Metaworld Chronicles

The Tower burned.

Sakharov sat on the floor of his flaming control room, congealed blood covering half his face and uniform.

He had potions galore in his Storage Rings, but he desired the pain, for the throbbing agony against his temple reminded him every few seconds that this was reality and not some strange, necrotic fever.

“Milord, structural integrity is at fifty-six per cent…” Vulpe, whose cuts and scraps had healed within minutes, reported below his command bridge, “After that Radiant spell breached the Tower Core, our mana stores have been discharged to twenty per cent and falling. I must request we evacuate your esteemed self to the Siberian Frontier before the Tower is lost.”

His First Officer’s life-preserving advice washed over Sakharov like magic off a Dragon’s back. The Magi didn’t blame him, for the Vampire didn’t know and could not understand that his Tower Master was stuck processing the rationales for their failure and defeat.

An hour ago, he had the entire battlefield under his control.

Yet a short while prior, Yekaterinburg Tower had been struck by an eighth-tier Meteor Strike possessing such force that the upper decks were pulverised. Furthermore, the downward momentum of the erupting magma had induced his Tower’s hand-engineered Levitation Mandalas into explosive overdrives, sending Yekaterinburg into a steep plummet that drove its lower half into the Elemental Plane of Fire.

Sakharov had anticipated a number of exotic defences from Shalkar, but an upper-tier Strategic Magic, he had not.

By St Peter! This was Strategic Magic! Not Creature Cores at a Moscow market!

As a study, all Spellcraft above the sixth tier was naturally multi-disciplined. Unlike their lower-tier personnel-based arcanistry, tiers seven to nine required the work of many Mages working in tandem or were the work of combined talents by experienced Masters such as himself.

Shalkar was a new city less than two years old.

It also possessed no Tower.

Nor had a Magi visited the city in any of its widely accessible records.

If so, where did the Meteor Strike come from?

The Regent was certainly not a Fire Mage, and her infamous Sibling-in-Crafts was a Battle Mage, not a scholar capable of bringing down ruin and destruction. Even the Morning Star, who he now knew had snuck into the procession, wasn’t capable of so grand a sorcery in a land so far from his Tower.

But he had overestimated himself and underestimated a rag-tag city of monsters.

Firstly, he had not foreseen the attack of the Death Worm—which had become a detriment.

And then, he had misjudged the city’s trump cards, such as the Meteor Strike.

The result was that his Tower. Sakharov’s Tower, his lifelong achievement as Moscow’s sole Magi, was sinking into the very portal where his Planar Ally should have emerged.

Was there a reprieve, then? There was not. In his still-beating heart, he knew that Vulpes was correct. His life was a limited commodity until he could attain the un-life of Lichdom. If he fell now, his foes would triumph, and the million souls he had consigned to his ascension would have gone to waste.

“Very well. Divert all power to shielding and ready the platform array for ISTC transfer to Siberia.” Sakharov gave the order and watched his men scramble. About half would have died from the mana surge if they had been alive. Instead, some were singed, while others lost chunks of their faces—but none failed to fulfil their duties.

“Sire, we’ve lost Mana Engines fourteen to twenty-three,” the emotionless reports from the thralls below continued to pour into the bridge. “The Rat-kins have infiltrated the mid-section Levitation Generators. Central Core Chambers Four to Six had been breached. Total loss of power is imminent.”

“Structural integrity at forty-nine per cent.” Another junior engineer declared. The Tower was sinking, and with Zodiam exorcised, the portal would eventually close, leaving the surviving portion of the Tower in the Prime Material.

“Milord, please pay no heed to what is lost.” Vulpes stepped from his station and directed Sakharov toward the Teleportation Circle reserved precisely for such an occasion. “Our Masters await your arrival.”

“They are, are they?” Sakharov felt his stiff hands grow hot with embarrassment. The Masters of Juche, the senior Liches whose numbers he had hoped to join, would not receive an unblemished Mage Tower as promised. Instead, they would receive a disgraced Magi.

His only solace was that he had acted only because of the order from the Ljósálfar, which should be his saving grace against their hollow, pinpoint eyes of Necrotic fire. The Elf wasn’t their Master; Sakharov was sure of it, but the Masters of Juche seldom denied the Elf’s requests, even if they were at a detriment to the religious expansion of Undeath.

“What of yourself, Vulpes?” Sakharov stiffly shuffled across the bridge, feeling every joint aflame with agony, exacerbating the wound on his forehead.

“I have not received additional orders from the Patriarch.” The Vampire bowed. “My mission is to remain with the Tower.”

Sakharov felt a stab against his heart. Many years ago, he had also left his First Officer, in a war zone similar to their present crisis.

“I order you and your men to leave, Vulpe,” Sakharov stated flatly.

The Vampire smiled. “Thank you, Sir. But here we shall remain.”

Sakharov felt a trickle of old blood drip from his frustrated lips.

He wanted to tell the man that he was sorry.

That he should have been a better Tower Master.

But he was helplessly mortal.

And his First Officer was a thrall to a higher being.

The Tower shook.

The floors shuddered.

In a faraway corridor too close for comfort, he heard the sound of Dwarven-made Spellswords carving into the internal Walls of Force walling the bridge from the rest of the Tower.

“Goodbye, Vulpes,” Sakharov stepped into the Tower’s internal ISTC array.

“May your life-eternal see us avenged.” The Vampire saluted. “It’s been a pleasure, Milord.”

The semi-circle door slid shut.

Secret runes flared as the Mandalas fired for the last time, sending its cargo to its final destination. In a second, Yekaterinburg’s erstwhile Tower Master was a thousand kilometres away, transported across time and space to hopefully arrive at an ageless Necropolis in the depthless dark of lightless Siberia.

Shalkar.

The Bunker.

Gwen Song, the Regent of Shalkar, felt her innards revolt as her life-linked Afaa al-Halak docked its upper torso like a lizard’s tail, choosing to abandon its roasted head and body to preserve its life. The sensation was not one that Gwen could put into words, for her body was simultaneously infused by the vital mana radiating from Sufina’s seed and dominated by the Essence of Almudj coursing through every conduit she possessed.

Under such a condition, she performed her Tree-rite like a witch in a trance, her vivid irises aglow with mystical energies her guests could not discern while the contesting energies of life and death, agony and pleasure played out a metaphysical orchestra within her Astral self.

With the Tower half-sunk and aflame, her guests could again appreciate their hostess's ascension, their eyes once more scanning her flowering body for the next spectacle.

From the Elf-sown earth obscured by the liquified mana, Sufina’s sprout emerged, first as thick as a finger, then rapidly growing to the girth of Gwen’s waist. In minutes, the sprout was carrying Gwen upward, its likeness akin to a time-lapsed growth of an ancient acacia from the underfloor of the Amazons.

In the back of her mind, Gwen understood that she still had vital marketing to deliver to her guests. Still, she grew intoxicated by the soaring elation in her heart as the bower caught her thighs and buttocks, cradled her like a princess in the arms of a gallant knight, and then lifted her rapidly toward the ceiling.

Up and up, higher and higher, she felt herself ascend, becoming eye-level with her audience, then slightly above them as the growth began to spread horizontally. Beneath her billowing, gossamer dress, she saw the adoring eyes of Charlene Ravenport and the satisfied look of calculation on Mycroft’s bird-like features. She saw the jubilant form of her Opa leaping from foot to foot, no doubt inspired unto new realms of inappropriate artistry by his new experience. She saw Mayuree and her brother bowing at the tree. She saw her old mentors as well, Lady Grey and Astor, their chins raised, their eyes rich with wonder and acknowledgement. She saw Thomas Holland clapping like an elated critic at the opera, grinning from ear to ear. She saw the lords and ladies of the Mageocracy, their allies and guests from Europe and America and South East Asia, all standing on their toes to deliver an endless ovation, behaving as though the loudness of their cheers would somehow aid the growth of Sufina’s immortal trunks.

The thrumming of defence shields overhead ceased.

The final aperture, formed from overlapping panes of Walls of Force, slid apart soundlessly, their Dwarven-made mechanisms growing flush with the opened roof.

As a localised storm, the heat from Shalkar’s exterior flooded inward as a whispering vortex, draining into the cool interior of The Bunker. At once, the sickly humidity, sticky smog and the heat death of the plants and her charred citizens too slow to find shelter under Shalkar’s shielding pervaded the interior, making her audiences reel.

Were it not for the immense vitality coursing through her body, Gwen did not doubt that she would have wilted like a plucked flower left to die on exposed concrete. Instead, together with the splitting sound of growing wood, she rose into the unsheltered light of day to inhale the annihilation of her paradise and exhale the fecund scent of living hope.

The Bunker slowly faded from sight as more bowers and branches with their olive leaves expanded like a Lichtenberg figure, emerging from the pyramidal structure of the fortress below to form a semi-dome of greenery.

To her right, the Sky Garden, long labelled Golo’s Lair, came into view until she reached almost eye-level with the highest spire, where her Thunder Dragon made its home.

A trio of figures awaited her, each possessing ears longer and pointier than the last.

The first, blonde-haired and gaunt with a spindly, elongated neck, Gwen recognised as Primarch Vulmari of Tryfan.

The second was an androgynous Hvítálfar in robes of shimmering insect-wing that resembled thin sheets of crystallising ice.

The third wore the skin of an Elf but was taller and more regal. She had flaming red hair and slitted, ruby-hued eyes that did nothing to disguise her true nature.

Gwen’s vision of the trio grew suddenly hazy.

And then the space invaders stood beside her as though they had always been there.

“Regent.” Vulmari’s speech, both in tone and arrogance, was familiar enough for her to realise that this was Tyfanevius speaking from the body of his Vessel. “You have exceeded our expectations. Also, interesting choice of attire. Sanari’s work, I take it? Her craftsmanship hasn’t dulled even after a century.”

Balancing herself on the quivering bower branch, Gwen bowed her head at her august visitors. Her dress, particularly with its gimmick of blooming blossoms, now felt vulgar, like the off-season couture paraded by the parvenu.

“Lord Tyfanevius,” she imitated her best Draconic, trusting her Master’s Ioun Stone to do her justice. “It is with great pleasure that I welcome you to Shalkar. I was most certainly not expecting guests of your… grandioseness.”

The Green Dragon laughed very naturally despite inhabiting the body of the Druid as a psychic parasite. “It wasn’t that long ago that we spoke, so be at ease. Of course, you have met our cousin Illaelitharian already. But I do not believe you have met our most regal kin, her Ladyship of The Eternal Flame—Sythinthimryr.”

Gwen bowed again at her snowy benefactor, then ensured she showed equal deference to the Red Dragon present in person.

Slylth’s mother! Her mind felt suddenly hot. As if the destruction of her city by a Tower wasn’t taxing enough on what remained of her sanity. Even in London, she had heard innumerable stories about Sythinthimryr, the infamous.

The bardic lore of the region had sung that in Carrauntoohil lived the ancient Dragon of Summer Flame, the ageless Sythinthimryr. Greedy without peer, she reigned the peaks of Ireland, her unfurled wings as wide as the horizons, her eyes all-seeing, and her breath capable of smelting cities into slag. Yet, by some unknown Accord long made with the Celtic Kings of old, Sythinthimryr stood as an impenetrable bulwark against Balor One-Eye, the monstrous all-father of Elementals, self-proclaimed Chief of the Wild Hunt.

“Lord Illaelitharian, Lady Sythinthimryr,” Gwen felt the elation of her growing tree take second place against the incredulous reality her trio of transcendent beings brought. “As Regent, I humbly welcome you to Shalkar and apologise for the state of our affairs.”

And while you’re here—her mind rapidly grasped the straws of opportunity; I could sell you each a VIP suite at the top of the tree…

“You have made good use of my boy.” Sythinthimryr’s eyes possessed a strange heat that made her cheeks flush. “However, even for a pure-blooded Red Dragon, Morden’s Meteor will sap him for a good while.”

“I understand the young Master’s sacrifice, and I am very happy to have Slylth as a VIP guest and investor,” Gwen parried the Dragon, managing her thoughts as politely as possible.

Below them, the tree continued its evergreen growth, though the acceleration had slowed; from the vista of her scorched city and its countryside, Gwen guessed they were six or seven storeys from the ground floor and a dozen meters above the highest point of Golos’ lair.

Shalkar’s survivors had also gathered in the newly shaded square below, swarming like ants around the newly sprouted World Tree.

Gwen inhaled deeply to gather her wits. The air around the tree had grown crisp and lush, carrying an earthy scent enriched with moistened loam after a summer squall.

Tyfanevius appeared perfectly at home under her shaded bower, while Illaelitharian wore an inhuman expression that showed a general irritation for Shalkar’s temperate climate. Compared to her two compatriots, Sythinthimryr possessed no interest in the tree at all but was wholly focused on herself, staring as though her eyes might penetrate the floral dress, bypass her skin, and lay bare the secrets of her Astral Body.

“Great Lords and Lady. How may I be of service?” Gwen asked. She had a whole world in the auditorium below and a city to repair, but still, she knew that here lay the loci of her efforts.

“Oh, you have already performed a great service,” Tyfanevius’ voice came through Primarch Vulmari's limps. I won’t speak for our cousins, but I am here to deliver what was promised.”

With perfect timing, the growth of the World Tree beneath her ceased just as Tyfanevius reached into his leafy coat and produced a Druidic Satchel. “Here we are.”

Gwen received the satchel with both hands, using her Essence to probe the Elven runescript.

“Caw….” Against her shoulder, she felt the familiar weight of a spectral crow. She wasn’t sure if the Dragons could see the bird, but if they did, they certainly did not mind nor care.

Inside the parcel was a Creature Core brimming with Elemental Lightning.

And it wasn’t just any old Dragon Core.

It was a Kirin Core—not a facsimile—but an actual Core from an actual Celestial Kirin.

“It was the best we could find in exchange for the Ashen Queen’s remains,” Tyfanevius noted with a smile. “And with that deed done, the three of us would like to officially welcome you, Gwen Song, Regent of Shalkar, into The Accord.”

Gwen paused at the extra information the Dragon had dropped off like an additional item at the dry cleaners. The Crow on her shoulder cawed again in acknowledgement.

“Er…I am in the club now?” she asked, feeling underwhelmed and surreal at the prospect of her inclusion. “Just like that? No ceremony? Is there a certificate?”

“Young one,” Tyfanevius smirked. “I am here; cousin Illaelitharian, who never leaves his abode, is here; so is Lady Sythinthimryr of the Eternal Summer, who has never travelled so far for any being in a millennia. Is that ceremony enough for a whelp like yourself?”

Gwen baulked. When Tyfanevius had said it like that, it was hard to deny that she was enjoying a rare ceremony not even the coronation of Britain’s monarchy could entertain. Still, a full orchestra and a choir singing Zadok the Priest would have given her more confidence.

“I am well-honoured, Lord Dragons,” she lowered her head again. “I was merely expecting more… pomp.”

The lord of Tryfan shook his head. Looking at Primarch Vulmari’s borrowed body, Gwen felt like she was looking at a humanoid mantis performing a side-to-side head bob.

For now, she placed the Druidic Satchel inside a hidden fold in her dress. She could hear Ariel’s whinny in her Astral Body as it purred for her attention, desiring access to the object of its metamorphosis.

“With that done, we shall attend to other matters.” Tyfanevius indicated to his companion Dragons. “Lady Sythinthimryr may stay to oversee her child’s interests, but Illaelitharian and I must take care not to overtax the ego of our Vessels.”

“Lord Tyfanevius, a moment before you both retired.” Gwen knew now was not the time to be coy. “As a member of The Accord in my present condition, may I ask for a boon from the council? With the World Tree manifested, I fear my city is in a poor condition to entertain.”

“You may request our aid, yes.” The elf was not surprised by her presumption. “I was almost afraid you wouldn’t ask.”

“Haha…” Gwen felt slightly relieved at her willing creditors, even though she knew the debt would have to be repaid.

Tyfanevius studied her face, revealing little of his true thoughts.

“What’s destroyed cannot be regrown, and your citizens who had died will remain unanimated.” the Green Dragon examined her prospects with a disturbing pragmatism. “However, once I am returned, Vulmari shall remain with Sanari and instruct you on channelling the vitality of the young World Tree to restore this land to life. Likewise, if and when its ego awakens, assuming there are no complications, you shall have a very powerful but inexperienced and wholly reckless Demi-goddess in your hand that must be tamed.”

Gwen considered the Ancient Dragon’s words. Somehow, the interesting parts sounded as prospective as they were dire.

“As for this obscene tear into the Elemental Plane of Fire…” Tyfanevius nodded at the red-headed Elf, still admiring Gwen’s person. “Cousin, will you take care of this domain?”

“Fret not. The portal is closing as we speak—“ Sythinthimryr said offhandedly. “If little Zodiam tries to breach the portal again, he will receive a stern citation from me.”

“Very generous of you, Lady Sythinthimryr.” Tyfanevius lowered his head to show the proper respect. “We all understand there is no obligation to act.”

“Nonsense,” The Red Dragon huffed at her compatriot. “My son owns a stake in this World Tree. Is that correct, Regent?”

“More than correct!” Gwen felt her mouth move before her mind caught up. “Lord Dragons, I want to offer each of you a top-tier suite at the very apex of our Tree, completely free! No service fees! No upkeep! Will you humble yourselves for the sake of our World Tree?”

Illaelitharian gave Tyfanevius a blank stare. Tyfanevius steered him toward the Red Dragon.

“Young lady.” Sythinthimryr wagged a clawed finger in her face. “I am an expert in how the Human world works. It is said that when the candy is free, the child is the product, is it not? I am impressed that you even possess the gall to try and take advantage of your elders.”

“Is that what they say?” Tyfanevius looked to the Red Dragon with an expression of shock. “By the Bloom, these Humans are quite sinister!”

Illaelitharian looked thoroughly disgusted.

“I don’t think that’s the expression…” Gwen stammered, unsure how to clarify a Dragon goddess’ gross misunderstanding of goodwill as intangible capital. “Er…”

“Again, Slylth owns a suite, does he not?” The Red Dragon squinted, her eyes two slits of unrefined elemental fire that could consume the world.

“He… has a suite on free-lease…” Gwen felt her heart constrict. “But considering his contributions to our defence, I would like to give him sole ownership of a penthouse property. It’s beyond exclusive, I guarantee it.”

“That’s reasonable,” Sythinthimryr said, her smile smouldering as her red lips parted. Yes, Slylth would like that. He doesn’t have a domain yet. Did you know that? A homeless Drake, it’s downright shameful.”

Gwen supposed she had better shut up and let the Dragons depart before she lost more real estate.

When she looked at Tyfanevius and Illaelitharian again, the Dragons had gone offline. In their place was the rigid, expressionless face of Primarch Vulmari and the Hierophant Master of Illhîwenthiel, an Elf who introduced himself as Raithiel.

They both bowed deeply at the Red Dragon.

“Gwen, we shall speak once you conclude the matters of your abode.” Sythinthimryr waved them away with a jewelled claw. “But bear in mind my magnanimity isn’t nearly as grand as my powers.”

Satisfied with her final warning, the Red Dragon teleported once more among the foliage of the Sky Garden, back into the worshipful gaze of the Harpies that were now busily migrating into the canopies of her World Tree.

Gwen turned to address the two immortal Druids.

“We will now do our duty, as per our Accord,” Primarch Vulmari said, giving her an uncanny, weary grin that looked like an automaton being taught to smile. “Raithiel and I shall commune with Sanari, and we will purge your lands of the imbalance of Elemental Fire. Do you have any questions?”

“When should I expect the World Tree’s ego to come alive?” Gwen did indeed have questions. “The Dragon Lord said it would be soon?”

“Lord Tyfanevius has a tentative grasp on the mortal notion of time, I fear,” the Druid Lord explained. “I would suggest that you contact us if and when it occurs. There will be a commotion, I assure you. The young Spirit will be inquisitive… and without an understanding of boundaries.”

A youthful Sufina that was without reservations and which was much, much more powerful? Gwen thought of all the Dryads they had seen on her Island. For some reason, her mind filled with visions of Hai, and the accompanying implications made her vomit a little inside her mouth. Indeed, she promised herself that Tryfan would be contacted immediately.

“Then I am in your debt,” she said. “If there is anything you may need, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“We will manage, I am sure.” Vulmari tapped a slim foot against the trunk beneath them, conjuring a Trellis Gate. “Attend to your mortal flock, Regent. They shall need your attention if they wish to thrive…”

Shalkar.

The outskirts.

Lulan Li, Marshal of the Regent’s Militia, felt her Heart of Iron burn and smoulder as the portal to the Elemental Plane of Fire shrunk yet again, consuming the lower half of the invading Tower.

“Strun, how many?” she croaked into her multichannel Message Device, her voice no longer assured and eager.

“A squadron of Shadow-kin, half-hundred Runners, and a dozen of my Exterminators,” the voice of her Vice-Commander possessed far less emotion than her own, “They died for the Pale Priestess, Lulan. The fallen will be honoured, and their fur interred into the Great Temple under the Ancestor’s Burrows.”

Strun’s words did not comfort Lulan but made her body feel rustier for the effort. When the Tower began to land, she and Strun had exercised a plan that was as insane as it was successful, abusing Garp and the Sympathetic Life-links enjoyed by the original refugees who had followed Gwen into the desert.

In the aftermath, almost half of the Rat-men Elites are gone.

One-fifth were consigned to the Tower’s defences and the ensuing melee.

And now, one-third into the swallowed Tower—forever lost to the magma oceans of the Elemental Plane of Fire.

Below her, the Dwarves fared better. The Golems the magma had swallowed had sealed their pilots into impenetrable spheres waiting for discovery and rescue. Now that they’ve won, the surviving pilots would once more enjoy getting sloshed at the Bunker Bar and embrace new dangers in the future defence of the Citadel.

The same could not be said of the Centaurs, whose herd had been reduced by almost a third.

Garp was also reduced by half, though Lulan understood that the Worm’s life was in no danger, certainly not when Gwen could provide aid through the Essence of Almudj.

So many dead… Lulan’s sanity felt a little brittle for the calculations. How many were sacrificed by my hand?

“Marshal Li, we’re encircling the Tower now,” a Message spell bloomed beside her head. “Command Strun has breached the Tower’s command and control spaces. They’re mopping up the Undead and searching for Magi Sakharov with all due haste.”

“I see. Then let us complete the encirclement,” Lulan informed the Dwarven Captain in his four-legged siege Golem. “Standby for Commander Strun’s Purge of the Command Room.”

While their forces drifted into place, Lulan confirmed with Richard that the city was, for all intents and purposes, safe. With the Tower now pacified, combat auditors would soon sally forth to tally their losses. As Marshal, she would be responsible for the military casualties, while Richard would calculate the civil losses to Shalkar.

DING! A Message spell bloomed against her pale cheek.

“Richard,” Lulan responded at once. “A new threat?”

“Not a threat, Lulu,” Richard’s voice came through with a tone of unbridled joy. “But hope. Look to the city—it’s happening, Lulu. We did it.”

Lulan willed her sword-mount to change directions. Where the shimmering, mirage-like visage of Shalkar sat upon the charred ruins of a blasted landscape, she saw the slow rise of a great Banyan tree. With her mouth half-open, she joined the troops below in their delayed anticipation of ultraviolence.

Lulan’s heart felt suddenly light. Her Regent and Saviour had finally become the Mistress of a World Tree. This place, in this hostile land in the middle of two continents, would now become a promised paradise of peace and prosperity.

With a thunderous swoop, a tired-looking Golos landed beside her, its claws hovering inches above the soot and the still-warm magma caps smothering once verdant fields. In her capacity as the Dragon’s martial-niece, Lulan regarded the majestic head with its brutalist geometry and thanked the Thunder Dragon for his efforts.

“It looks like we’ll be having new abodes soon,” the Thunder Dragon grinned, shaking itself to repel the corrosive ash that had attached its scales. “Brother Ruxin will have a suite close to mine. Ha! I wonder if he regrets taking over the Nagaland mountains now.”

Lulan wasn’t sure if she would even have time to rest her laurels in the World Tower’s VIP suites. Knowing her Regent, she suspected her work would triple as new guests flooded into Shalkar to witness the new World Wonder.

“Ah—here comes our Drake of the hour.” Golos huffed lightning as another figure stumbled into view, a flame-headed Mage with swept-back horns growing from his brow ridges. “Brother! Join us!”

Slylth Alexander Morden did just that, wedging between the giant Thunder Dragon and her floating sword.

“Let me catch my breath.” The scion of Magi Morden placed a hand on Golo’s wing to keep himself from drifting. “That took more than I thought.”

“What, even after they opened a portal to the Elemental Plane of Fire for you?” Golos chuckled. “There was so much Elemental Fire to be harnessed.”

“It’s a difficult spell, and I had to perform it without a Mandala!” the young Dragon Lord growled. “I thought my brain would exit my nose!”

Amazingly, the Thunder Dragon slapped his thigh at his junior’s joke, striking sparks from his scales like a flint.

“Gwen owes you a big one, then,” Golos sniggered suggestively. “You’re sicker than you look. Trust me. You’ll need affection and more to recover.”

“Perhaps…” Slylth’s boastful self seemed to take notice of herself. Sheepishly, the Dragon Lord straightened his posture to acknowledge their Marshal.

Ding!

“Marshal, the encirclement is complete.” A gruff voice stirred Lulan from her Dragon-induced daze. “Fire Teams! Commence overwatch! If I catch you dozing, no Beer rations for a week!”

Lulan refocused herself.

The Cherbi and his Khesig guards had by now joined the Dwarves below. Their bodies were burned and battered, but their communal vitality sustained them collectively enough to remain combat-ready.

They did not have to wait for long.

A quarter of an hour later, something resembling a hatch blew open on the side of what remained of Yekaterinburg Tower.

An armoured Rat-man emerged, covered from head to tail in dark gore. With a triumphant shout, the creature lifted the silhouette of a football overhead and hollered that it was an offering to the Pale Priestess.

“That’s a head,” Slylth noted with an academic air. “A little chewed but still recognisable.”

“Not the Magi’s, surely,” Golos remarked. “The Rats aren’t that capable…”

“No… looks like…” Slylth performed a few minor Divinations. “It looks like a Vampire’s head. Dead, though, for what it’s worth.”

More Rat-kin emerged from the hatch to praise the sun with their collection of heads, which they then piled into a gruesome monument in the name of their Regent.

“Commander Strun?” Lulan spoke into her Message Device. “Is this ritual necessary?”

“It was not an easy fight,” Strun retorted. “But we won, and now we gift our Pale Priestess with a great prize. The Tower.”

“What’s left of it,” Lulan reminded their haughty Commander, “which had come at a great cost.”

“What matters the cost?” Strun himself was the last to emerge. As a Rat-kin, his Essence-infused, Dwarf-plated body towered over the others by a head. With a hiss, the sealed mask protecting his eyes came away, dripping scarlet splatters of Vampire blood as it swung by the side of his pauldron.

“Before she came—“ Strun’s voice resonated with Lulan’s thoughts, as though the Rat-kin was a prophet speaking the words of her heart. “Before the Pale Priestess took us through the desert, we were already dead rats-walking. Our tribe would not have survived the Centaurs, much less befriended them. We should have become husks under the merciless heat of the Sea of Fire.”

“But now—“ Strun stood atop the smouldering Tower and its half-ruined carcass, his Rat-kins milling in prayer. “We are proud, triumphant, and live in paradise! Therefore, if a hundred of our kin die, a thousand will take their place. And if ten thousand perish in her service…”

As Strun spoke his final proclamation, Lulan felt a terrible weight fall on her shoulders. The weight of a million lives marching northward in lock-step, hollering the name of their Pale Priestess.