Metaworld Chronicles

"Magister! You're back!" Lulan's tone was one of palpable relief when Gwen re-materialised outside Laelitharian's lair. Though her guard and cousin were safe, they had been left out in the cold while the Elven Blooms aired their secret grievances. And since neither Richard nor Lulan could understand the "High Gothic" Elven, they had no choice but to play the part of ice statues while discussions that would shake the Prime Material took place.

"Thank God for that." Richard's relief was equally genuine. "So, did you get your loot?"

"I bartered for a promise," Gwen confirmed with a thumbs up. "Compared to me, Gogo got amazing loot. We'll be expecting great things from him in the future."

Their eyes turned to Golos, who managed to look abashed.

After a moment more to document that everyone had their bits and wits in the right place, the group awaited their turn to be addressed by the Llias Leaf holding Illhîwenthiel.

"Child of Kilroy." The Elf appeared done with her communication device. Gingerly, the Maiden of Frost placed the precious specimen in the palm of a Frost Witch's hand, who then hand-delivered it to Gwen.

"Great Lady, it has been my pleasure." Gwen bowed her head before returning the leaf to her breast pocket. "Is our business here concluded?"

As one, the Frost Elves turned their cobalt orbs toward her, turning two hundred and more craning heads to converge their gaze upon her impertinent lips.

"How else may we be of service?" Gwen quickly changed her tune. Bloody Dragon... Gwen swore internally as her back grew damp with cold sweat. The business of the Elves is that of Elves, my ass.

"Child." Thankfully, the Bloom of Frost did not appear upset, not that Gwen could read her expression. "Your duty is not yet concluded. Our Grove will regenerate, but our reach does not extend beyond the Great Tree's roots. To restore the depression in the Prime Material, you have yet more labour outside the Grove."

Starkly, Gwen's mind meandered toward that dark, dense sea of offal and fish oil outside. She doubted that Eldrin would be willing to channel the power of Tryfan and lend her a solution that was equal parts frugal and "fungal".

Illhîweth and Tryfan's limited mobility implied long labours for her Mages, Charlene's ship, and Hanmoul's men. The Undead, though mindless and confused, still possessed enough hostility that they had to be carefully pruned. Their only advantage was that, unlike Amazonia, the tundra and the snow drifts contained Elementals with scant biomass and could not contribute to the perpetuation of Undead.

Of course, the Fire Elementals were still spewing from Erebus. These eruptions would eventually return to their unusual incidence, though she deeply suspected the creatures of flame would be a continuous disruption during the Royal Raven's clean-up operations.

In the worst scenario…

A Shoggoth might be necessary.

"I acknowledge our duty, Lady of Frost." Gwen bowed from the waist. "We will restore the exterior of the Grove to its original condition to the best of our abilities."

Without sentiment, Illhîwenthiel retreated with a curt nod, immediately after which her Frost Witches closed ranks, indicating that their conversation was at an end. Though the Lady had been cordial, Gwen suspected their interaction was closer to a tired mother coaxing a greedy toddler into cleaning her room.

"Gwen, shall we?" Richard pointed to the rising landscape that housed the Elves of Tryfan.

"Calamity, I want to return to the ship," Golos announced rudely. "I need to… absorb my gift."

"Right." Gwen toned down the protest from Ariel, who continued to blast her with resounding calls of "EE-EE!" Gimme-Gimee.

With no one else to fare her well, Gwen and her group picked themselves from the floor and flew back toward the rent from which they had entered the Grove of Illhîweth. Awaiting for them were the rows of Tryfanian Elves, headed by a beetle-black Arch Warden.

"Lord Eldrin," Gwen greeted the phalanx of Magister-tier Elementalists standing like shiny statues in the newly fallen snow. "Is there any other way Tryfan may require our aid?"

Eldrin's impassive gaze remained as stoic as it was critical. After a too-long pause, the Arch Warden appeared to force his mouth to move. "Do you wish to return with us?"

Gwen raised both brows. "Return?"

"To Tryfan." The Elf indicated to the Trellis Portal. "Then… to your home, I would presume. The Bloom has offered you a kindness rarely afforded by any other, as… interest… in the befouling tongue of your mortal greed."

At the Warden's words, Gwen felt the sharp temptation of running home to Evee tugging on her heart like a pair of kittens pulling a yarn string. However, she knew very well that there was no abandoning the men and women she had brought to Erebus.

"I will remain here," addressed Eldrin by turning to Lulan and Richard.

Her companions returned her assurance by squaring their confident shoulders.

"However, may I trouble the Bloom to deliver a report to Cambridge? I shall seal it in a storage ring—" Gwen raised her gauntlet. "Please gift it to Magister Brown of the Advanced Arcane Studies Faculty."

The Warden did not immediately respond, although Eldrin's jaws moved a little as he listened to what Gwen assumed was the disembodied voice of his queen bee.

"You… may." The Warden extended a hand.

"In that case, I'll need… three hours." Gwen smiled sweetly with a wicked, confident air. "After all, I hadn't planned for this. We need to sort out data and crystals, and I need to compile a preliminary report of our findings here. Would that be alright?"

If Eldrin's golden orbs were capable of shedding Radiance, she would have cooked in her crow skin like a Thanks Giving turkey.

With no protest from the Arch Warden, Gwen moved her crew a safe distance away, then produced from her rings a coffee table, several lawn chairs for her team, and implements for inscribing her report on the data slate. Richard hastily prepared the recordings crystals so that Cambridge received the original while she held the spares.

The Storage Ring she would use to transport the goods was of Dwarven make. Though Gwen doubted the robust design could withstand Elven prying, her confidence lay in that the Bloom would not care or resort to such underhanded methods at gaining information. For the same reason, she had full confidence there was nothing to be achieved by altering the news she would submit to Cambridge, who would then present the findings to the Shard and the Mageocracy's stakeholders.

Thanks to Richard's expert aid, the report took only two hours. Her Storage Ring was unlocked, packed with goods and information, and then sealed again with a cypher only her Magister would know.

The Elves stood as still as plants the whole time, seemingly soaking up the mana as though they were armoured asparagus. Some appeared to be meditating, while others merely stared ahead, demonstrating an inhuman discipline.

"There we are, Milord." Gwen allowed the ring to fall from her palm into Eldrin's gauntlet. "Please thank your Bloom for all she has done for Tryfan's interests. May the Bloom's bloom, bloom Eternal."

The Warden's fingers coiled upon his courier package. "Perform your labour well, Child of Kilroy. There will not be another opportunity to gain the favour of the Frost Flower of Illhîweth. If you wish to harness the power of the Serpent who dwells in the Well of the World, you shall need many favours like it."

Gwen sighed in defeat. "Those long ears aren't just for show, eh? Fare thee well, Arch-Warden Eldrin. I have an inkling we'll be partnering lots in the future."

The exposed pointy bit of Eldrin's ears, protruding through his beetle helm like a pair of fleshy antennae, twitched a little.

"Farewell." The Arch Warden turned on his heels. At once, Tryfan's Wardens followed suit, coalescing until they formed a rank four abreast to enter the wormhole created by the Trellis Gate.

A few minutes later, Gwen and her crew were left to watch the withering form of the Trellis Gate rapidly turn yellow, then frost over from the impending cold.

"Calamity..." Golos' patience was wearing thin.

"Alright, alright. Come on, Gogo." Gwen's mind was already consumed by the logistical planning of the Herculean labour outside. "What's the rush, Drake? We're going to be here for a long-long while..."

According to Charlene, Gwen and her party were gone for a week.

That time dilated within the Pocket Plane was a known phenomenon. As such, the Royal Raven had patiently bided by its time, with the Dwarves digging into Erebus' foundations to draw upon the magma below. Within days, a glimmering multi-layered barrier was erected, sheltering the ley-tapping Fabricator Engine at the ship's centre. Outside its walls, patrols of Golems, aided by the recognisance-in-force of Cambridge Maguses and Gwen's Shadow Mages, had cleared a perimeter of about twenty kilometres in readiness for an extended stay.

On the sixth day, the ship's Diviners had recorded a great disturbance in the formation of necrotic energy inundating the polar region, which Charlene took to mean that Gwen and her company had succeeded in their negotiations with the Frost Elves.

When Gwen finally returned, her crew appeared confident and eager to take on the next stage of their assignment.

"This means we'll be here for… six months." Charlene's brows knitted at first but then quickly accepted the role they would play on the chessboard of Planar politics. "Three months in the frost, then three months in the thaw."

"And many clashes against the Undead and the Fire Elementals, assuming they're just as stranded as us." Now comfortably dressed in the ship's official casual clothing, Gwen followed their navigator's fingers as she updated the landmarks.

"And Erebus?" Charlene's fingers paced back and forth as the numbers fell into place. "I don't think we can push them back, even with Lord Hanmoul's barrage. What do you think, Petra?"

"A continuous expedition to clear out the Undead will have taxed our crystal fabrication." The Enchanter threw up a few graphs from Gwen's PowerPoint School of Illusion. "We won't be able to engage on both fronts, even if we have the manpower."

"True. Me lads are keen," Hanmoul grunted. "But aye, the Golems are a thirsty lot if yer needs to keep the Spellswords HOT fer aeons."

"Worry not; the Elemental Fire will ebb rapidly," Gwen promised. "And if it doesn't, we can always unleash a Shoggy. There's nothing here other than us… it can be happy and free and run rampant—as long as we keep it away from the Elven Grove."

Charlene pondered the matter with a pinch of her knitted brows, massaging her worries until her forehead was once more smooth and unblemished.

"Alright," their Expedition leader said after a moment more to review the space between a rock and a hard place. "Ladies and Lords, take your places… here is our home for the foreseeable months ahead. Assuming everything works out, we'll be back before—"

"Don't say Christmas," Gwen butted in with a Gwenism.

"—Why?" Charlene bit back her next words.

"Bad juju…" Gwen said ominously.

"Fine… we'll be leaving around the Summer Bank Holiday. After that, it'll be three weeks of full steam to return to London."

Gwen relaxed after turning Charlene away from a premonition of destruction. For her Christmas, her thoughts were of Elvia's choir, which she would have to organise for Evee's charity. This year, they should put on a big show to harness influence for the future troubles of the Mageocracy. She could hire some popular Illusionists and celebrities. Maybe call it "Live-Aid" to harness Faith and donations for uplifting those impacted by the change in the climate. Hopefully, they would arrive in time for the holiday snow.

Kalimantan.

Samarinda.

Bambang, minted in recent months as "Father Bambang" watched the "Exodus" of his kin-folk from the only home they had ever known.

The distance from the mountain villages to the port was only a short jaunt—but the trouble of moving some fifty thousand faithful followers was no simple feat. Around his neck hung the wooden idol likeness of his Goddess—together with a sanctified cross. Compared to before, Father Bambang was now illuminated, at least enough to know that Knight Companion Elvia Lindholm was a member of the Order of the Poor Soldiers of Christ, an instrument of intervention rather than the all-watching benevolence itself.

In the distance, where the men from the land of light had originally cleared a space for the new port—the newly developed lower city had undergone yet another metamorphosis.

From ruins, it had been rebuilt.

Now, it was once more ruins.

Though their Goddess could do many things: heal the sick, mend broken limbs, and breathe life into those half-ravaged by the Rakshasa, she could not predict the future. Therefore, no member of her Ordo had prepared the village for the torrential rain and its accompaniment of flattening hail. A month ago, Father Bambang was sure that the whole of Samarinda would perish, for palm trees taller than the tallest building on the island were sailing through the air like ensorceled spears, toppling houses and punching holes in the side of the metal ships used by the clergymen.

Even with the Goddess' powers, there was little she could do other than cover the prayer hall, where thousands of the faithful had gathered, in thick vine-netting conjured by her Ginseng. Against the brutal battery of the wet season's unexpected arrival, even the Knights had to find shelter or rely on their golden barriers to remain standing.

In the aftermath, almost twenty thousand of Father Bambang's island flock perished. Most were the ones without faith who had wanted to retain the old ways, hoping that another Dewa Cawu would bring salvation.

Even for these heretics, their golden Priestess had toiled with tears in her eyes, excavating collapsed buildings and uprooting entire trees so that they might reveal the buried below, praying with all her might for their recovery.

Father Bambang had announced that these, who had been given months to covert, did not wish to be saved—but the Knight Companion instead urged him to have compassion, saying that God loved all equally, regardless of their faith.

Father Bambang could not understand her kindness, at least not before a week of tuition from Knight Chaplain Adam, but he nodded and smiled and told the Goddess that he would do his best.

And he did.

And now, the village would be no more.

Samarinda, home to Bambang and his father's father, would lie buried. Like the Rakshasa Bedawangiwiwi, their village and its lore would be consigned to the landscape.

According to the Goddess' teacher, the always wise Lord Ashburn, there would be another hurricane—and then another—and another until the island's vegetation was stripped to a fleshless carcass, and new Rakshasas acclimatised to the wind and water would take soon take over. When publically, the news was broken by a tearful Knight Companion Lindholm, all had been stunned.

Once their wits recovered, some began to cry, and others stood up in rage.

Comparatively, the faithful found reason in that their Exodus was a trial. They calmed the others, and implored silence, first with words, then with stronger words. In the end, most agreed to the relocation. Seneschal Ashburn had then informed them that many of the islands in their archipelago were similarly on the move, with the local region fast becoming inhospitable to man. Only under the sheltering shields of Singapore's inner islands would his people be safe—for in the wisdom of the Seneschal, a fate of flying from the frying pan into the fire was still better than becoming fodder. Mayhap this way—one day, the sons and daughters of Samarinda will return to reclaim the island, as their Knights had done for their cities three decades ago.

The alternative… would be extinction.

Northern China.

The Yantai coast.

Mei felt her heart flutter as Provisional Magus Percy Song, his lapel bright with the gold stripes of a Second Lieutenant, ran a salt-encrusted hand through his dark, voluminous hair. Her fiancé and his Mage Flight were currently above the eastern rim of Taozi Harbour. Here, the latest incursion from the newly appeared Undead Mermen had taken its toll on the harbour city responsible for the Dalian supply line.

"Is that the last of them?" Officer Cadet Mei observed the smoking vista below her fiancé's combat boots. She and Percy's team had been assigned to Yantai since January, and the task had been gruelling and thankless.

Which was fine, for that was the general purpose of their exile from the Green Zones.

The "Long March" was a test of leadership and skill, one which the high command of the CCP expected its young talents to pass without complaint. By design, in the Orange Zone facing the North Korean peninsula, there would be no comfort nor rest for the progenies of power. Here was where the CCP's future blades were whetted, and should they grow dull or break, they would be discarded.

The latter was a worry that did not apply to the genius Percy Song.

Even though Mei's Yang family was well-provisioned in the "Guan-xi" central to promotion within the People's Liberation Army, Percy's talent and connections were on a different scale entirely.

In only a few years, her senior school sweetheart had mastered Conjuration, Evocation and Abjuration, becoming an unmatched existence within his generation. Many in the PLA were already labelling him the next Jun Song, though Percy's powers were less destructive and, by that same measure, less self-destructive.

Her fiancé's fame and accolades also meant that Percy gained innumerable enemies throughout his rise. Within the PLA's power progenies, egos ran high, and the notion of household honour inferred death was preferable to disgrace.

And then there was the stereotype that defeating a young master almost always summoned cousins, siblings, and sometimes fathers and uncles like woodlice from a rotten beam.

What surprised Mei was how happily Percy accepted such hostilities, especially considering the myriad ways he would be accosted mid-mission. Most of these encounters, at least the ones that Mei knew of, became "food" for her fiancé. It was a very peculiar expression that Mei took to mean that Percy grew through gambits of life-or-death combat. When Percy seriously maimed his opponents a few times, his Grandfather or Uncle Jun had to step in—though neither appeared opposed to his prideful upholding of House Song's growing reputation. The ordeals had earned him the moniker of a battle maniac who grew more famous with every duel.

"Yes, we're done here." Percy's face, more handsome than when he was in his adolescence, now resembled his square-jawed uncle, an existence Mei admired with all her heart. "Let's move to our next location, Cadet Yang?"

"Yessir!" Mei saluted before turning to the tired faces of the young men and women behind them, making up the other two Mage Flights. "Five minutes for potions and restoration! Bandage if you need to. Meditate and recover your mana else we will leave you behind. We move to the next node at 1300!"

Without overt complaints, the rest of the young elites fell into place.

Percy's ruthless invitations for combat, paired with Jun's role as the unassailable "consort" of Ayxin, scion to the Yinglong, had created an insurmountable barrier for any who wished to challenge her fiancé through overt means. With a grandfather who kept a watchful eye over the PLA's secretive communications and an Uncle who even the Secretariat fawned over, Percy's career had been nothing but cloudy steps of jadeite leading to the high heavens.

But of course, the higher the privilege, the greater the expectations. In every engagement, the nephew of the Ashbringer was the spear tip, crashing into walls of Undead with cleansing wedges of sanctified powder, spreading purification through the Elemental synergy of Salt.

Following in the footsteps of his Uncle, Percy likewise seemed impervious to the Negative Energy emanated by the Undead Casters' curses and debuffs. It was a part of her fiancé's mystique, one neither the PLA nor their teammates dared to pry—though Percy had confided in Mei, revealing that his gift was a part of the Song's heirloom.

When they were on R&R, she had laid on Percy's chest after a long night of passion and sensed the pulsing vitality from the mutton-jade necklace. In a moment of tenderness, her fiancé had told Mei that this was his greatest secret and treasure—a birthright initially falsely given to his sister until she generously bestowed it back upon himself.

When Mei pried further, allowing the Kirin Amulet to rest against the palm of her hand, Percy's skin had grown suddenly clammy, startling Mei so profoundly that she immediately allowed the pendent to relax against his chest. When she looked up to see why Percy had gone cold, the boy's face was such a mask of repressed rage and internal agony that every mote of passion drained from Mei as though she had been dumped unclothed into the northern snow.

"Don't tug." Percy's voice trembled. "And don't… don't tell anyone about my pendant."

There was no mistaking Percy's tone, and Mei knew enough of the older families to understand that Percy had broken a taboo of sorts.

"I promise on my life…" she had sworn on the honour of her ancestors and the existence of her Astral Soul. She had felt frightened by the unexpected threat, but a part of Mei grew warm and liquid at the thought of Percy sharing with her his greatest treasure—one that may have mortal consequences should it escape either of their mouths. In this way, they were one, more so than in body, for an heirloom secret bound two families far closer than the mere intimacy of flesh…

"Mei!" Percy's voice pieced through the gloom. "Where's our next target?"

Mei returned her consciousness to the smoky battlefield below, quickly triangulating their whereabouts. Like her favourite sister, Percy had a difficult time with directions… another secret only she and her fiancé shared.

Another chain in the link that wound around their souls, binding them for life.

Old Tjupurrula, standing on one withered leg, raised a hand to the sky to taste the unexpected moisture.

He did not have to wait long, for what answered him was a cacophonic rumble of thunder so loud that the earth shook, and red dust cascaded from the crags and nooks scarring the sacred rise of Uluru.

In the far distance, a thousand flocks from the sand-coloured zebra finch to the red-plumed kingfisher, accompanied by cabals of iron-feather buzzards and the shrill opera of Emu-Wrens, fled from the incoming change in pressure.

The red earth, usually so dry that the slightest breeze might whip the particles into a dust devil, now lay dormant, shivering at the sight of the incoming storm.

CRACK!

The sky split asunder.

Where the tender fabric of the Prime Material had long been weakened by Almudj's rage, it now opened into the space between Planes, unleashing gales the likes of which the land had not seen for centuries.

Old Tjupurrula inhaled the ozone-heavy air, enjoying every sensation of new vigour, breathing into the husk of life resting at the centre of the ancient continent. His skin, long since petrified by slow time, cracked and bled as his limbs moved for the first time in centuries.

From beyond the highest firmament, it began to pour.

Uluru, awash with rain and rumbling under the perpetual thunder, took on the colour of blood. A hundred white serpents, spontaneously bursting from the Well of the World, gushed forth with the force of tsunamis, turning the ochre surface of the World Tree's stump from oxide red into fertile loam in the span of a dozen breaths.

Droplets as large as a Mage's Water Missiles hammered the suddenly-forming inland sea, stirring up such a frenzy that its turbulence resembled tomato soup returned to an indignant deli chef.

Above the once-sacred stump, frothing water bucketed outwards, crashing against Old Tjupurrula's feet, ankles, knees, then waist. For a being less attuned than Old Tjupurrula, the force would have torn them limb from limb, but for an old Spirit Walker, it was a much-desired shower, a rare sensation of the Elemental Planes in flux.

Hours passed, and the rain continued, quenching the thirst of a land without water since time immemorial.

Already, Old Tjupurrula could feel the ancient seeds, some from species unseen since the chaotic reign of Dragons, absorb the unexpected fecundity.

Beyond the horizon, a chain of lakes large and small, long dead and turned into dust bowls, likewise heard the clarion call of life, for underneath their caked soil slept the dormant eggs of ancient Mer older than the Mageocracy's first cities.

Old Tjupurrula pulled one foot from the soggy mud, now sucking him downwards as the water nourished the cracked earth, filling its ancient aquifers for the next century.

"No Tree, No Snake…" The ancient Spirit Walker looked to the unrelenting skies. "And no Kalinda. What is an old ghost to make of this cheekiness?"

He scratched his head. Then, the torrent swallowed him wholesale, leaving no trace but a pair of prints, fast disappearing under the suck of the inland sea.

Shalkar.

The Fire Sea.

New Shalkar, now officially mapped by the cartographers as Shalkaryah since the Priestess' departure, was a paradise for pups and fawns of all breeds and species.

To the south, the Brass Legion had all but retreated deep into the portal boiling the southern coast of the Caspian. Their missing presence, punctuated by the absence of Zordiam, the Efreeti Prince of Fire, had resulted in the gradual shrinkage of the gash itself, which, according to the Magisters who remained behind to shepherd the Khanate, saw a reduction for the first time in three decades.

Additionally, sudden influxes of torrential downpours made the desert plains from Ashgabat to Bukhara awash with little streams, bringing forth long dormant growths of wildflowers fields that once made the region famous for its fertility.

The River Darya, together with the dozens of lakes it fed, grew rich with loam and life, with fish stocks almost appearing overnight as the eternal drought ended. Borders between Demi-human Clans, shaped by access to the oasis and estuaries, vanished. The raging fires of resource wars, fought so bloodily by the Khanate, were extinguished by unprecedented fecundity.

The Sand Worms, long since a decor of the upper desert, drank long and deep—then retreated into the Murk where they would moult and slumber, awaiting a more hospitable climate to return. For ones too young to slink back to their Demi-Planes, their mildew-drenched bodies grew sluggish, becoming easy prey for the resurgent Tasmüyiz tribes, particularly the Rat-kin under Strun Jıldam of Shalkaryah.

It had not even been a year—but the swelling growth of Clan Jıldam made up for a decade or more by absorbing any who would convert to the faith of the Priestess into its namesake, branding them with the unquestionable belief that here was the promised land, the final bastion of the long-suffering, and that there would be no second chance for the Rat-folk beyond this fragile gift from the heavens.

When furthermore the Prophet Strun had returned from the Human cities with tales of gleaming spires and friendly scholars, the Clans of the Tasmüyiz who gathered—The Rat-kin, the Kobold, the Goat-kin and even scattered tribes of lizard men, came together at Shalkar to marvel at its sky-grasping baobab pillars, said to be created by Demi-gods of the Prime Material to aid Clan Jıldam.

Then there were the trade routes.

With the Darya once more filled to the banks, the fabled barges of the old Silk Road once more appeared, now transporting the foodstuffs of Shalkar southward and northward to be traded at way stations established by the Priestess' kin-folk.

The immense thirst for labour and the abundance of bartered goods, together with the security established by the Horse Lords in this time of plenty, created such a wonder the desert had not seen since the century before the Great War.

Between land and water, there was no rest for the Centaur folk who had grown numb from the sudden abundance and whose new duties as guards, transporters, traders and enforcers had stretched the Khan's yurts to their limits.

Even as the Tasmüyiz broke off into their little regions, the Horse-Lords paid them no mind—for they could always reap the wheat after the fertile autumn, as they had always done since the Golden reign of the first Khanate.

For both the Horse Lords and their no longer starving slaves, now was an unexpected respite.

And all of this, proclaimed Regional Executor Strun, was the gift of their Pale Priestess, Her Officership of the Shalkaryah Trading Corporation, a subsidiary of the Isle of Dog-Norfolk Conglomerate, the one and only Magister Gwen Song, CEO.

Cuzco.

The Temple of Inti.

In Sacsahuamán, the navel of the world, the nation's Living Sun, the undisputed Master of the four Suyus, held court with his Chiefs.

As a part of his growing pains, Inti would take over state affairs while his father toured the Suyus to hear the people's grievances, dispensing justice as he saw fit.

And in recent months, there have been many instances of unhappiness indeed.

The Sun God had been moody.

Inexplicably, the summer rains did not fall into the sky-lakes, preventing the refilling of lagoons and, therefore, the harvest in fall.

And then there were floods where the clouds were so low that they banked as thick as molasses against the cliffs of La Rinconada, drowning the Mana mines there and paralysing the entire region's economy.

And there were other flash-fires of trouble as well, sprouting like seedings after a great tree falls in Amazonia, exposing the rich undersoil to the exploitation of its neighbours.

"Tika," the gold-slathered Inti, his bronze skin radiating the vitality of his nation's faith, implored his wife to continue her report from the Temple of Mama Cuna. "How fares our letter runners from the south lands?"

"There is stirring chaos in lower Amazonia," his young bride reported. The Temple has received many messenger birds of late, all speaking of roaming monstrosities in the forest. The lack of rain there has continued into September, meaning the forest's inhabitants are now in a state of all-out territorial conflict over the estuaries of the undergrowth."

Inti sighed. Tika agreed. A stirring Amazonia meant dire trouble for the nation's borders.

For his Kingdom of the Sun, their side of the Andes rose above the emergent layer of Amazonia, meaning what happened within the forest stopped beyond the canopy. However, if a section were to collapse, it would instantly disrupt the balance of predator and prey that held the forest's dangers in check.

At worst, a tide of "refugee" Greenskin Demi-humans would emerge, hungry and desperate, to wreak havoc upon the agricultural regions of Sapa Inti's empire.

"The Temple has also received requests for aid." Tica rose from her kneeling position, making the sign of the sun as her spritely figure stretched out like a youthful sapling. On her shoulder, her Sundew Familiar cooed, relaying the minutes of the report to its mistress in the secretive tongue of plants. "From our cousins to the north, whose holy war is yet unended."

"Our kin of the Feathered Serpent requires OUR aid?" Inti appeared genuinely surprised. "With what?"

"Sir Tupac will explain." Tika stepped aside to reveal the kneeling form of Inti's friend, the Shifter-warrior Tupac.

The gentle giant stood, making the sign of the risen sun.

"Their runners have arrived with Creature Cores, trading for skins, grains for sowing, metal and magical materials," Tupac read off the report in his hand. "The reaping winds of Quetzalcoatl have not been kind of late. Since the middle of the imperial calendar, their trading cities in the lowlands have all suffered the displeasure of the Winged God. From what we've gathered from our traders, sacrifices have been offered by the tens of thousands. The Puma Warriors are even capturing the fair-skinned folk from the New World, hoping that their aberrant hearts would allow Quetzalcoatl to feel appeased."

Knowing full well the zealousness of their theocratic and thankfully distant cousins, the court permitted several moments of silence.

Tika made a gentle cough.

"It is not our cousins who are upsetting Lord Quetzalcoatl. Something is making the Winged Serpent very unhappy." Inti read his wife's intentions at once. "I think we shouldn't get involved, lest it turns its all-seeing eye upon our Kingdom."

"How shall we deal with the traders?" Tika poised the question the four rulers of the Suyus were keen to answer.

Inti turned his head toward his uncle, Amaru, Administrator of Cuzco and Inti's tutor in governance matters.

The old snake smiled and said nothing.

"Release a sizeable stock of maise and corn," Inti gave the best command he could. "Suspend any shipments of magical metal and HDMs beyond our original agreements. However, allow up to fifty per cent more medicinal purchases."

"Sapa Inti is wise," Tupac replied with a bow.

Tika arrived by her husband's side. "My Inti… as our friends from the Mageocracy like to say. I fear that the Four Suyu shall soon live in interesting times."

Beside her, the Living Sun frowned, contorting the flawless visage of his peerless face, said to be identical to the nation's first God-King, the great Manco Cápac.

Touching her collarbone with a tender finger, Inti slouched ever-so-slightly on his throne, immediately attracting a nasty nip from the cane of Amaru, his uncle-advisor.

Tika suppressed a hiss.

Inti rubbed his shoulder without regarding his uncle.

"Yes…" the young man appeared tired despite the Faith of his people permeating his body. "Interesting times indeed..."

Northern Ireland.

Carrauntoohil.

High above the foggy shrouds of Corrán Tuathail, the Ancient Red Dragon Sythinthimryr allowed her colossal body to stretch over the scree of Fire-aligned Mana Crystals, bathing her blood-red scales in mana so thick as to resemble wine.

Slowly, with the meticulousness of a chef savouring the aroma of a rare dish, her nostrils drew in the mist, sending the entirety of the cloudscape into a swirling, tectonic metamorphosis.

"Dask…" the face of a Drake, just old enough to resemble a Dragon but lacking the dignity of its mother-sire, emerged from the depthless blanket of red steam. "The Kin of Danu have come to deliver a warning. The one-eyed King stirs before his time."

"They… dare?" Sythinthimryr's nostrils flared as blue as her displeasure. "Mere manifests of the Elemental Planes, believing that they can pierce the veil between places outside the Accord?"

"Yes, Mother, the fabric of spaces grows threadbare. Great changes are happening everywhere." The wyrmling's voice was sharp and eager.

"Nonsense, child." Sythinthimryr's tone was enough to send her son's frills flattening against his skull. "Change is change—what you observe now is merely a disturbance."

"But the Human empire to the south—" her pup sulked.

"Will titter, child…" Sythinthimryr's voice once more grew serene.

"Will it fall?" Her boy asked in a sulky voice. Her child's curiosity, the Ancient Red sighed, had always been acute. Was it because he had once been abducted and placed in the heart of the Human city? Was that why he would abscond every other season to play "Mages" with the unsuspecting humans fighting the Fomori?

"The humans have a saying." The Ancient Red swirled her thoughts through her vast memory. "The dead Oliphant is still taller than a horse."

"I don't think they say that, Dask…" her boy appeared unconvinced.

"… but it will still bring the Scythian Vultures."

The young Drake grew silent.

"That's… that's not a saying…" the boy was adamant. "Unless they said that in the time before their cities..."

Sythinthimryr eyed the heavens.

"I want to meet the Vessel..." her boy mumbled. "The one who has the favour of Lord Illaelitharian, who ignored me."

"Go back to sleep, Slylth." the Red Queen nuzzled her child until the boy was smothered back into the enormous bed of Fire-tinged crystals. "You've much growing yet… before you dream of meddling in the planar politics of the Accord. At least earn your true form..."