Metaworld Chronicles

War fatigue.

In a more innocent life in another world, the Regent of Shalkar could never have imagined that death and destruction could become as pedestrian as Mondays.

After Antarctica, the war weariness had taken root in her chest like ivy vines entwined around the grand trunk of a once ambitious oak, sapping the passion, terror, compassion and loathing natural to human beings in a state of war.

Such was why she had to convince herself to care, that there were Russian refugees, men and women and children, who required the helping hand of a compassionate power broker willing to forgo profits for humanitarianism.

Soon, their first mixed-race expedition would set out for the barely mapped Wildlands between her shining city on the hill and the Ural mountains, and she had to ensure her citizens' well-being was prioritised. And it was the right thing to do, Gwen told herself every so often into the endless paperwork, meetings, complaints and compliances needed to balance the unusual mix of sympathetic Dwarves, insensitive Centaurs and neutral Rat-kin.

Additionally, the expedition would be the first field test of Shalkar's military logistics. To prepare the new front, the Dwarves would build a trail of temporary Divination Stations to be manned by Strun's numberless Rat-kin guards. In the event of an attack, Shalkar's Mage Flights would arrive through the combined magics of Spellcraft and Dwarven Low-way runic sorcery.

Beyond that, Gwen had the unenviable task of managing the possibility of new information on the disappearance of Magi Igor Sakharov, with herself as the sole authority to make immediate and drastic decisions.

As the Tower Master holding up the "Iron Wall" between the dormant forces of the underground Necropolises in Eastern Russia and the Ural Mountains' industrial centre, his death signalled the demise of the old status quo. And as the Magi credited with the Spellcraft powering the localised gravity used in the Tower's combat levitation systems, a resurrected Sakharov would trigger an eastern campaign to rival the Great War.

The worst outcome, therefore, wasn't the potential that she had to drop another Shoggoth on Yekaterinburg, for she had grown numb over the death of those too slow to flee or too feeble to take flight. A true catastrophe was transforming her future Silk Road business hub into a forward operating base for a multi-national conflict.

The prevention of such an outcome was the core tenet of her expedition, with the secondary outcomes being Petra's hopes of retrieving her estranged parents and increasing Shalkar's goodwill.

"Regent." A shadow motioned for her attention from the interior of the Bunker's chief administrative office, below the window of which her forces amassed. "Commander Strun report that we await on Master Axehoff's Golem Guards. They will need more time to retool the construction units."

"How long?" She spoke to the Manipuri Shadow Mage in the darkness.

"Two more day cycles, your Grace."

Ollie sat beside her on a separate secretary's desk, tapping through the data slates with a Wand. "May I recommend that we send out the Horse Lords? Time is of the essence, and the Cherbi is impatient."

Gwen considered the urgency of the matter. From the day of her return, it had already been forty-eight hours since she had given the order to arrange the rescue operation. The more they delayed the expedition, the lesser the likelihood of finding hale refugees.

"Agreed, Magister Edwards. Süri, tell the Cherbi to begin the overland march," she informed her Shadow Mage. "The Rat-kin infantry will follow and establish supply lines overland. Strun and Garp will travel below the main force and prepare the new Low-way branches for the Dwarven Engineers. Tell the Centaurs to circle back at the first sign of trouble."

"I don't think the Cherbi will retreat without…er…" Ollie remarked worriedly. "… having a fair go, as your people would say in Australia."

Gwen considered the misused slang. Indeed, a small Tide of Undead was no match for a Horse Lord assault. However, should her Horse-kin get mired in corpses, not even their Shaman magic will free them from a sea of clamouring, necrotic claws.

"Send a request to Golos to tentatively scout between here and the mountains," she concluded that there would be no rest for her undeserving Thunder Dragon. "At an altitude necessary to see and record everything, it should be two hours to cover a thousand kilometres if he flies at full capacity."

"Yes, that would put many risk factors to rest." Ollie breathed out. "As well as clear any unwanted encounters, I'd wager."

"Aye, it's high time our tenants earned their keep. Have a flock of Phalera's brood follow the Centaurs from the sky." She nodded in agreement. "They should report back to the nearest established Divination node or call for their father in the event of a true emergency. Golos should be able to reinforce them within the hour."

"As you wish, Mistress." The voice from the shadow grew faint until the darkness lost its dimensions. "I'll inform Magus Huang and Kuznetsova."

Gwen returned her attention to the table. "Olly. What's next?"

"Development of the residential blocks G12 to G42 on the eastern quadrant." Ollie willed away, then retrieved a new set of data slates from his Storage Rings. "We are waiting on filtration units from Berlin. They should be making their way through the Low-ways as we speak."

"Prioritise the fabrication of sewerage and sanitation installations." Gwen's eyes swept over the Dwarven-made schematics for the civilian district, pausing at the plans for their first hospital. "How are we looking in regards to the Clerical situation?"

"If you mean Healers." Ollie threw forward a few PowerPoint(™) illusions. "We're still drastically short-staffed, even with interim members from the Ordo."

Gwen's train of thought checked in at a station she had previously visited with delight. "Increase the signing bonus to four hundred HDMs for the first year for Senior Mages, a thousand for Magus candidates." she tapped the data slate. "Tap into my Chinese connections and see if we can round up Mages displaced by the ongoing situation in Tianjin. Prioritise Healers and Transmuters. The CCP owes me. If any nationalists dare to interfere, ask Ruxin's family to speak with the local Secretariats."

"I'll arrange it." Ollie jotted down her designs, flourishing his stylus wand.

"How's fares our preparations for the Kirin Core?"

"Master Morden is planning the Abjuration Wards," the Magister informed her. "As you have willed, the Ambassador has consented us to use the abandoned pit mine."

"Good... good." Gwen yawned.

"Regent, perhaps you should take a break? It's been almost ten hours."

Gwen kneaded her brows. Her skin felt dry. Her lips felt parched, and the part of her brain she most associated with Powerpoint magic throbbed something serious.

"Fine." She relented. A little rest could refresh her for better ideas. "Let's hit the Dwarf Bars. I am going to need something strong, vital and frothing. Are you coming, Ollie?"

Her aide's protest withered as soon as their eyes met.

"Yes…" he sighed dejectedly. "But please keep the quaffing under control. Let me remind you, Regent, that we have a Healer shortage."

London.

Westminister.

The Courtyard Garden Cafe.

Charlene Ravenport, daughter to the Duke, had not expected to find a friend in Thomas Holland, a childhood rival, bully, and fellow noble. Yet, in a twist of fate, she had grown uncommonly familiar with her one-time suitor through their common bonds to a certain someone.

She had found the young Holland deeply contemplating a cream bagel in the alfresco dining space attached to the House of Commons' external grounds. Curiously drawn to a Holland alone and unattended by sycophants, she decided to grace the troubled young man with her delightful presence.

They began, as the English were prone to do, with the weather, the tea, then family, followed by light-hearted politics, and finally, the topic of Gwen Song.

The arrival at their final point of discussion was natural, for barely half a year had passed since their mutual benefactor had been sent away from the Mageocracy's seat of power, and she was already making the old men shift in their button-up trousers.

"Your people are investing, dear Thomas," she boasted to the smug Steam Mage, who had professed his support for Gwen's venture in the Black Zones belonging to the Horse Lords. "We Ravenports, through our Isle of Dog Norfolk Corporation, have already invested."

The Steam Mage smiled sheepishly.

Charlene could see why.

In a twist not even his family's Diviners could anticipate, the young man had taken a risky excursion away from the Greenland expedition to New Zealand, then had inexplicably returned with a Draconic Spirit of the Steam persuasion, a boon so perfectly tuned that only a handful of Hollands across five centuries had possessed the same privilege. Not only had the Dragon Turtle expedited the growth of his Elemental Affinity, its absurd passives had negated the greatest flaw of Steam Mages: physical defence.

As a direct result, the Arctic Expedition had been resolved, Tryfan's request had met a satisfactory end, and most of the Militant Faction's heirs had even returned to London with their marbles intact.

The war against Zordiam was a vastly more expensive development than her Southern Expedition with Gwen. However, its success, meaning the rewards bestowed by Tryfan and the Mageocracy upon the resource-starved Militant faction, was enough to halt the Faction's financial crisis.

"I'll concede to that." The Steam Mage did not refute that her father had been the first to see Gwen's potential. "But Shalkar's risk had just gone up ten-fold. With China out of the picture and Russia withdrawing its defence line to the Volga, the north is also set to lose Novosibirsk. There will be nothing between the expansion of the Juche Cult and her shining city in the sand."

Charlene could only snort at the Steam Mage's paranoia.

"Something is standing in their way, though. A veritable barrier."

"I doubt the Demi-humans are willing to die or risk unholy resurrection for a human settlement," Thomas answered doubtfully. "Even for Gwen."

"Thomas, what better barrier to stand between Shalkar and the Undead than Gwen herself? With her ties to Tryfan, her Shoggoth, and what the Thunder Dragons owe her, it's enough. Besides, have you seen the Lumen-casts of her new Mermen allies? Or was that not made available to your people?"

"Are you volunteering that information?" The Steam Mage chortled. "Or are you trying to rope us into another loss?"

"We're a bit beyond that kind of pettiness." Charlene exhaled, thinking of the transcontinental chaos now eating up every waking minute of her time. "On a more serious note. What are your plans for Gibraltar? Do you need any aid with the locals?"

"We'll manage," Thomas replied, his tone thrilling and dangerous. "I am done with war for a while. Mine's an audit assignment to secure the Black Sea from Human incompetence. If anyone tries to skim from the humanitarian cache, I will steam them myself and send the remains back to their kin. What of you? I heard that you're headed to Moscow?"

"The loss of Yekaterinburg has left an enormous vacuum." Charlene did not withhold what should be common knowledge among the inner circle of the Mageocracy's ruling elites. "We both know that at our tier, little that can stop you and me from returning to a safe Tower with our Contingency Rings. That Magi Sakharov had returned to a falling Tower—or did not return—is more suspect than the possibility of his misadventure. We both know Moscow has always been a belligerent member of the Tower Treaties, perhaps this time…"

The Steam Mage inclined his chin in agreement.

A long time ago, before the Beast Tide, before the Great War, Moscow had ruled a vast and resourceful empire spanning from icy Siberia to the rich loams of the Balkans. And though it was debatable whether the Communists' murder of Victoriana's kin had progressed or regressed its ambition, the nation's expectations of relevance had only grown with its diminishment.

"I see. So you're saying that if Gwen halts the Undead threat, her real trial for Shalkar will begin," Thomas read her inference at once.

With the Ural Mountains gone, Moscow had to find a quick and immediate source of liquid HDM capital to fund a recovery—and there just so happened to be a convenient target barely a Black Zone away.

What must the elites in Moscow have seen when an Australian-born Magister barely in her twenties was sweeping up the riches of the south like a maximised Maelstrom?

Barely two years ago, the Fire Sea was an uncontested "no man's land". After the Fire Elementals' exit, Charlene could confidently state that Shalkar's soon-to-be-operable Dwarven Low-ways were a morsel many considered tempting enough to disrupt the unspoken laws of mixing one's laborious magic with the land.

Of course, Germany's Dwarves would not labour alongside anyone other than Gwen, more so for the bad blood between the Human purists and the Demi-humans who never forgot a grudge. The problem, as her father ascertained, was that Moscow's kleptocratic Factions might be on a different page, especially regarding the obscene resources Gwen's forces are poised to extract from the abandoned regions of the old Soviet Union.

"Father wishes to put some political padding between Moscow Tower and its parasitic nomenklatura," Charlene half-whispered. "That way, when Gwen's acts of vengeance come calling, we can sigh and stand back and say we told you so."

To contain the unborn hostility was the crux of Charlene's present assignment: to offer an aiding hand to a long-time ally while also keeping a hand raised with a half-manifested Fireball of friendship.

"If you need it." Thomas' voice drifted across the chasm of her thoughts. "We do have assets in Moscow which may be of use. Legislators aligned with our Faction, as it were."

"Without condition? Why so Gentlemenly an offer?" Charlene studied the Steam Mage. After their mutual trips to the opposite ends of the Axis Mundi, they both appeared older and wiser, their eyes no longer possessed of the capricious pride so dearly engraved upon young Lords and Ladies of the Empire. Of course, the same applied to their once naive political acumen.

"It's a way to return a favour." Thomas did not hide his intentions. "To our mutual benefactor."

"Fine. I am willing to entertain the details." Charlene did not read the offer as malicious, at least not from the eager glint in the Steam Mage's eye. "Is there a Message you would like me to pass on?"

"Perhaps anonymity would be best for now." The undisputed heir to Militant Faction smiled sheepishly. "Life is long, as are the conflicts we're embroiled within. I have learned to be patient."

Charlene gave the man a judgemental look, enough at least to make the young fellow add a dash of colour to his cheeks. Certainly, when the Steam Mage had herself in his sights, he had not possessed a single romantic bone in his body. Now, he was willing to freely deliver his family's prized favours that they had spent generations to accumulate for another woman. Bitterly, she felt both impressed and slighted.

"Very well. You may give me the details once I am in Moscow." As a Ravenport, Charlene's ability to shunt away personal feelings was impeccable. "Good luck in Gibraltar, Thomas."

"And a fair future to you in that viper's nest." the Steam Mage had the courtesy to pick up the tab as he withdrew. He bowed his head once again at the glass door, then was gone with the closing chime.

"Russians... refugees and the Undead..." Charlene finished the last of her tea. "Gwen, I hope you're previsioned for more than monsters..."

Hastings.

Battle Abbey.

Under the vaulted, rainbow-hued space of the abbey's monolithic stained mural of the Nazarene's crucified body, Elvia Lindholm, Knight Companion, prayed for the wholeness of her heart and soul. Against the fading sun, her waist-length locks were a fleece of burnish gold, bisecting her petite figure with geometric shards of multi-coloured light.

As a stoic sentinel, she remained kneeling under the benevolent gaze bearing the Crown of Thorns, pondering a future she had not entertained.

Why am I not dead? Elvia heard her tortured conscience like echoed breaths in the prayer rooms.

According to the Yinglong, her blood should have been spilt on the altar to consecrate the salvation of the original sacrifices, Jun Song, Ayxin and their child. Yet, she had succeeded and, inexplicably, lived.

But Sir Kass, who had guided and taught her, had died for her sake.

And Sir Reginald, who had given her advice when her faith grew faint, had likewise perished in her place.

And all those poor souls in Tianjin—

Who should have lived but was now condemned?

Who had died but had been blessed to live?

She had thought herself capable of carrying the sin to term. Now, alive and hale and possessed of a future, the pressure of all those lives smothered her, drowning her five fathoms deep in the blue dark. Every breath she took inhaled motes of cinders, igniting the wool in her chest, spreading the agony like Zodiam's Elemental Fire through her conduits.

The heavy oaken doors announced with a creak that she was no longer alone.

Elvia reflexively turned to face the newcomers, but she had knelt for so long that her limbs had gone senseless, sending her into a sideward tumble instead.

"Elvia!" The ceiling flashed golden. Mathias caught her before she made a spectacle. "You should eat. It's been a day and then some…"

"Mathias is correct, child." The deep and resonant voice of the man beside him belonged to her mentor, Seneschal Ashburn. "What use is there to punish yourself with a fast?"

Despite Mathias' radiance, Elvia shivered. Kass and Reginald were men from Ashburn's generation. They were the Seneschal's friends and life-long companions, brother-in-arms cut from the same cloth. How could she face the Senechal after wasting their lives?

Mathias directed her to the pew, where the three sat in a row, sandwiching Elvia between them.

“Seneschal, I am sorry…” Elvia had no excuses to give. "For my selfishness, Sir Kass and Reginald paid with their lives."

Her Seneschal did not reply but waited until her curiosity forced her to raise her head. Their eyes met, his the colour of tempered steel and hers hot and swollen.

"Evee. Most Knight Protectors will meet their end in battle." Ashburn's voice felt warm and alive despite the cold sandstone space of the abbey's cathedral. "To have Faith is to endlessly push against the tide of inhumanity threatening our existence. To halt is to lose Faith, perish, and betray our Holy Pledge. For Kass and Reginald, there is nothing to lament. Do not mourn for men who died well. No tears, regrets, or loss are involved in their sacrifices, save for their company and good humour."

"I should have been less impulsive." Her voice choked. "I robbed them of their old age."

"No." Ashburn's hand reached past her chin and gently cupped the side of her small face. "Child, Kass and Reginald gave their lives for you out of duty and free will, exercising the greatest gift the Nazarene had bestowed upon us. Blame yourself again, and you cheapen their choice, understand?"

Elvia nodded. She understood, not that she accepted her Seneschal's kindness.

"Do you wish to return to your friend?" Ashburn's question, perhaps to distract her from guilt, cut through her mind like St Michael's flaming claymore.

"I do," she replied, though not immediately.

Her Seneschal's rough thumb wiped away something from her upper cheek. "No, you do not."

"I did… something unforgivable," Elvia confessed. "I made her choose me over her brother."

"Now there's a sinner beyond all redemption," Ashburn sighed. "I am very sorry for what you had to do, child. Mathias told me as much as he could, as truthfully as he could manage. Tell me, what does your friend think of her choice?"

"Gwen hates me." Elvia felt the gloom of her mind like a cloak of dense darkness.

"Hate is far too committed an emotion," Ashburn replied. "I have passed much judgment in my years, Evee. Yet, I would not say I hated those I banished, nor did they hate me more than most. Your friend hates herself, Elvia. Not you. Moreso, she is driven by her detestation of Elizabeth Sobel. Thereby, I conclude that your wishful thinking is as far from reality as her brother is from the path of righteousness."

"So… I am less hated than Sobel, and therefore, things aren't as bad as they seem." Elvia surprised herself by finding a smidgen of humour. She wanted to smile, though all she felt was exhaustion.

Her Seneschal took her hand away from their resting place on her lap. With a tap, he coaxed her to open her clenched digits wide enough to deposit a piece of metal warm to the touch. She looked down, noting the Holy Symbol of the Ordo Bath.

From her herbal pouch, the petite figure of Kiki crawled out to stare at the luminous energy so reminiscent of the sun.

"Elvia. The Ordo's exchange with the Yinglong is concluded. Your ordeal with the Dragon is over." Ashburn's tone was one of relief. "I am unsure if the ancient one had expected your survival, but its interest in you has waned. Therefore, allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your formal ascension to the Ordo, Companion Lindholm. Few have accomplished what you have at your age."

Elvia felt the living Faith entwined within the Holy Symbol like the pulsing beat of the living against the chest of an insensible patient, powerful and undeniably full of life.

"Ki-ki..." Her floral sprite cooed.

Ashburn patted the flower on the head, stroking the petals with his thumb.

"As an ordained Companion, you may move the Ordo's resources as befitting your rank, which means you may return to Shalkar or invest in a crisis elsewhere if that's your wish. As for your friend…" her mentor withdrew his hand, sinking her heart. "Know this, Elvia. For our compatriots in the secular world, there exists an unhappy reality. For she who is unguided by benevolent powers, whether mortal or immortal, vengeance always comes before love. Therefore, for our Regent, until her lust for retribution is resolved... there shall be no respite for the wicked and no room for forgiveness."

The Northern Steppes.

Shalkar.

Petra Kuznetsova, Magus Enchantress and aide-de-camp to the Regent of Shalkar felt the crystalline coolness of her usual demeanour melt like spring snow in the harsh heat of roaring summer.

In addition to her scalding anxiety, a part of her felt immersed in guilt. Having received education, benediction, finance and fame via the achievements of her cousin, she had long since consigned herself to a logically sound repayment plan of service and gratitude.

Yet, when the news of Yekaterinburg had descended like the Yinglong from the blue, she could not help but put her regard for her estranged parents before the immediate concerns of her cousin. In the heat of the moment, the request for Gwen to aid her parents' city had seemed natural—but now that the conflagrations were put to rest, she couldn't help but feel like a burden.

Her selfishness was inexcusable, for her cousin had just endured the betrayal of a lover and a brother and the literal loss of that brother to the same monster who had taken her Master.

In the process, a city had been near-erased from existence, millions missing and dead—and she had possessed the audacity to hound Gwen to return to work in Shalkar and to organise this expedition to the Ural Mountains.

In truth, she should have returned to Shalkar alone, found whatever allies she had managed to scrounge up in her academic years, then forayed an individual Path forward, leaving Gwen to properly settle her affairs with her uncle, with the Dragon Princess and with their babulya.

Without Gwen, she could have still saved her parents. Many were interested in her talents in London, and more were invested in more than just her magical skills. With her training from Master Popov, it wasn't beyond her imagination that those in power, men in particular, could be tempted or enticed into aiding her cause.

A small strike unit for rescue operations, a Mage Flight of Translocation specialists, would have been the reasonable outcome, not this northern march beside the Horse Lords. Looking at the dust column behind them, the sheer cost of the logistics alone was enough to make her head spin.

"Petra, still worried?" Richard's voice, like his presence, was a welcome respite to her feverish self-loathing. "Like I said, if Dyadya and Totya managed to escape the city, they'd be fine. Hold onto that hope, for there's not much point pondering the alternative."

To keep pace with the Horse Lords, they rode on a Dwarven Strider—one Petra had constructed as a part of her lessons under the Engineseers. Richard rode outside the cockpit, balanced upon the right stabiliser fin through Lea's supernatural control of Elemental Water. For their expedition, Richard was the second-in-command to Khudu and their principal source of refreshment. As for Petra, her array of Spell Cubes had been exhausted in Shanghai, making her doubly guilty of being useless.

To keep herself engaged, she eased the throttle on the mana engine, adding a degree of slack to the gyroscopic stabilisers.

"Thanks, Dick." She leaned back in the bucket seat. "You too, Lea."

"And don't worry about our boss lady," her cousin, as always, seemed to read minds like a Mind Mage. "You did good. Gwen needed this."

"She needs more work?" Petra cocked her head at the Water Mage. "I would have preferred if she stayed in Sydney. More time with her Siblings-in-craft will do her far more good than with us and with this… work."

"Perhaps." Richard shrugged. "But we all know how focused Gwen can be. With Percy the way he is and with Sobel slipping the noose again, she's like an unstable Spell Cube at the brink of eruption. What she needs more than anything is an outlet for that pressure."

"Like this expedition to the Ural Mountains?"

"Yes, so don't put too much importance on yourself." Richard adjusted his glasses, blinding her with the reflection from the midday sun. "What we're doing here is a necessity and a mercy. A necessity to establish the importance of Shalkar as a conduit point between Asia, Eurasia, and Europe. We also need more Mages, and there are arguably thousands of them now displaced from their homes, with only a fraction capable of returning to a normal life in Moscow. So yes, we are here to rescue Dyadya Mikhail and Totya Mila, but it's truer to say we're here to nab as many able bodies as possible for Gwen's city in the sand. In that regard, the Horse Lords are experts."

"That's an interesting way of looking at it." Petra's eyes drifted to the Centaurs. Each dressed in their leather battle garbs, the entire vanguard was tattooed in the style typical of the Thunderblooded war parties of the Nayzağay Qanı. With Khudu as the spear of their combined vitality, the Khesig honour guard was capable of besting any known foe in the northern Black Zone.

"Our Gwen isn't the girl we knew back in Shanghai, not for a while now." Richard's insight made her shiver a little. "In the coming years, we will hunt down Sobel, Petra, even if it takes every form of calculation and cruelty to come. From the Elves to Dragons to dabbling in the fringes of Necromancy, there'll be many trials Gwen needs our help to overcome."

Petra gazed upon her cousin, her eyes hard and serious. "Necromancy, Richard? More than what has already come to pass?"

"We fight Demi-humans with Demi-humans, Dragons with Dragons…" Richard said calmly. "How do you think we should fight Undead Mermen and the Cult of Juche?"

Petra's limbs felt icy. Gwen had spoken often about her Master's magic—of what design he once possessed and what had failed to come to pass for lack of will and political opportunity.

"Don't sweat it," Richard smirked. "A little Soul Tap here, some Essence Tap there, and when we find a use for Lei-bup's Shoal, nothing short of Sympathetic Life-Link will do."

"Christ, it is looking that way, isn't it?" Petra tried to imagine Gwen at the head of a Shoal, riding on a Leviathan helmed by a portly, tentacled Fish-priest.

Besides them, the Centaurs began to pick up speed.

Above, the screeching of Phalera's Harpies indicated they had spotted something of great interest.

The clay markings on the Horse Lord's bodies began to burn, heating the air and filling it with the unique stench of musky horses.

"To cut off Spectre." Richard made a little model of a humanoid with the water gathered in his hand, encircled by a watery sphere. "Our cousin will peel away shrouds of power protecting Sobel like a blooming onion…"

Petra adjusted the Strider's limbs to match their new velocity.

"But as for now..." Richard rose into the air, floating on Lea's water clouds. "Let's see what Lord Golos' children have found, shall we?"