Metaworld Chronicles

Rakiura Purple Zone.

New Zealand.

Unbeknownst to many, the little-known inlet of Oban sits on the southern tip of Aotearoa, on an island that the Demi-God Māui used as the anchor for fishing up the north island. The modern Geomancers of the Mageocracy, who deemed it necessary to rename the tongue-twisting island chain "New Zealand", did so while well aware that the north island may have been a Leviathan of unusual size. The Prime Material was, after all, where the flotsam and jetsom of the Elemental Planes naturally ended up. Therefore, a perishing Leviathan dying when it emerged into a plane with insufficient buoyancy to sustain its colossal body wasn't impossible.

Perhaps the tale of the islands being the carcasses of mythical Leviathans could explain why Te Waka a Māui, or "Māui's Canoe" that made up the south island was prone to producing a greater variety of magical produce than any other colony under the Mageocracy's reign and served as home to enormous hosts of Demi-human beings.

Oban sat on the smallest isle, Rakiura, later renamed "Stewart Island", after the Victorian cartographer who mapped the region.

In the present day, two significant Human settlements exist on New Zealand's shores after the Beast Tide—Auckland in the heart of the north island, and its sister city slightly south, Wellington.

Its third settlement, the city of Christchurch, beautiful and wondrous it may have been, was unfortunately relegated to human history by the Beast Tide and now exists as a fortress serving races without amicable relationships to the Humans up north.

It was from Oban, an inlet on Rakiura's east, that Divination Station WETA1077 now sent its complex string of warnings towards its mother station in Wellington. For almost two days, its station Master, a Senior Geomancer of no import who had chosen a remote job because it allowed him to focus on his Ice Magic, could only watch in awe as the spectrometric readings of the South Sea shot from their usual range into the utmost extremes, then stayed there.

At first, the Geomancer was confident the sudden surge of every reading meant his instruments required new calibrations. Though his Spectrometer was Dwarven-designed and German-made, the snow, wind and sleet so common to Oban were not kind by any measure, sparing not even the rocks that rolled down the escarpment under which the station hid.

With his mind made up, the Geomancer had decided to see what would happen with his own eyes. After all, with every needle going haywire, he had no idea what he should even report.

An hour later, he had his answer in the midst of making tea.

First came the sound, a heavenly echo that rolled like solid thunder, moving as slow as molasses as it washed over Oban's shores, so oppressive that the shielded station felt as though underwater.

When the sound did hit, the transmuted concrete of Oban station shook as though a jar of fruit abused by a belligerent child, sending every item not bolted down to rain down on its sole inhabitant.

In a daze, the Geomancer had dug himself from the debris to make his way back to the Spectrometric reading room. There, he no longer needed the readings to know that something terrible and terrific was occurring across the ocean.

Immediately abandoning his tea, the Geomancer forced himself to record, then compose a Message to Wellington station, one that would warn them of the impending horror to come.

Fifteen minutes later, from the vantage of his seaside office, the Geomancer saw a great plume begin to build on the horizon. Even from his privileged position, the curvature of Terra's vast globular distance made the scale of the dust stack impossible to estimate—but for him to see it from Oban, there was no doubt as to the stratospheric pollution taking place.

Then, the sea began to shimmy.

Not surge.

Nor crash.

But recede.

As the tide flowed impossibly backwards, it exposed the shallow denizens of the South Sea.

Stricken fish, confused clams, suddenly exposed crustaceans the size of houses and bewildered Mermen who traded fish with the Geomancer for grain—all were left exposed to the frigid air of Oban.

The Geomancer knew then that the sea would return with the crushing wrath of ten Leviathans within minutes.

It was there then that the Mage, whose name was known only to the Wondrous Energies Technical Academy based on the coast of Wellington, made a choice. In one scenario, he picked up the emergency Boots of Flight and legged it, likely making it a hundred kilometres before he could find a fishing vessel to take shelter.

In the other scenario, he shepherded the Message device, calibrating its fluctuations in the Elemental Planes, then stayed with the station until the inevitable happened, praying to Māui that he had enough HDMs left for the Message to reach Wellington.

The Geomancer chose the latter.

When one's home was the Purple Zone of Rakiura with its view of the limitless ocean and a backdrop of endless Roc nests, Wyvern hovels and other Elementals, the minuscule nature of his existence was never a matter of doubt.

But now, having chosen to be the better man, the anonymous Mage felt that perhaps, this one time, he would have made a difference to Humanity, or at least, the lives of his forgetful colleagues in Wellington.

A few minutes later, under his trembling fingers, the gauge showed the station's mana reserves nearing depletion and that the Message, as far as he could know, was still sending.

All that was left, the Geomancer supposed—was to be at peace and relish the sublime, unfathomable power of the natural world.

WETA.

Wellington.

Magister Maka Kawhena, Academic Director and principal Geomancer at the Wondrous Energies Technical Academy, was woken up by his bright-faced assistants.

"Something's happening on Rakuira!" the youthful faces yammered, explaining that there was an immense elemental surge of sorts.

Kawhena remained unfazed, for here was Aotearoa! A land of Halflings and Titans! A land where on Wednesday, one could experience a sudden surge of Elemental Fire so close to Auckland that the ground would shake—after which the faculty went back to lunch.

Oban was their southernmost station, constructed in the unpopulated Purple Zone with a skeleton staff of one. The reports from Oban had rarely contained anything of interest, and over the years, Kawhena had near-forgot that the place even existed.

"What's the matter now?" Magister Kawhena broke the crust from his eyes, stowed his research papers with a swipe of his Storage Ring, then yawned to dispel his fatigue.

"The readings are off the charts!" One of the students waved the script back and fro. "And I think… Oban's gone."

"Gone?" Kawhena's mind instantly grew clear at the unfortunate news. "Give it here."

His eyes scanned the script.

The readings, as it were, were "off the charts", not as a figure of speech. The Elemental Spectrometer readings from Oban Station's final transmission was of such magnitude that the numbers were beyond the scope of its Divination Engines to compute. Had Oban itself not reported its destruction, the Magister would have foremostly considered the readings an error.

"Anything else?" The Magister asked his students, despite knowing that the Divination Station was too isolated and weak to transmute vocal Messages or Lumen-casts. Nonetheless, if he took the readings to be accurate, then Wellington would very soon encounter an unfathomable trial.

The students understandably shook their heads.

"Sir?" One of them must have noted his facial expression. "Are you ill?"

Kawhena touched a hand to his forehead.

He was sweating, he realised. In mid-January, Wellington was prone to heatwaves, but as February marched in, the temperature usually peaked in the brisk twenties and dropped into the lower teens.

"Come with me," Kawhena decided to inform Auckland Tower at once, true or otherwise, that was his duty as Chief Geomancer. "We're going to the LR Message chamber. We need to—"

The building shook, as did their bones.

A clash of raw, relentless thunder rolled across the sky over Wellington, so powerful that deep inside WETA's reinforced academic building, dust from the ceiling fell across the Master and student like fine, powdered snow.

"What was that?" One of the students said, perhaps finally realising things were about to get real.

"Thunder?" Another remained optimistic.

"No, not thunder," Kawhena said aloud. A scholar of his tenure knew very well the weather forecast for the next week. Likewise, his student should have known that no weather phenomenon manifested as a single thunderclap.

Ding—DING—DING!

Before the Kawhena could station his train of thought, a stylised chime for urgent notifications blossomed beside his ear as a burst of red mist. Putting the output on public, Kawhena activated the incoming Message.

"Kawhena here." The Magister kept his voice level. "What's happening?"

"Sir." The voice from the other end was from his Apprentice, a Magus Geomancer from the Akaroa Outpost, sheltered in a volcanic inlet. "I just received pings from our buoys south of Oamaru. There's a tsunami currently moving northward toward Timaru. It should reach our station in twenty minutes."

"How bad?" Kawhena asked.

"We're getting ready to evacuate," the voice replied. "From our readings, it's travelling at close to three hundred knots and moving at a depth of about a hundred meters to fifty meters. It should reach Wellington in the next eighty minutes."

"Anticipated wave height?"

"Uncertain. I'll report as soon as the primary crest passes the outer rim of the station."

"Anticipated damage to the substation?"

"Catastrophic is my guess. Thankfully, the spontaneity and speed of the Tai āniwhaniwh indicate this to be a natural occurrence, likely from tectonic movements in the south. The fastest Leviathan we've recorded can barely manage fifty knots without its brigades of Mermen, so it can't be an invasion."

"Understood. Pass on the warning to Auckland. With preparation, the Tower should be able to minimise the damage and organise the city's defence. Very well done, Magus Everett."

"You've taught me well, Master."

"I don't recall teaching you flattery." Kawhena wanted to smile, but his facial muscles were too rigid for feigning hope. His Senior Apprentice was an experienced Geomancer. If the young man's calculations remained true, then the sea wall and the reinforced Shield Barriers south of Wellington would not be nearly enough to stop a tsunami of this magnitude.

"All of you, come with me to the observation room," he informed his students, then mentally punched in another Glyph into the active Message spell. "Ena, Ruhi, go inform the militia. Moki, confirm the bad news with the city guards. I'll contact the Tower. Ahi, go help organise the evacuation."

The call took half a minute to finally make its way through the rudimentary Divination Towers that snaked across the north island, past the Halfling settlement of Hamilton, then Auckland. The delay, frustrating as it was, was the best their Frontier could manage. Unlike the first-tier cities, having middle-tier Diviners manning Divination hubs was a luxury they could not afford.

"Maka—" The voice that answered him was calm. "It's good that you've called. We've all heard the commotion. How bad is it?"

"Paladin. I regret to inform you that Oban's obliterated," Kawhena said. "There's a Tai āniwhaniwh wrapping around the north coast in the next sixty to eighty minutes going three hundred knots. We'll take the brunt of it, but enough of it will reach Auckland to make reinforcements... complicated."

"The cause?"

"The readings indicate a spontaneous natural event."

"… I see," the voice of Auckland Tower's premier Battle Mage, Magister Te Wherowhero, sounded relieved. "Nonetheless, I suspect we shall require aid from Sydney and Melbourne. I'll mobilise the Tower in the meanwhile and have Whetu organise the reserves. Master Hildenbrandt will officially request our Halflings allies at Hamilton to ready relief supplies for Wellington. Likewise, we'll spare what we can for your defence. Stay safe, Maka."

"You too, mate," Magister Kawhena allowed himself the luxury of speaking informally to his old friend and colleague. "I am confident Wellington will survive and rebuild, just like Sydney."

In the lobby of WETA's academic hall, the arriving Kawhena addressed the hundred or so of his colleagues who had by now emerged from their labs for the observation hall, the designated meeting place for emergencies.

Altogether, there were only three Magisters and something south of forty Magus-tier casters in the entire city of Wellington. Kawhena's saving grace, he supposed, was that only a hundred thousand NoMs serviced the port city, a stark contrast to the milling million Kiwis in Auckland.

Nonetheless, with the sirens blaring and the population well-trained against natural disasters and Mermen incursions, he had no doubt any citizens with good sense should be able to find shelter, or at least escaped to higher ground by the time the Tai āniwhaniwh made landfall.

All that was left was to defend Wellington from the residual tidal surges as best as they could, then hope to Māui that no Elder-tier Elementals had decided to take the opportunity to tour their hapless settlement.

Within ten minutes, as had been drilled dozens of times before, Kawhena split WETA's Mages as best as he could.

Then, while making for the observation room, Kawhena took the readings from Oban and studied the numbers.

Only a dozen pages managed to make the leap from Oban to Wellington, making the cause of the disaster woefully unclear.

One graph, or whatever could be transmitted, indicated an overabundance of Elemental Fire in the hour prior, reaching a peak of some twenty-six thousand per cent of the yearly average. At the same time, Elemental Earth in the region showed growth of some fifteen thousand per cent. Likewise, Elemental Ash, Smoke, and an assortment of flame-aligned elements also inundated the chart, causing a depression in the spectrometric volume of Elemental Water, Air, and Ice that dominated the region. For an area possessing ninety-nine per cent water, ice and frigid air, Kawhena too would have doubted the validity of the instruments.

In hindsight, the numbers matched a sudden volcanic eruption, though the total lack of build-up before the detonation was a matter of great suspect.

Regardless, the origin of their present woe could only come from one source.

Mount Erebus.

For aeons, the dormant volcano had remained a bastion of Elemental Fire against the all-pervading cold. When it last erupted in '97, Kawhena had been a Magus studying in Auckland and was lucky enough to be selected for an expedition to witness the eternal battles between the Magma and Ice Elementals that reigned in Antarctica's northern Black Zone.

Still, Kawhena felt an unwelcome queasiness.

If the Tai āniwhaniwh caused by an eruption in or near Erebus was enough to wipe out Oban station, then how large must the blast be?

With a heavy heart, Kawhena did his best to match the readings to a mental image of the sky-rending ash cloud now spreading over the white linen snow of the Antarctic—transforming the infamous seat of pristine frost into a wasteland of choking ash.

What did such a thing portend for the days to come?

Regrettably, as a Frontier Magister and administrator, Maka Hawhena could honestly say that he had no idea.

Mycroft Ravenport received the report of the eruption of Mount Erebus no less than an hour after Auckland Tower's mobilisation.

His first reaction was to suppress the deeply felt suspicion that Morrigan's conjecture was correct and that Spectre's next target required an over-extension of the state's forces. Already, he had sent forth agents from the Sixth Cabal into the Wildlands of the southern Frontiers.

But that was a week ago.

And despite the vigilance of his agents, there would be a few weeks before he received a full report. The delay was frustrating but necessary—for regardless of their zealotry for threats against the Mageocracy, no Human instruments existed to monitor the south pole beyond Spectrometric Stations on Falkland Island and Oban.

And now, both were gone, and the Antarctic Black Zone was presumably on fire.

In a less complicated time, were he to call upon Morrigan's record-searching expertise, the crow would croak that magma bursts were a dozen-a-decade affair, and they occurred without rhyme or rhythm, or at least one that the Mageocracy could discern.

Against such "known" tectonic anomalies, the Mageocracy had well-built insurances in place. Ironically, certain settlements existed solely to survey such regions. For a well-shielded Frontier, a volcano wasn't just a source of danger but a source of immense resources, for whether caused by planar disjunctions or simply the natural flow of elemental energies in flux, every destructive aftermath left behind countless new HDM growths ripe for the picking. For this reason, regions like Auckland may lack in Mages and manpower but rarely lack infrastructural investments.

Had Mycroft not received Morrigan's warning, the eruption should have been a cause for celebration.

Once Auckland and Wellington endured and was in the recovery process, Mages could be ferried from Singapore and the coastal cities of Australia to mine the newly exposed wealth. Though utterly inhospitable, a well-armed expedition on a fully equipped ice breaker barge could penetrate the South Sea, then serve as a temporary operating base.

There or near Erebus, once the warring Elemental Monsters were "Purged", the acquired materials and HDMs would be split between the Mageocracy, its Commonwealth colony, and the mercenaries hired by the Tower to do its bidding. Unless something catastrophic occurred, such as a sustained Mermen Tide or the awakening of something ancient and opinionated, all parties walked away satisfied and laden with riches.

However, the dangers were real, and so were his lack of men.

Ashbridge had already summoned the available manpower the state could spare at a moment's notice, meaning the Royal Docks were presently loading the HMS Argus with Golems, tents, supplies and materials for the temporary command centre off Greenland's coast.

To summon as many men again for a second Breaker Carrier, but this time for the underside of Terra, was not only improbable but potentially unprofitable. Thanks to a certain newspaper, the losses sustained in the Niger Delta had the Militant Faction blushing for shame, meaning the Grey and Middle Faction had to unsubtly encourage their privateering cousin utilising garish promises and upfront reinforcements, like tossing meat to a ravening Manticore to steer the end with three mouths toward one's foes.

Nonetheless, Mycroft's appointment meant he MUST make a recommendation to parliament. At the same time, his suggestion had to attain rapport with all three Factions of the Tower—and pass muster with the Crown.

His only reprieve was that he needed not juggle Factional considerations to find a capable Commander, unlike the Fire Sea expedition. As the matter occurred nearest to Auckland, the Commonwealth's treaties naturally left the organisation of relief and recovery to the closest Tower and its Master. London's dispatches would operate under Auckland, even if in name only.

In a simpler time, Mycroft may not have bothered sending Mages at all, not when HDMs and supplies were sufficient.

The Paladin of Auckland and Gunther's old contemporary was Magister Te Wherowhero, an Earthen specialist with a wealth of experience going back to the Beast Tide. Under his care, most of the north island's terrestrial Demi-humans were allies of the Tower and could count on their aid. Likewise, Auckland would call for assistance from Sydney and Melbourne. On that front, Mycroft could predict with absolute confidence that The Morning Star would take the opportunity to repay the kindness Auckland had exhibited three years ago.

Across the miasma-choked air of Westminster, the dull echoes of Big Ben's mechanisms announced the time.

Rubbing his eyes, Mycroft took a moment to vent his annoyance at the tyrannical march of Big Ben's heartless tolls. His original plan a week ago had been to spare an evening for a toast with Charlene, or at least a gesture of congratulation over a luncheon—but now, he could barely recall when he last had tea without the interruption of reports.

Once the discomfort in his eyes faded, Mycroft considered his options.

Any work in Antarctica required the attention of a well-suited Magister from the Shard. One he did not have.

There were candidates—but these were haughty men and women with little regard and even less respect for the sovereignty of their southernly Commonwealth compatriots. On the surface, they had no trouble processing the grand scale of the Mageocracy's assumed fairness. Still, Mycroft knew these Magisters better than themselves, especially when given a fully-equipped research vessel equating a mobile mini-Tower.

For a Magister to accrue accreditation and succeed in his assignments, help and favours were inevitable. A clean and uncomplicated Purge required complex networks borrowed from their sponsors. Correspondingly, to terraform a section of an Orange Zone into a pacified Green Zone, mountains of HDMs had to be poured into the building of Shielding Stations, roadways and to attract NoMs and labourers to settle into a newly "recovered" Frontier. Most importantly, failure almost always accompanied such successes, meaning political buffers had to be erected through gifting profits and favours to ensure that the Magister's evaluation emerged favourably.

Conversely, the "Down Under" region of Australia and New Zealand was just a little too far from the bountiful bosom of the green isle in the north to remain in its sphere of control. That was why Henry Kilroy had exiled himself after the violent ex-communication of his wife. Likewise, that the Towers of Europe had given the man a wide berth for almost three decades meant the Empire's ex-penal colony had affected an assumed independence.

That and the region's war leaders were Wherowhero and Gunther Shultz.

Paladin Wherowhero, a renounced "king" of the Maori and a shaman-turned-Magister, exhibited only ambivalence for the Mageocracy's promise of "common" wealth.

As for Shultz…

Mycroft was sorry to say that a man whose prowess was used to categorise the War Mage tiers could arguably do whatever he wished. Around two decades ago, when Kilroy announced that he would take Gunther with him to reclaim the eastern coast of Australia, it was not outrage that the Mageocracy had expressed but a shared sense of relief. Thanks to Shultz's bloodline, a dozen domains across both the Kingdom and the continent had felt threatened by his inevitable claim to power.

Therefore, the making of Gunther Shultz into the Tower Master of a perpetually besieged mining colony was the most remarkable outcome anyone could have imagined, leaving many in awe of Kilroy's generosity.

That was why Shultz's proposal to rebuild Sydney as a tier 1 city in the south had not only been met with applause, but every Faction had pitched in to keep the man busy and forgetful of his birthrights in Europe.

"Morrigan," Mycroft called for his Spirit.

The crow-woman manifested at once. Of late, Morrigan had rarely left Mycroft's side as matters in the north continued to unfold.

"What's the girl doing?"

"Making use of the NoM Artificer from MIT," Morrigan answered happily.

"Trying to get her grubby mugs on Golems?" Mycroft furrowed his brows. If the girl started building Golems in her Print Works, the Fifth Cabal would be very interested. Once the girl had her Tower, she could manage it as she wished—but for now, for what possible "private" use could a War Mage have for Custom Golem casings?

Morrigan looked up with a smug look of mischief. "No, Master. She's working on the Llias Leaf. The NoM says he may be able to replicate some of its functions."

"Good, as long as it isn't Golems," Mycroft spoke on reflex, then slowly allowed his exhausted mind to catch up with the surprise and irritation suddenly swelling his temples. "… Gwen's doing what now?"

"Our 'Mistress of the Dogs' is trying to dissect the Hvítálfar magic associated with the Llias Leaf," Morrigan's lips were so red with excitement that for a moment, Mycroft mistook the colour for blood. "She's trying to glean its secrets by having the NoM approach the Elven Glyphs. Something about using similar Dwarven Glyphs as a medium."

The Duke of Norfolk pictured his daughter standing next to Gwen at the All England.

Charlene was such a good girl, he thought to himself. All his little bird desired was to overturn the old power pyramid to benefit more of the Mageocracy's citizens—and gain power for herself in the process. It was a very admirable goal. Why couldn't Kilroy's Apprentice also be a good girl like Charlene?

A part of Mycroft wanted to teleport to the Isle of Dogs and slap the Llias Leaf from the girl's hands, then strike her thrice on the head with his raven-headed cane.

Another part of him, the logical portion he valued more than his health and life, told him that the Llias Leaf was a gift from Tryfan to Gwen and that Tryfan was more than capable of protecting its secrets if it so desired.

Therefore, mindful of his feelings on the Accord, the Duke of Norfolk poured himself a cup of cold tea, swished the bitter liquid in his mouth, then swallowed.

In all honesty, sending the girl down south felt absurd.

She was too young, too inexperienced, and far too talented, a terrible combination when the desired outcome should be "predictable".

If, by chance, the girl made "Shalkar" happen in the Antarctic Black Zone, would the Great Tree of Tryfan spontaneously combust?

But that didn't mean he had a better candidate in mind.

If Antarctica turned out as Morrigan had suspected—would sending Gwen not be a stroke of genius?

Mycroft reminded himself that the girl was indeed an Apprentice of Kilroy, a man instrumental in establishing the current Accord and that Kilroy's history with the Hvítálfar was as thick as sheaves under the World Tree. Thereby, if she did make unhappy contact with Illhîweth, Tryfan should step in to prevent an escalation.

As for the Mermen—Mycroft recalled the girl possessed a deft hand at dealing with Mermen.

At worst, he was confident Gunther Shultz would personally attend to the girl's blunders.

With his confidence bolstered, the mindscape of England's Lord Marshall began to entwine the strings of cause and consequence.

The Shard MUST send an expedition, one that involved a Breaker Carrier, to the northern tip of Antarctica to observe the rapidly changing conditions there.

At best, the discharge at Mount Erebus was a natural occurrence, meaning Auckland and the expedition could excavate a Dragon's hoard of HDMs and Creature Cores, then retreat to the safety of the Shield Walls.

At worst, if indeed Spectre was involved, then the girl would be wholly motivated to Void them, and should she prove insufficient, The Morning Star would teleport to her aid together with the Scarlet Sorceress without a second thought. Likewise, should the matter grow dire, the Tower Master of Sydney had already amassed enough HDMs from the sale of the Leviathan's offals to move his renovated Tower across the South Ocean.

When Mycroft tried to envision Gunther Shultz appearing as a blazing sphere of pure Radiance above the endless snow of Antarctica to rain down god rays of absolution upon Spectre's agents, even he couldn't help but affect a secret smile. Terrifying as Sobel could be, the Mageocracy never did lack in giving as good as it got.

But of course, Kilroy's youngest was still a student. She may not act like one, nor behave as such, or possess the same limitations as a regular Magister candidate, but Gwen was, without a doubt, an undergraduate of Cambridge.

Yet, many Mages had distinguished themselves during the Beast Tide in his generation despite their status as juniors. Later, a great many of these ambitious men and women, Mycroft included, went on to reclaim Humanities waterlogged cities, settling themselves into the new political fabric of the Commonwealth.

Thereby, it was thanks to a great many antecedences that The Shard possessed no problems bestowing the necessary titles—and Mycroft doubted it would shy away from the same liberties today, so long as the girl performed.

Presently, the girl already had Shalkar under her name.

Should Antarctica prove more than a milk run, and assuming the girl succeeds—Mycroft sipped his cold tea.

The transition from a Magus to Magister required certified contributions to the Tower, the Commonwealth, and Humanity itself. Two tours—and the gains to show it—was more than enough to attain such a title, regardless of her academic achievements.

An undergraduate Magister?

An undergraduate Tower Master?

The paradox made Mycroft's temple throb—but at the same time, he couldn't help but feel a tiny and expectant flutter of the heart.

For now, he would ask the girl to volunteer with a coalition of the willing to Wellington.

And as she accrued credits and continued her lessons, he would put the mechanisms in place for a second expedition to the south.

As for the leader of the expedition...

Now that Charlene had debuted into the political world. Wasn't it natural for a good father to put his best daughter forward?

Sydney.

The Tower.

Gunther Shultz, Morning Star and Tower Master, calmly ate his burnt eggs, crushing the charcoal between pearly teeth to ease its passing with bitter coffee.

From his open kitchen, he could see the entirety of Sydney's harbour, now ten times the size of its predecessor and entirely a man-made construct excavated from the bizarre formations of the Leviathan's hollowed-out carcass.

His wife, the always lovely, consistently fiery Alesia de Botton, readied herself for work, entirely forgetting the garlic bread in the oven and the spilt packets of raw bacon still sitting on the counter. There were spent eggshells as well, inexpertly cracked, still on the cooktop, and a burnt pan sat unwashed in the sink, crying out for redress.

Many husbands would find the scene disheartening, perhaps even annoying enough to cause a minor scuffle or disagreement.

Gunther did not feel any such need.

For a man of his prowess and responsibilities, he felt that the minutes he would spend around the kitchen cleaning up after a wife who could not but insisted on cooking was a rare bliss.

The one regret that assailed him when Gunther looked out over the peaceful harbour and ate Alesia's half-cooked, over-cooked, or uncooked meals, was that his Master wasn't here rolling his eyes and teasing Allie.

The clock chimed.

Another ten minutes, and he would teleport back to reality.

Gunther knew with absolute certainty that such idle days of domestic bliss were merely a pacifying drug to will away the time while something direr brewed. If it pleased Alesia to play the housewife while she could, then he would play the role of a mortal husband, one who wasn't responsible for the five million lives up and down the east coast.

He quickly swallowed the last of his burnt egg-on-toast.

Two days ago, the news had arrived in the form of a Tower-shaking boom with uncertain origins. Hours later, Gunther received an urgent message from the Tower Master of Auckland, hoping that Sydney and Melbourne might give them the necessary aid to repel the Mermen Tide now that the immediate threat of the tsunami had passed.

Shortly after, Sydney and Melbourne had entered a state of emergency, activating coastal defences and powering up their Tower Cores to repel the tidal waters.

Melbourne reported minimal disruptions and damage thanks to its inlet locale.

Much to Gunther's pleasure, Sydney reported a complete containment of the flood water thanks to its new infrastructure and Leviathan-powered Shielding Stations.

As for the original victims of the unexpected disaster, Wellington's collapse was sufficiently suppressed by overworking the Shielding Generators, sacrificing a few outlying engines to create localised maelstroms feeding the incoming tide into the Elemental Plane of Water.

As a result, the city centre had been preserved at the cost of losing seventy-five per cent of its resonator capacity and thirty-three out of the forty-five Shielding Stations in the Cook Strait. The city's sea wall had been overwhelmed, though not to such a degree that the harbour districts were unrepairable. Likewise, though the lower sections of the Wondrous Energies Technical Academy were flooded with debris, the recovery period still fell within the limitations of time and HDMs available to Auckland.

What worried Te Wherowhero was what came next.

A tsunami of this magnitude often travelled deep and long, meaning every Mermen Shoal between the South Ocean and the Tasman Sea would be alerted to the fact that the closest human settlements, Wellington and Auckland, would be understaffed and under defended and that the dreaded resonating crystals would likely be out of sync.

For the Seven Kingdoms of Mermen, one of which lay northward in the Coral Sea and the other east of New Zealand's coast in the South Pacific, there was no reason NOT to assail the weakened settlements.

By mobilising its Tower, Auckland should be able to repel the Mermen Tide—but Wellington, with its breached defences and lack of manpower, would have the impossible tasks of a botched evacuation or an improbable city defence. To Gunther's knowledge, a worse-still scenario was the usually amicable relationship the Maori shared with the coastal Mermen who freely traded with the city. Would the half-million of these former "allies" defend the city? Or would they flee? Or, more likely, would they join the "Great Shoal" making its way toward the inundated coastline?

Wellington needed aid, and the support had to be swift.

As the Tower Master of Sydney, he couldn't just upend his work and leave for Wellington, not to mention the Auckland Frontier wasn't his to govern. What he could spare was a Senior Mage Flight and Sydney Tower's rising star—Alesia's "Little Scarlet", which, together with Melbourne Tower's contributions, should significantly bolster Wellington's military potential.

"When are Yue and the boys leaving for Auckland?" Alesia caught his wandering gaze, then read his mind.

"Tomorrow," Gunther recalled the girl who barged into his office demanding to be let in on the Mage Flight, explaining that she had to fight for her mates across the ocean. "Jonas is returning to Sydney as we speak. He should arrive tonight. Billy's already reported to the barracks."

His wife nodded. "Do you think it's anything serious?"

"A tsunami and a Mermen tide not serious enough?" Gunther joked.

"You know what I mean."

"I don't know," Gunther confessed his ignorance, something he loathed. Of all the pitfalls of the Frontier, he hated the lack of LR Message devices and reliable Divination Towers the most. In that regard, the vast distances between Australia's cities made the lack of readily accessible information exchange particularly painful. As for the continent's interior, he currently possessed no hope of tapping its resources. "The report sent to London says that the eruption was spontaneous and without magical interference, though I don't think it's reliable. Oban was the closest Spectrometric outpost, and it's so distant from Antarctica that we could fly for two days and not see a hint of the shoreline."

"Alright. If all we have is ignorance—" Alesia's expression suggested she was trying and failing to imagine the distance. "— then is the problem far enough from Sydney to ignore?"

"We might not have a choice." Gunther's voice held a rare trace of misery. "Erebus is almost four thousand kilometres away from us in a Black Zone with no shelter or supplies, inundated by Elementals from the primordial age. Short of burning every HDM we've squirrelled away and flying the Tower over the ocean, no presence Sydney can muster will make a difference. If Melbourne and Brisbane joined us, we could put together an expedition, but that would take almost a year, not to mention we lack the warships. Also, do you recall Master saying that the Hvítálfar has an outpost there? A Great Tree of rime and frost that extends from the Prime Material into the Astral? Maybe there's even a Mythic Frost Guardian? Who knows? Without burning HDMs we can't spare—ignorance is our only recourse."

His wife shrugged. "Well, whatever. It's not like Yue's going deeper than Wellington. Will London be sending a team to Auckland? Our parochial rulers usually do, don't they? We're still a part of the Commonwealth, after all. They'll have a meander, then loot the town in the name of aid."

"I am sure London's 'generosity' is on its way." Gunther nodded. "They'll pass through Sydney. Who do you think they'll send?"

"Some musty old dog who won't even give me the time of day," Alesia predicted with a smile. "You won't stand for it, right? Gunther?"

"Absolutely." Gunther broke into a smile as well. "How dare these imperial hard heads not know of the Scarlet Sorceress?"

Alesia's laughter rang across the spacious living room. "Will Te stand for it? The Shard isn't going to let matters go if there isn't much to loot."

"Then they'll receive nothing," Gunther agreed with a grin. "Paladin Te Wherowhero has my full support. I'd love to see who dares to challenge our judgment. I'll make it worth their while, but mark my words, London won't receive a single HDM more than the effort they bring to Auckland."