Metaworld Chronicles

Scotland.

Suilven.

The Greyhawk Citadels.

Within the grand hall of the Tower of Elements hung the world's first and largest man-made orrery.

It was here, in the heart of Spellcraft, that Arch-Mage Morden pierced the Astral Planes' veils to fathom the Prime Material's stratum. For the citadel's students, the orrery has always been the centre of its quasi-magical decor, a wonder that, through overexposure, had grown mundane.

It was also a wholly accurate depiction of the present state of Astrophysical cartography, a fact of pride for the Greyhawkian students, who would regale every visitor with the fact that their orrery was handcrafted by Morden centuries ago.

Arch-Mage Morden!

A being of legend whose achievements brought about modern Spellcraft. Yet, if one questioned the college's custodians on Morden's contemporary relevance, the speakers' tones would grow reticent.

Situated atop the heart of Assynt's cnoc-and-loch landscape, the citadel's history was as complicated as its encircling cliffs, bluffs and lakes.

The first was the press-printed truth, in which Morden's descendants opened Morden's theorems to the rest of the western world, ushering in the age of the Imperial Spellcraft System. Thanks to it, the Magic of Industries came to be, first revitalising the wayward empires of Humanity, then leading them into the pitfall of Necromancy. Yet, despite setbacks, the net gain of the IMS was self-evident, as Humanity had clawed its way to the top of the food chain and established the most widespread race of terrestrial beings to inhabit terra's continents.

The second was a tale known only to its direct inheritors—that Morden did produce an heir with his aptitude—only to have the heir sell out the Tower's secrets for some fantastical dream of utopia. From this heretic—this traitor of blood—came the Towers, each an inexact copy of Morden's peerless citadel, tethered together by terra's ley lines like ramshackle ships huddling in the face of an eternal storm.

Within these rare halls of the Greyhawk Tower, its Magisters, the custodians of Morden's knowledge, now debated.

The matter was regarding the heretic's Apprentice, a young woman named Magister Gwen Song of Sydney, whose home Tower was The Shard. Her origins made her British in their eyes, and no true Scotsmen would allow a British Magister the easy luxury of plucking an upper-tier sorcery of Morden's make like cabbage from a market.

Dean Ross McKay, Master of the Tower of Elements, believed that the girl was an investment which could mend the unhappy politics between the the "Free City" of Suilven and The Shard.

Magister Sebastian Moore, of the Morden purists, led the coalition which opposed having any association with the Scion of the Heretic, lest more of the Tower's hearth treasures be embezzled from its vaults.

Magister Cora Hogg, responsible for modernising the Tower's interests in the epoch of the Mageocracy, argued that the spells requested by the heretic's Apprentice should be delivered—but the costs should be paid both by its user and in concessions from The Shard. After all, they were sharpening a sword that would never directly benefit Suilven, while their spells could only be given away once.

The recently appointed Student Council President—Slylth McAllister Morden, was the final member of note who observed the paralysed debate.

With great deliberation, the young man slowly leaned toward the Dean's ear and whispered his wishes.

Visibly, the dispassionate Dean, who had grown tired of the ceaseless dissension, straightened his ancient spine.

The others ceased their minutes and waited for the Dean to speak.

Their gaze also fell upon the youthful Slylth, a boy of sixteen summers.

That the Dean would give weight to a child's words was a bit ridiculous for an institution as steeped in tradition as Suilven, but the boy was a Morden. A Morden who appeared as if from thin air, but one verified by the surviving members of the bloodline and given ethos by the word of a Demi-God.

The "Demi-God" in question was Alexander Morden, the sixth generation of his line, the last Magi of the Citadel. Since the Pan-European War, the century-old Magi had slumbered in his domain deep within the Dungeon-Citadel of Greyhawk, seldom sensible to the mortal matters of the real world.

Four years ago, with the boy's arrival, the citadel's administrative staff had received a rare edict from the citadel's Dungeon depth.

"This is my Scion. Pay heed to him as you would a fruit of mine loins."

There was no doubt where the proposal came from, though the message was both cryptic and nonsensical. However, none in the citadel questioned it, for the Divination had come straight from the horse's mouth.

Thankfully, the boy was as advertised. As would be expected of one from Morden's line, Slylth was a natural Mage, talented beyond comprehension, possessing no barriers to any particular Schools of Magic except for a genuine dislike for Illusion and Divination.

A Fire Mage, the boy also possessed Affinity for Elemental Magma and Radiance. Without a doubt, this particular "Morden" was a triple-talented genius of the century that any institution would jealously guard with militant zealousness.

Additionally, while one would expect the young man to be aloof and uninterested in the college's business like many of Morden's research-obsessed scions, the lad proved charismatic and ambitious.

Within months, he had won the support of the student body. His studies had grown just as quickly. Having begun elementary magic in the first year, the boy mastered multiple tiers of sorcery in Evocation, Transmutation and Abjuration within the first two trimesters, allowing him to graduate from the role of an Acolyte within six-month of his admission.

By his second year, Slylth was ready to quest with his seniors, providing his party with greater firepower than a military Mage Flight.

Now in his fourth year, there was little doubt the college was grooming Slylth for leadership, envisioning a future where, once more, a "Morden" shall lead the Greyhawk Citadel's attempts at finding independence from the Commonwealth.

The Dean spoke once more. "The heretic has been judged by his sins—and so ends our grievance with him. Be it weal or woe, we cannot alienate his young Apprentice as we did the heretic' first. That was a regret we never rectified. Magister Song has done great things and brought fortuitous warnings for future tidings. Though we cannot accept her as our own, her service should be rewarded."

Magister Sebastian Moore, his white beard bristling with unhappiness, appeared unmoved. "She is a Void Mage. We've seen how the heretic's pet has impacted the world. Who can say it was for the better? Humanity may appear powerful, but this front of power is a Japanese screen—as thin as the Mageocracy's overstretched resources, which shrink as we speak. Now, we no longer share the land with the other races—the Mageocracy, be it here or in the New World, are festering sores on a weak, dying king."

"Again, Sebastian, you speak as if our home is afloat on the aether streams of the Ethereal Plane, untethered to the Prime Material. Whatever feelings our people possess for the theft of our craft and knowledge, we are loci to the Axis Mundi. The growth of the outside world has benefited us well. When was the last time we suffered a great defeat against The Wild Hunt? How many students of yours have perished against the Fomori in the last decade? A dozen? No more than you can count on both hands. How many of our generation are left, in comparison? Do you realise we can count that number with both hands as well? Why is that, I wonder?" The retort from Magister Cora Hogg was enough to keep the conservative Magister's bile contained.

"Well said." The Dean motioned for the speakers to rest. "On another note. I think this is a matter best dealt with by the next generation. Slylth suggests we meet the girl to gauge her mind and mettle. Our Slylth is a prodigy, and by all accounts, so is their young War Mage. Perhaps they will have a more meaningful conversation than we old men and women, hmm?"

The two Magisters regarded the smiling young man with the ruffled, rusted hair. There was very little likeness to Morden there. For one, the man wasn't losing a single strand of his hair, while the Arch-Mage was as powerful as he was bald.

The young man gave them a pleasant smile. Having seen the boy grow into a young man over the last half-decade, his lecturers found themselves unable to disappoint the sunny fellow, feeling like a refusal was akin to kicking a grinning wolfhound.

"That's settled, then." The Dean clapped, signalling the end of their emergency meeting. "I leave the matter of Magister Song in the capable hands of our young Magus."

London.

The Isle of Dogs.

In an epoch few still recall, the Isle of Dogs docklands once played home to a great influx, and then exodus, of refugees. When the Kingdom's domains in the west fell to the Wild Hunt in the Beast Tide brought on by Vynssarion Coal Eyes, a quarter of Dublin had to be evacuated lest the city fell in its entirety. The operation, dubbed the Dublin Exodus, took the effort of every merchant, naval and private vessel the nation could muster.

For Magister Gwen Song, now hovering mid-air, she was reminded of another time, another world, of Syrian refugees traversing the Mediterranean in the hundreds of thousands, of the lone boy whose body washed up in the surf.

But the city was no longer willing to cut these ships the necessary slack.

In July, the nation's attitude toward these Frontiersmen and women had been sympathy and sorrow. These were, at their core, citizens of the Mageocracy. They had worked their meagre lives in their mundane ways to provide the resources necessary to keep the Mageocracy's great gears oiled and turning, and now it was time for the citizens to open their hearts and wallets.

Gwen understood very well that the attitude was buoyed in part by a misunderstanding caused by Gunther. When Sydney fell, many refugees came to London and other European cities willing to take their quota. When Gunther reclaimed Sydney, eradicated the Mermen, made peace of a kind and began to transform Sydney into a tier 1 capital, the displaced Australians returned to their homeland and brought relatives and friends.

Ergo, when the climate-related catastrophe began, even the conservative papers fielded the narrative that these refugees would be settled somewhere in the Kingdom and then happily return to their homelands once the fires died down.

Come October, when the promise of the un-intrusive de-materialising refugees failed to occur and, in fact, resulted in MORE ships than formerly predicted, the Sun Herald and the Telegraph found their audience.

Refugees and soaring crime!

Rogue Mages assault the NoMs locals!

Low-skilled Sorcerers from the Frontier are taking the honest jobs of our home-grown lads!

Perhaps it was because she had experienced it all before.

Perhaps it was the power, wealth and influence she now wielded as a sanctioned Magister.

She was supposed to be an objective observer, but Gwen felt mired by the scene below.

In her old world, the same sights had seemed so removed. She was in Sydney, the beach was hot, and the azure ocean was cool. The "boat people" of the world were far away, existing as phantasms on the daytime telly.

Now, they were underfoot, the marching, milling thongs of miserable faces from the Mageocracy's everywhere, each worse worn than the next. The splendour of London was blinding to most of them; this idea that a utopia existed so close when their whole lives had been toil and survival.

"Richard," Gwen asked the stoic figure beside her, equally drinking the sight below in silence. "How many more placements do we have left?"

"The IoDNC prepared Fifteen thousand spaces, mostly for women and children, on the Isle of Sheppey. Beyond that, I do believe the Marchioness' generosity will reach its end. Currently, there are twenty thousand plus refugees taking shelter."

It took Gwen several seconds to realise she'd been gritting her teeth. "How's Elvia's sanctuary?"

Her poor Evee had thrown herself into the crisis like a martyr to a pyre. They were not a kilometre separated, yet she hadn't seen Elvia other than in mass-blessing ceremonies.

"Overcapacity by half." Richard's tone remained unaffected. "We can manage with our resources, but it isn't a long-term solution. The Ordo's additional manpower won't last past the next shipment."

Her cousin's words were a harsh reality and a new experience for Gwen. In business, in a successful acquisition, she rarely worried about the dispossessed workers. Those with marketable skills would take their severance and find better work within weeks. Those with outdated abilities would take a pay cut. As for those without the means, they were never meant to be a part of a lean, operational corporation with thirsty shareholders.

Unfortunately for all, these sad boatloads were not companies, stocks, or parcels of profitability. They were losses in the most drastic and obscene manner imaginable.

Having studied her share of NGO documentaries, Gwen knew her "dock" side of the catastrophe was already a model effort in sifting the refugees from London's shores. Taking her experience from Shalkar, she immediately summoned the Mage-power necessary to process the merchant vessels whose protocol had been to save all stricken ships at sea.

At the docks, a small platoon of Ordo Clerics had energised the tired mobs with "Bless" and "Mass Healing Word", affording them the health and morale to line up and be registered by the government clerks sent to record the influx. Elvia's soup kitchen had tripled its temporary hires, paying premium wages to local bodies to mass-produce soup, rice and bread batches, further fortifying the survivors' patience.

After the new arrivals were sorted into NoMs and Mages, each group went their separate ways. The Shard had a special holding area where the Mages would be given further testing, questions, and jobs and placements. The remaining NoMs were given to fate—meaning understaffed government agencies—or were abandoned to the designs of privateer charities like Elvia's religious entity or Gwen's pragmatic camps.

Somewhere within the city's myriad power brokers, she was certain that Humanity's more destructive instincts, like in Blackheath, were on full display—though that was not her duty or jurisdiction, at least for now.

"Should we land among the new arrivals?" Richard asked.

Gwen shook her head. Even if she did land for a photo-op, what would that prove? The METRO was already doing its utmost to garner charity and support, fighting the Telegraph tooth-and-nail to paint a brighter picture than the Sun Herald could conceive.

But she could not promise these folk a brighter future.

Here in this dark valley, there is only loss.

The loss of social and economic capital.

The loss of political capital.

And the loss of human dignity.

These folk, who had homes and futures months ago, now crowded upon the merchant ships like humanoid snails, carrying their life's proceeds in a new place that imagined them akin to a temporary rash that would go away with a soothing balm.

A day earlier, when desperation had overthrown hope and unrest was at hand, she had sent Lulan with her leftover contingent of Shadow Mages to keep the peace. The idea of a private militia did not sit well with her, but nothing quite inspired discipline like Lulan standing on the upper dock, shading the agitators with floating slabs of humming iron.

For now, the new refugees obeyed the curfews put in place.

But like their predecessors from July, boredom will take root.

Then desperation.

Followed by anger.

In economics, the situation was a death spiral.

Jobs required industry.

Work required homes.

Homes require space.

Spaces had to be secure.

Security required costs.

Costs required jobs.

And every process must generate profit to create a cycle of sustainability. And an uncertain volume of refugees must be abandoned out of the unempathetic, statistical logos of resource limitations.

And despite all of this, she had other interests that must be pursued, lovely distractions that would take her away from the headache below as easily as her Flight.

Food, opportunity, home, none are luxuries, not even for the NoMs of London. With time, the meagre kindness of the nation would appear as cruelty, ignorance, and neglect.

DING!

Her rumination was disrupted by the timely arrival of a golden Message chime, implying that a reply had come from an application submitted to The Shard.

"Magister Song. My name is Magus Slylth Morden of Suilven Tower. We have received your application for the instruction of our signature magic, Morden's Blade, and the elemental-shifted variation of Force Cage. Your application is a welcome sight. However, due to the sensitive nature of the spells requested, we would require you to attend in person at the college so that we may assess the eligibility of our gift to its new wielder. Additionally—"

Gwen stopped the message right there.

"Fuck that noise," Gwen said to Richard with a sigh. "The damned application already wasted three hours of my time, and they're charging almost four hundred Contribution Credits for the baseline variation, a thousand for the real deal. That's a decade's worth of CCs for the average Magus. Now they want to waste more of my time."

Her time, considering the physical manifestation of human misery below was at an absolute premium.

Her CCs were plentiful after Shalkar—and there remained a great deal to do.

"Perhaps your reputation precedes you," Richard smirked. "After all, you told me there's beef between Morden's folk and your Master."

"The price was clearly marked. This reeks of politics." Gwen growled. She performed mental math and concluded that her next few weeks would be hellish enough without tomfoolery from her Master's long-lost relos in Scotland. "Well, if they're not keen to receive CCs to keep their Tower afloat, screw 'em. Give Magister Brown a buzz. I'll prepare for Mass Flight."

The Mass Flight she desired wasn't the variety used to buff a Mage's party with the ability to ride Elemental air. Her application, processed by Maxwell, was for the genuine article, a mass-expenditure Transmutation that drained an upper-tier caster's mana pool to bring Lesser Flight to as many users as possible for up to twenty-four hours. Whatever her future might hold—Gwen deeply suspected that London's immediate concerns would be stabilising the anarchy in its far Frontiers, which meant the mass mobilisation of men and women, both magical and mundane.

As a War Mage more than likely leading the charge, she had a very important takeaway from her six months fighting the Undead: aerial mobility.

So long as air superiority could be maintained—it was the singularly most useful effect any campaign commander could muster. Be it attack, defence, or retreat, nothing else trumped the means to engage or disengage at will.

Most Mages distrusted the viability of air transport due to Magical Creatures interfering, but who was she? Magister Song was a privileged arcanist waiting on her new mini Yinglong! And her Ariel could equally dominate the skies! From experience, she was confident very few magical creatures would dare challenge her Draconic posse if they asked nicely.

And on that front, she had placed an open order for a Draconic Core for Ariel, making a wink and a nudge at Ruxin through Mayuree's House of M. There was no small volume of guilt involved there as well, for the price which a nine to tenth level Core from a pure-blooded Lightning Elemental of the Draconic persuasion could field enough HDMS to keep ten thousand refugees fed for three months.

She was rich—but her means were a late-stage capitalist's, not the self-sacrificing poor soldier ethos of Elvia's brethren. Her hypocrisy was self-evidently Beckettian, but luckily, Gwen possessed enough awareness to choose the modern man's method of boxing the absurdity and throwing away the box.

"I think we've spent enough time here. Eric has the overflow under control, and there's enough in the coffers for contingencies." Gwen felt tired despite her wealth of Essence. "What's next?"

"You have a meeting with Magus Williams of Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy. His appointments have been pushed back, though you said you wanted to visit the matter vis-a-vis. It's regarding the Ilias Leaf?"

"Ah." Gwen recalled that she had left a sizeable volume of HDMs with the young man at the beginning of the year. Banking on his expertise in interfacing with Dwarven magi-tech, the research fellow from the US had promised a report on the viability of interfacing with the leaf. "I almost forgot he existed."

"It isn't urgent, I hope." Richard looked for a place to land. Gwen followed. She could fly as she pleased, but that was paid for with CCs and prestige. "Magus Williams is often absent. I hear he has thrown himself body and soul to the Dyar Morkk project."

"Maybe Gracie can pick up the report. We're keeping the research confined to Cambridge for now..." Gwen mulled the matter. As much as she wanted Project Legion off the ground, she doubted a wealth of investors would exist when the market remained so volatile.

The two had not touched the week-old asphalt for more than two seconds when another Message, this time in the form of a familiar face, made a low dive over the crowd, carried by Aria Ravenport.

In her gunmetal House uniform, the Mage reminded Gwen of a woman wearing a movie prop used for a Bond villain's lair.

"Magister Song—!" the woman cried out before she was even close, perhaps fearing that Gwen would teleport away. "I bring a Summons from the Office of the Lord Marshall. Milord has consulted with The Shard, and your official posting has been organised!"

"Hi, Aria." Gwen waited until the woman was close enough for them to shake hands. They had been co-workers, Aria had been her secretary in Auckland, and the two shared enough history to use their first names. "You've come straight from Westminster, then? No crow-mail? That would have sufficed."

"It's a formality to hand-deliver important requests." Aria's intelligent eyes hesitated. "Gwen. The House Master wishes to speak to you regarding your placement personally."

"I hope it's a good one." Gwen had a good feeling that any politeness from Ravenport meant a worse outcome.

"Sorry, Gwen. I am not privy to that information." The young woman barely stopped herself from habitually bowing her head. "Are you able to attend to the Master now?"

Could she? Gwen wanted to say no.

She had a scientist to see.

Duties at Cambridge.

A charity to facilitate.

Spells to route learn.

And her own NGO to mould into shape before it collapsed under its weight.

Should she? Gwen considered the cost of leaving the Lord Marshall of The Britannic Mageocracy waiting. She and this Mycroft were on curious terms, one neither of them had expected. She was good mates with the daughter—but there was no denying she compelled the son's technical suicide.

Life...Gwen determined...could be very strange.

Westminister.

The Office of the Lord Marshall.

In perhaps, the most unusual greeting Mycroft had ever seen, his guest entered with a prim bow and a loud "Milord Mycroft", then instantly turned to feed his bird something deeply suspicious.

"Caw-caw!" Morrigan's avatar performed what could only be described as a jig and a dance before settling down on the backrest of the guest chair, perched over the girl as though they were partners, not he and his blood-bound Celtic Mythic.

"Aria, you may leave now." The Lord Marshall willed away his aide before allowing himself several seconds to recompose a professional demeanour. The informality of their meetings was fine in private but not something he wanted others to witness. As an afterthought, he sent his aide another Message. "Aria, do tell Millie to prepare a generous tea. Our Void Sorceress does not take well to meetings without refreshments."

Across the table, his guest smiled at his hospitality, masking her acute mind behind a facade of guileless youth. Looking at the vibrancy dripping from the girl's carefully crafted mien, he wasn't surprised that Holland's heir was now under her thumb.

"Magister. Thank you for coming on such short notice," Mycroft began. "Though the notice was short, the decision had been deliberated since before your present stay in London. We have designated a post that we believe is as beneficial to you as it is to the Mageocracy, meaning you have our full support in logistics and resources."

"Thank you." The girl placed her hands on her thighs. Unlike the first few times they had met, her attire was finally prim and professional, though it still bothered Mycroft's fatherly endorsement for subfusc. Comparatively, in vid-casts of her operation, he had thoroughly applauded her choice of the crow-skin battle amour. "So, where would the Mageocracy want me?"

"Before we delve too deeply." Mycroft placed both hands on the table. "Allow me to thank you on behalf of the City of London. Taking the overflow of refugees from our hands has given the Royal Navy significant breathing room to reorganise. As you know, the Northern Expedition is ongoing, as are our Frontier efforts to withdraw our battle lines."

"Think nothing of it." The girl waved a hand, then tickled his crow. "From your hesitance, shall I conceive that I am receiving a Tower in the next few weeks? Something stout and small for beginners, perhaps?"

Ravenport could not help but raise both eyebrows.

"Magister. Do you possess yet another Core the likes of which your Brother-in-craft harvested?"

"Did the Tower manage to do anything with the Kraken Core we recovered?" the girl retorted. "That could work, for a regional Tower, surely. It was the size of a Dwarven Dust MK II unit."

"The Core was polluted beyond recovery," Ravenport replied without batting an eye. "We purchased it out of academic interest, and the barter price has been paid. If you wish it back, will you return the HDMs and other rare materials the Tower has provided?"

"Ha." The girl shrugged. "I am using those HDMs to blunt the attack on your coffers. If anything, I should apply for a tax rebate."

The two sat smiling at one another for a bit more, then the tea arrived, and both took on more serious manners.

After the secretary retreated, Mycroft felt the moment was ripe. "We're sending you back to Shalkar." He cut straight to the chase.

The girl grew incredibly silent.

For Mycroft, this was not a good sign, for he associated the girl Mage with pretentious verbosity and nonsensical sayings. The Foreign Affairs Ministry and the Internal Affairs bureau had both signed off on the girl's appointment—and for a graduate Magister, there was no refusing their placement, especially their first.

However, few Magisters began their careers as a War Mage returning from the South Pole, bearing a badge of approval from an ancient Mythic and receiving an acknowledgement of praise from the tree-side of The Accord. The girl was also rich beyond compare, which naturally attracted political clout from the hungry nobility who wanted a piece of her pecan pie. She had also circumvented the impassable barriers between the Factions so that certain members of the Militants, Greys and Middle Factions saw her as one of their own.

If a Magister like that decided she didn't want to be away from the centre of power, who could teleport them against their will? The Shard would not renounce her credentials, nor would it simply leave her to rot—in a time of chaos and need, politics was an expensive and foolish waste of resources.

Shamefully, Mycroft felt his palms sweat a little.

"You have an established base in the region," Mycroft continued as if unaffected by her silence. "Magister Oliver Edwards has been struggling with the political situation there. However, the Shard could not fathom a better Regional Administrator than yourself, as you command the respect of the Khanate and have significant control over the Rat-men tribes. Now that the region is experiencing a genesis, we require a capable hand with logistical and commercial acumen to extract as many resources as possible before the seasonal boon is concluded."

The girl's eyes remained fixed on the floor.

Mycroft quickly shot his raven a telepathic request for clarification.

"Don't look to me," came Morrigan's reply. "Her actions are as comprehensible as those Necromantic Glyphs from Egypt."

"There is also the matter of the Dyar Morkk you discovered near Shalkar," Mycroft continued, keeping his momentum. "The Dwarves hope to connect to that particular network section within the next two months. The Dwarven city there—hollowed and burnt as it is—needs to be recovered, its dead consigned to the Hall of the Ancestors, and its vaults reopened. The ones responsible will be the Germanic tribes from the Central Continent, though I am confident your alcohol-based virtues should readily tame any confrontations. As a down payment, Berlin has contributed significantly to the endeavour despite the region being a Mageocracy Protectorate. If and when the Dyar Morkk beside Shalkar is connected to central Europe, the trade and development possibilities are endless."

Mycroft concluded by leaning back in his chair. He had said enough. Anymore, and he would begin to feel like a used Wand salesman.

Finally, the girl spoke. "… Ollie is in Shalkar?"

"Magister Edwards never left."

"Wasn't he a provisional one?"

"We authorised his Magistership and gave him an assignment."

The girl winced sympathetically. "How's his hairline?"

Bewildered, Mycroft looked to his raven.

"Caw?" The raven shrugged. "Why would I know?"

The room fell silent. Mycroft hoped Magus Edwards' hair wouldn't be a point of contention.

The girl sighed.

Mycroft sighed. He had hoped to avoid their next step, which was the slow coercion of the girl through her relations, applying gradual pressure until she bent enough to touch base with The Shard's demands. In his opinion, such a waste of goodwill and capital was a loss for both parties.

He studied the girl, searching her body language for a point of hesitation or weakness.

Suddenly, the girl looked up.

Strikingly, her eyes were twin jewels that sparkled with what Mycroft swore were glittering HDMs.

"I want…" the girl spoke with certainty, making his arm hairs bristle. "I want the Dyar Morkk operational in under two months. After that… I want you to send me the overflow of refugees from London, with transit and provisions and a promise to return home if their homeland can be recovered. The first allotment must be skilled labourers and Mages. After that, the others. I also need a continuation on loaning the Fabricator Engine. The city will pay."

"What…" Mycroft instinctively sensed an enormous pitfall in the girl's suggestions. Refugees? What was the girl hoping to do? What could a multitude of vagrants, all displaced from the Frontiers, hope to accomplish in an Orange Zone? "What are you proposing?"

"A city…" the girl's grin was Draconic.

"A city?" Mycroft's mind sowed only doubt—but he was then reminded of Shalkar, the Isle of Dogs, and the Antarctic.

"Yes, a new city!" The girl's confidence was infectious. "We'll build it! A Shinning City in the Sand, a new Silk Road's trade hub, where Demi-humans and Humans all work together for the golden pursuit of prosperity and profit!"