarves, Rat-kin and Merman close to make sure there’s no possibility of the Svartálfar’s ambitions spilling out from Amazonia.”

“The immortals would make battle with Cuzco?” Inti’s father asked.

“Father, if the Apu… the Svartálfar does seek to overthrow our Empire, it will not be by their hand, but by a Beast Tide,” Inti clarified for his king. “The Trolls and the numberless greenskins. The Big Birds that are no longer mythological. Spiders and Inti know how many nameless Magical Creatures are all contained within the Wall of the Woods. We cannot win, but we can survive and rebuild.”

“With my navy—with my Mermen, you will at least have a route of evacuation. The trading post will be connected to Shalkar through the Elemental Plane of Water AND the Dyar Morkk. If necessary, we can accommodate a large number of refugees. Shalkar, as you know, has already sheltered half a million refugees, and that was before we could even establish the necessary infrastructure. Between your new Dwarven Dyar Morkk and our future Merman channels, I can guarantee a second life for the citizens of Cuzco in the absolute worst scenario.”

Gwen paused. “But… my true purpose is so that this scenario will never occur, if you understand…”

“I do understand,” Inti’s father looked like he needed to toke a lungful of Faith before his heart could settle. “This is… a little more overwhelming than I had anticipated. I had always felt that the greatest threat to our city-state was our two neighbours to the north, but this… This isn’t something we can fight. My poor, hapless people…”

With great care, his son held his father’s arm to steady the trembling. Gwen did not speak, but allowed the beloved King to regain his composure. For several minutes, the younger Inti talked to his father in their native tongue, then looked up at Gwen with his usual, inviting smile.

“I feel we’re cheating you somehow,” the Prince confessed. “Even if we agree, this is hardly a fair barter.”

“It’s fair to me.” Gwen felt her heart soften. “I need this, Inti. Sobel and my brother… I can’t let them do as they please, and that means I need to lay down the roots of my World Tree wherever I can to push Spectre further and further into the most remote, inhospitable regions of our world. Once there, once they’re trapped by resource and circumstance, we’ll finally prune them like a rotten branch.”

“I assume that your we isn’t the Mageocracy.” Inti chuckled, speaking on behalf of his father. “The details will be negotiated, but you may be assured that Cuzco will look upon your endeavour with hope and support.”

“I’ll send Magister Walken at the first opportunity,” Gwen dropped a name they were all familiar with. “He’s now a board member of our collective venture.”

“Your IIUC instructor is now your employee?” Inti laughed. “We'd better all watch out. I am joking, Gwen—but truly, I am thankful.”

Father and son rose, and Gwen followed.

Each to each, they exchanged their final affirmations, knowing full well that there would be a great deal of paperwork—then a greater volume of paperwork if anything were to be done in a reasonable timeframe.

“One more thing,” Inti interrupted her when she expressed her need to be at her next port of call. “Should we inform… Magister Holbrooke? Or the ambassador from Neo Technochitlan?”

Gwen paused as well, but quickly made up her mind. “No. Inform your neighbours that we will have trade between our states, and nothing else. This is between Cuzco, Shalkar, and Che’ell-Cressen. What position do the Northerners occupy to begin to interfere? If their corporations or their religion get involved, it will only lead to delay.”

“Noted,” Inti replied with glowing confidence. “I’ll take care of it on my end. It’s been a pleasure, Regent. Again, thank you for returning Tupac to us and so much more. In addition to preparing for your return, I shall put forth as much of my time as I can to help Master Hanmoul facilitate the construction of the Low-way transit hub.”

The two Regents clasped one another’s palms in an affirming shake.

In the end, Gwen left Strun with the Prince to lubricate communication with the Dwarfs and the soon-to-arrive Rat-kin workmen, as well as inform Hanmoul of the Sinneslukare. At the ISTC, with Tica joining them, the former members of the IIUC exchanged more personal hugs and well wishes, received Blessings from the priestess of Mama Cuna, then slipped through the Astral Plane to revisit a place she had neglected for nearly three years.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Shanghai.

In the heart of the largest, most populated city in China, only two minutes by crow from the Pudong Tower and six minutes from the PLA Tower, sat the nation’s most famous tourism hot spot—Yu-yuan.

In the wake of Ayxin’s royal marriage to the Dragon Layer, General-Secretary Miao had pulled every string under the nine heavens to demolish its surroundings, expanding the enormous palace into a fifty-hectare national heritage site no less elaborate than Tokyo’s Imperial Palace.

If the resident had been anyone other than the nation’s greatest treasure, heads would have rolled over such an abuse of wealth and power. Ayxin, however, was more than mere royalty. She was the ricebowl of the southern coast. She was a living goddess who could will the weather to be fair or foul and, thereby, was responsible for the livelihood of more than half of China’s total population.

Presently, the People’s Princess lay on a vast divan of moonsilk, her body gravid with the future, singing old lullabies from when she had been the hope of a dynasty. Her ripe figure was shaded by the enormous canopy of a vast ginkgo several storeys tall, gently parachuting its golden foliage like the first snows of December.

Around the courtyard, maids in the garb of the old palace stood placid and patient, each the apex of the PLA’s Healer program, ready to provide her with vast volumes of positive mana at the slightest evidence of discomfort.

In the adjacent courtyard sat the heart of the Yuyuan palace, a six-metre-tall block of jadeite imported from the heart of Nagaland with the engraving, The Crystal of Clear Sound, used to bring Ayxin peace, ringed by a circular pond where Dragon Carp of every colour circled the stone, imbibing its residual mana.

In the midst of an aesthetic verse, her lullaby ceased.

In a place not too far from where she lounged, space itself split asunder with a low, electric hum, cracking the fabric of the Prime Material until it was large enough to accommodate her unannounced guest.

Her maids stirred into action immediately, forming a protective ring around their mistress as alarms in both Towers blared, summoning the Mage Flights assigned to the single most important duty in the nation.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Ayxin spoke in Draconic before switching to Mandarin. “Linlin, Ah-Mao, do not fret. It’s only my brothers.”

Against her wishes, her guards remained in place, with additional Mage Flight teleporting into range, fully armoured in the latest Shen-tei battle plates and buffed to the chins with Abjuration.

Slowly and sheepishly, a half-giant with the brutal visage of a Dragon’s head entered through the newly established portal, bare-chested and looking like he’d swallowed a gnat.

Behind the awkward giant was the regal form of another Dragon-kin, abnormally large for a human, but at least polymorphed to resemble a scholar-king of old, made prominent by a pair of stag horns.

Behind the grinning scholar was yet another Dragon-kin, dressed all in white and looking like a shaman who had stepped out of an old silk screen painting from the Song Dynasty.

Behind the shaman being pushed into the courtyard was a far more willing participant, pure and resplendent in his Element of fire, but so innocent that Ayxin could not see him as anything other than a child masquerading as Golos’ peer.

And finally, behind all three siblings and a scion, entered the fuming form of a human woman in her early twenties, fashionably bundled in Elven-fusion, hissing at Golos.

“I told you she’s got nothing going on…” her youngest brother, despite his improved purity of blood, mumbled in her general direction. “She just sleeps all day. She doesn’t even work, unlike me. Besides, Ruxin opened the Gate, not me…”

“Apologies, Sister. I am merely a hapless accomplice.” Their eldest nodded his head in her direction, then walked past her guards without so much as a glance in their direction. Ayxin knew that her guards had orders to put her safety far beyond the worth of their lives, but against a presence like Ruxin, the Dragon Fear far superceded the PLA’s indoctrination. “How are you feeling? We did not intent to intrude, but the matter required delicacy.”

Beside Ruxin, the Red Dragon bowed his head.

Ayxin, despite her present condition, bowed back, for the mother of the Red whelp was an Ancient that even their ancient father considered ancient.

“Why are you here?” Ayxin regarded the White Serpent in their midst. “Of all of us, you’re the least concerned with the Calamity.”

“I—”

“Nice to see you too, Aunty Ayxin. How’s the baby room coming along? I can always ask my craftsmen to make whatever you desire.” The impertinent girl, the Vessel of the One who Dreams in the Well of the World, was her usual, infuriating self.

Ayxin rolled her eyes, but she was not annoyed.

Having spent her time with Jun’s parents, and having lived among the humans as she had in the dynasties past, the Human sentiments of familial bonds were once more growing on her. Though siblings were natural competitors in the realm of Dragons, at least for now, the pretence of having an extended family was enough to put her at ease.

“Whoa— what rare guests! And Gwen! Welcome, it’s so good to see you again!” The voice that rained down from the dusky sky belonged to Jun, who had just teleported in from Tianjin as soon as his Message Device started blaring like a trumpet. “By Mao! This is incredible. I hope you’re not here because there’s another crisis…”

With a masterful tread, the old Hero of the North landed with a thump, nearly bowing his head at her brothers before Ayxin steeled his spine with a glare.

Uncle and niece embraced and hugged, then awkwardly parted.

Dragons have perfect memories.

What Percy Song tried to do during their wedding would never be erased from their collective recall and the inherited memories of their descendants. How does one begin a conversation about murdering a nephew? Ayxin could, but Jun was soft-hearted. To pretend everything was normal was merely a performance until the matter could be violently resolved.

“Allow me.” Ruxin was the oldest and the most powerful among them, and so brokered the awkwardness with his seniority. “Sister, are you able to speak to Father? His slumber is too deep for us to breach, though…”

They looked at her swollen belly. Rather than an egg, Axyin had elected to give birth to a child as a Human. Though the gestation would take another year, she was willing to bear the pain and discomfort if she and Jun could hold the child in their arms, as she had envisioned in her dreams.

What Ruxin meant, Ayxin knew, was that it was their father’s Essence that was weaving the impossible into reality within her womb. Therefore, out of all the siblings, only she could directly commune with their father, regardless of the depth of slumber the Yinglong had attained.

“I am terribly sorry, Uncle Jun,” Gwen said sheepishly. “I started with a petition through Central, but I didn’t have time for the snail mail. A Svartálfar called Phyr Quar-Tath, Vessel of the Black Dragon, ruler of Amazonia, is holding hostage your father’s Favoured Vessel.”

Ayxin studied the speaker.

The Regent. That’s the title by which Secretary Miao referred to Jun’s niece. Just as she had come a long way from Huangshan, so had the girl-child who had fought Golos to stand still while still an untested Apprentice to Jun. The latter spoke more about Golos than the girl, but Ayxin understood from the intent in the Draconic that passed between them why they were all here.

They—except Ryxi, who still looked confused—were planning something that could disturb father, and they wanted the favourite to inform their father of the fact.

“Seats…” Ayxin willed her guards to give them space, then materialised four enormous seats into place.

Golos sat.

Ruxin sat.

Ryxi sat.

Sylth sat.

Her husband sat beside her. Stood. Then sat again.

Gwen looked at Ayxin, invaded the compliant red whelp’s space, then made herself comfortable.

“Alright, Aunty,” the Regent informed her while flashing a pair of scandalously exposed thighs. “Listen up. I found Percy, Spectre, and Sobel. I’ve got a plan. But we’re going to need granduncle to put on a whole ass, Greek-tragedy-tier Beijing Opera…”

London.

Westminister.

Mycroft Ravenport, Master of Arms of her Majesty’s Mages and her minister of Foreign Affairs, stood at his floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Commons’ Garden, lost in thought, absentmindedly feeding protein pellets to the enormous crow perched on the scarlet, woollen drape.

“Something’ the matter, father?” his son, Quinn, was browsing through the reports on his desk, was genuinely concerned. They’d been engaged in an enormously enjoyable debate on political intrigue to celebrate Quinn’s return to London before his next tour—and then Morrigan had arrived with the latest from Shalkar. “Is it something sharable, so I may lessen the load on your shoulders?”

Mycroft had thought that he’d replied to his son, only to realise that no voice had exited his rigid lips.

“Ah—is this about our Regent?” Quinn’s expression grew mischievous. “It is, isn’t it? Am I allowed to know? Or is this above my pay grade?”

Mycroft fed the greedy crow another pellet.

Morrigan was eating well these days, positively plump from the secrets their Regent was adding to the archives.

“I can share some of it,” Ravenport decided he needed to air his grievances before he choked on them. The other day, he had found a horrific collection of shocking white strands in his head. Against his better judgment, he had then imbibed a flask of distilled Golden Mead, a unique health product sold by the Shalkar Trade Consortium, originally brewed by the Dwarves as wards against mind parasites.

When one of the Shard’s Food and Safety Clerics discovered that the drink promoted intestinal health, hair and nail growth and that it was a panacea for small pains and cramps, the flasks began to sell on the Grey Market for well over a hundred HDMs per auction.

And the Duke of Norfolk was having plenty of pains in recent weeks.

Summoning the psychic effort to reorganise what can be shared and what must be covered, he left the pellet pouch with the crow, who prompted, took the whole thing and made for the sky. Though the girl had been absent for a while now, Morrigan had kept up her friendship with the duck. Now, the two regularly terrorised Regents Park and its hapless wardens.

“Our Regent is going to blight the Chilean Coast and build another city there.”

Quinn instantly spilt the tea he was holding, catching the droplets with the plate before they ruined the paperwork.

“She’s WHAT?” his son looked at his ruined shirt and frowed. “Is that allowed? Can’t you…”

“I don’t dare to exercise my rightful authority.” Ravenport sighed long and hard. “We decided, a long time ago, that once Tryfan had taken over her stewardship, she was no longer our creature, but their’s. So long as the Mageocracy openly confess to resting our hands when it comes to the Regent’s actions, we cannot be made to be accountable for her success.”

“But we did benefit from her works,” Quinn pointed out. “There’s even a Dyar Morkk Transit Station in Gibraltar now. I took the train here, and it took less than forty minutes. Some of the ocean freighters aren’t even braving the Mediterranean anymore, because it's cheaper to transit containers through the low-ways. As beneficiaries, are we not accountable?”

“Who hasn’t benefited from her private infrastructure?” Ravenport rolled his eyes. “Central Europe has finally corked its famine thanks to her taming of the Fire Sea, which ended the drought devastating the Ukrainian wheat fields. All that food is being transported by the Bavarian Dwarves across cities and nations everywhere. We’ve never been more unified.”

Quinn, as his student, immediately understood his father’s meaning. “... So what you feared has come to pass?”

“It has, and it took less than six years,” Ravenport poured them both something strong from the good cabinet, thumbing the intricate design on the crystal glass to distract himself. “Do you recall how that fool Popov tried to muscle in on Shalkar? He never apologised, you know? So, there are low-way stations in Riga, Kyiv, Warsaw, Odesa, and Bucharest, but none in Moscow. Russian goods, even if transported to Kyiv, are subject to an enormous tariff. The central powers gleefully implemented this because they wanted to appease their Dwarves and encourage them to build more low-ways. As for Moscow’s economy…let’s just say, at least they have vodka…”

“I know this,” Quinn confessed. “But I did not know her control was so complete.”

“It was completed when she became the Saviour of Deepholm. And now that she’s finished with controlling the railways, she’s going after the transatlantic trade.”

“The United States won’t allow her, surely?” Quinn’s gaze moved to the enormous globe on the table’s right. “The colonies are… unforgiving when it comes to profit.”

“The States are not a part of this until they volunteer, which they will,” Ravenport shook his head. “She knows our game very well now. Never support an empire when you can support its detractors. You recall that she has a bond with the Incan Prince, yes?”

“Yes, I’ve met Inti when we had the Royal banquet a while back,” Quinn nodded with a smile. “Good man, a bit too good. Afraid of his wife. The Marquess of Hertford’s daughter was ready to straddle him right there had his wife permitted.”

Ravenport laughed, glad for his son’s youthful humour. “Yes, well, that’s who Gwen is working with. She’s already laid down the tracks for a low-way into the southern Suyu. She has also obtained permission and full support from Sapa Inti to initiate a Purge of the southern Peruvian Black Zone. She says that there’s Sinneslukare hold up there, and that the Ordo has confirmed that the Necromancers are brewing a Necrophage targeting the Mer—the very same ones from Tianjin.”

“Spectre?” Quinn was quick to catch on. “That’s quite reasonable, isn’t it? But it's a very long way for us to send our navy. The Royal Raven won’t be ready for another six months.”

“She doesn’t need our navy,” Ravenport explained with exasperation. “Remember how she returned from the Fifth Vel? She’s still got that one. I won’t comment on the prowess of her navy, but its number is… beyond the Mageocracy’s comprehension.”

“Our Regent has a navy that is larger than the largest Human naval fleet on the Prime Material?” Quinn was finally beginning to understand the gravity of the matter.

“Technically, a civilian refugee fleet, until she decides otherwise. Its upkeep comes from its home in the Fifth Vel, and the Shoal has no interest in possessing land or even a domain in the Prime Material, but…”

“But she wills where it may go…” Quinn took a long swig of his single malt. “So, what happens when she also controls the Trans-Atlantic trade?”

“First, we will enter into an epoch of global prosperity, probably,” Ravenport laughed at his own absurdism. “Then, we watch as the world burns from the Dragons she’s angered.”

“Do we… do something about this?” Quinn’s hands finally finished their fidgeting as the amber liquid took its toll. “As the future Duke of Norfolk and the man in your unenviable position, what should I do, father?”

The Duke of Norfolk placed a hand on the ornate, 17th-century globe, which featured an updated map. It was good to vent. His son was agitated, but Ravenport’s heart was finally at peace. “It’s too late for us, but as hapless bystanders, let us just appreciate, for a moment, how fun and profitable it would be to witness how she rolls our old colonies.”

Somewhere in the South Pacific Ocean, a once-in-a-century tempest raged, unseen by the beacons of human shores.

"Iä! Iä! Iä!" "Iä! Iä! Iä!" "Iä! Iä! Iä!"

Lei-bup, High Whip of the Pale Priestess, stretched every tentacle he possessed toward the high heavens, reaching so high that he felt as if he could grasp the cloudless moon to present it as a prize to his mistress.

All around the high priest, the Mer of the Great Shoal Forward, blessed by her Essence and each sporting her glorious, aberrant blessings, whipped themselves into a frenzy.

"LÄ! LÄ! LÄ!" Lei-bup let loose a bellow that sent ripples across the seascape surrounding Aristotle, whose multiple brains amplified the Shoals' psychic fervour to attain her grand purpose.

"Gwëëë—Gwëëë—Gwëëëņ—!" The gathered Mermen echoed the High Priest's gurgles.

The sound of the Great Shoal’s hollers rolled like a tide across the Leviathan's carapace, washing back and forth across the undulating mass of oily bodies.

"The Priestess of Pale Flesh has sent us a vision," Lei-bup need not speak loudly, for the faithful heard his words as their private thoughts. "She has exposed the sinners in the dark! She has found the foes who seek to undo the Great Purpose! Come, my comrades! Come one, and come all—to our new paradise!!!"

The sea turned the consistency of milk. Tentacles, tails, claws and teeth frothed and nashed as the ivory water grew heavy with foam and moonlight, leaving only the unending sound of an armada on the march.

Iä! Iä! Iä!

Gwëëë—Gwëëë—Gwëëëņ—

Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä!

Gwëëë—Gwëëë—Gwëëëņ—Gwëëë—Gwëëë—Gwëëëņ—

Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä!

Gwëëë—Gwëëë—Gwëëëņ—Gwëëë—Gwëëë—Gwëëëņ—Gwëëë—Gwëëë—Gwëëëņ—

Iä! Iä! Iä! Gwëëë—Gwëëë—Gwëëëņ— Iä! Iä! Iä! Gwëëë—Gwëëë—Gwëëëņ— Iä! Iä! Iä! Iä!