Metaworld Chronicles

Soul Subordination.

Long before the Age of Antiquity, the great Pharaohs of the First Dynasty, ruling from the cradle of Human civilisation, formalised the understanding of an intangible, abstract existence the first Necromancers dubbed Ba.

The Ba was tied, as they observed, to the Hau, together forming the sum of existence.

Across the boundaries of epochs, the God Kings of the Nile collated their knowledge into The Book of the Dead, a record of Faith-driven Necromancy—a sum of anecdotes filling libraries of inscribed papyri. With this knowledge, a form of magic unique to the Indigenous people of the Prime Material allowed them to overrule the Demi-humans and create the first “Green Zone.”

Then came the ebb and flow of the Human condition. Great victory led to hubris, and civil strife gave way to new empires. Each time, new kingdoms rose from the ashes of old faiths, sometimes upholding Necromancy as the tenet of man and, just as often, as liberators breaking the tyrannical yoke of Necromancy, all the while observed by the metallic-hued eyes of immortal beings from the high branches of ageless trees.

In the Age of God Kings, Soul Subordination was a blessing and an honour, the mark of the rare chosen who exercised the will of their falcon-headed deities.

Conversely, after the Coming of the Nazarene, it was deemed that the sacrosanct soul must be passed onto life eternal, and the disturbance of death’s threshold became the hallmark of heretics pursuing the perversion of providence.

Then, after the Great War, the world reeled in disgust at the enslavement of one’s ontological psyche, for the industrial pursuit of Necromancy had left no doubt that such an act was against the very fabric of modern progress.

Thusly, when the Regent of Shalkar gained her latest convert, she tangibly felt herself drifting a little east from the Eden of her humanity.

Under Gwen’s watchful eye, Natalia Volkova slowly picked herself up with the tenderness of a fledgling sparrow. Even in overalls smeared with excretions and blood and her face a mess of snot and mascara, the spy looked like a woman from a catalogue. Yet, Natalia was hale; of this, Gwen had no doubt. The vitality of the World Tree was not healing magic, and Natalia’s injuries were not the kind that responded to medical procedures, for such was the cruelty of the Geas that had imprisoned her psychic self.

With her luminous blue eyes moving from Petra to Strun and then to herself, the young woman made a vague effort to wipe what Petra’s Cleanse could not remove from her face. The childlike act was enough to draw a mote of sympathy, for it was the least performative action she had seen the spy perform.

“Am I alive?” Natalia asked, her voice seemingly strange to her ears. “Have you made me into an Undead?”

“You are unchanged and unchained.” With the memory of the Sparrow’s soul-rending torture still fresh in her mind, Gwen found it easy to locate a cache of compassion for the born-again instrument of Moscow. She then added a pause, unsure of how to proceed. “Once we’re finished, that is.”

“So now, I am bound to you?” the girl flexed her fingers. She stepped forward, shadowed by Strun, whose hands loosely rested on the pommel of his death-dealing implement. “How?”

Gwen wished she could tell the former Sparrow the answer. Unfortunately, their reality involved a clueless researcher and her freshly injected lab rat.

“Natalia, sit,” Gwen commanded, pondering the extent of her influence.

The woman sat on the creaking chair, the same one that had barely survived Natalia’s prior struggles.

“Stand,” she demanded, this time willing the command in her mind. As a mistress of over a thousand rats and a chain of almost a hundred thousand Mermen, she did not feel that Natalia’s link to her was any different to her other constituents.

Unsure of herself, Natalia stood.

“How are you compelled?” Gwen asked. “Describe our link to me as best as you can.”

“It feels like Mind Magic,” Natalia nervously replied. “But it’s… more subtle, I think. More powerful than Compulsion. I—“

Dipping her head, the Russian doll performed a perfect little pirouette. It was beautifully done, for Natalia had the figure to match, and Moscow had seen to it that she had the relevant training in the arts to play the roles that best leveraged her cherry-picked physicality.

The move was so surprising that Strun was already halfway to making new orifices in Natalia’s torso when Gwen bid the Rat-kin to relax.

Slylth stared, his mouth half-open.

The Russian stood without expression, though her neck and cheeks were pink.

“Sorry—“ Gwen felt hers flush. The thought had been unbidden, and the horrible result spoke for itself. “You may have guessed by now, Natalia, that Soul Sorcery isn’t a talent I exercise freely.”

Before the erstwhile spy could speak, she violently reeled, knocking over her seat. This time, the unexpected act was less surprising, for Gwen had felt the spy’s resentment like a hidden shiv.

The woman dry-wretched a few times before looking up with bloodshot eyes. Wheezing, Natalia raised both hands in submission. “No more, Mistress, no more."

Besides the women, Slylth Alexander Morden winced.

“What was that?” Petra asked beside Gwen, her notebook ready to record the conditions of her cousin’s forbidden craft. “Did she try to attack you?”

“She had entertained a thought,” Gwen explained. “A thought that explicitly countermanded my expectations of her.”

“Traitorous thoughts are forbidden,” Strun affirmed Gwen’s suspicion. “Though no Rat-kin could be as treasonous as this featherless cuckoo. The tribe has observed the effects on those whose loyalty has wavered; it takes a direct desire to subvert your desires for the reaction to be so violent.”

“Natalia,” Gwen felt her sympathies wane. “Explain to Petra how you felt.”

“Like death,” Natalia’s coiled body reminded Gwen of a Prawn-kin’s final second when speared in the gut by a coral trident. “Please, no more, I—ARGH—“

This time, the writhing of the young woman’s twisted body intensified. If not for Strun, who quickly acted in Gwen’s stead, the former Sparrow would have bitten off the tip of her tongue.

Gwen made a conscious effort to rein her thoughts, then offered the spy her hand. “Natalia, I hope you believe me when I say do not desire your suffering. The pain you have wrought is entirely of your own…” The words came strange to her lips, but she said it nonetheless. “… free will.”

“Ha—“ The spy quickly controlled the unseen part of herself. “Free indeed!”

Their next set of hypotheticals took almost an hour, though the woman quickly learned the boundaries of Soul Subordination. If nothing else, she had proven herself a prodigy of Moscow Tower.

“Do not fear it,” Strun offered the woman a paw, which she took. “You are now a part of something infinitely larger than yourself, bird-kin. We are siblings now, tethered to the Axis Mundi and the threads that tie together the Prime Material. Can your old Masters, cruel and immoral as they are, attest to the same grandeur?”

Natalia’s eyes shifted with a hint of awe from Strun’s faith-fuelled sermon to Gwen, adding to Gwen’s guilt.

“Where your old Master’s curses were cages within cages,” Strun continued his sermon. “The Pale Priestess offers blessings and boons, demanding nought but faithful service. If our Goddess wills it, bird-kin, you will not succumb to mortal injury. You will not know sickness. You will not know the tyranny of time.”

The spy’s demeanour changed. Now, a hunger previously missing in Natalia's eyes existed. “Mistress, is this true?”

“The boons are not longitudinally proven,” Slylth added his part. “The theory is sound… "

"Look, let’s not dwell," Gwen interrupted the Dragon-kin. "There’s a reason we’ve decided to invite you into the fold, Natalia, and it is neither compassion nor altruism.”

The Mind Mage slowly straightened her back. “How shall I be of use?”

“Greatly,” Gwen affirmed the spy without feeling the need for deception. “I want you to root out the Sparrows that have infested Shalkar. Can you do that?”

Though they all expected the Mind Mage to reel, Natalia seemed to possess a pragmatic outlook on life's prospects that exceeded their understanding. With no tugs at the tethers that subordinated her to Gwen, Natalia shook out her tensed body and exhaled deeply.

“Da,” the Russian spoke in a dialect with more sincerity than her borrowed tongues. “I am yours to command.”

It was Gwen that now felt taken back. “You do not have… lingering sentimentalities for your comrades?”

“Petra can attest that we are not trained for that,” Natalia spoke candidly. “We are trained to understand that every colleague may be our downfall.”

“This is true,” Petra nodded. “Who watches the Sparrows? Why—they watch each other! There’s a significant reward for those who expose betrayal and can produce the evidence to back up the accusation.”

“Da,” Natalia agreed. “The loyalty we possess is conditioned. It is a product of the glamours and Geas that cage our mind within the framework the Tower demands. It makes us happy to follow dubious orders and suppresses certain instincts we may possess, like shame or… self-preservation.”

Studying the spy with a face that could sink a decent fleet, Gwen could only imagine the liberties a production line of brain-washed young people afforded the spymasters of Moscow.

Natalia seemed to read her expression, for what the young woman said next was the exact thought that had crossed their mind. “Mistress, would you like to take possession of the Sparrow Nest?”

Okay, maybe not that exact thought. Gwen baulked at the prospect of what their newly acquired spy provided. “Now that’s a thought. Natalia, can you clarify?”

“If, indeed, what you have performed upon me can be successfully replicated,” Natalia’s face grew pink with what Gwen assumed was ambition. “I can bring the Sparrows we find into the fold, and with each Sparrow added to our… Nest, we may find traces of other Sparrows… And not just the Sparrows operating in Shalkar. For example, I know four contacts in London alone, two in the Shard. I can also bring in my… senior supervisor if you desire.”

“Gwen, that would be… unwise,” Petra’s expression grew worried. “The defence of Shalkar is one thing—but to actively use Soul Tap on so many… Mind Mages… I am not sure how London may respond.”

"If they complain," Slylth noted. "Tell them it's for the good of Tryfan."

The prospect, Gwen noted, was good. Unfortunately, her cousin was correct in that though Mycroft may turn a blind eye to Natalia, Natasha and Nadia, the Duke may be far less accommodating when an A to Z roster of Mind Mages are absorbed into the rank and file via Soul Subordination. As for Slylth... her Red Dragon advisor had a point as well.

“If done subtlety,” Natalia assured them. “It will work.”

“Natalia, let’s just say you need to earn my trust. Can you undo the Mind Magic used on Petra’s parents for now?” Gwen did not feel a desire to dismiss the idea outright. After all, they were here because she had been dissuaded from unleashing a Shoggoth in the dead of night.

“Ah—” Natalia lowered her eyes. “I was getting there, Mistress. The two are tied.”

Gwen tangibly felt Petra’s body tense as what should have been obvious dawned upon them both. “I take it only your superior has a… metaphorical key?”

“Correct,” the Mind Mage nodded. There was no deceit and, therefore, no tugs on the soul string as she replied. “My supervisor is the one who possesses the master key or Glyph combinations to undo the Greater Compulsion. After Petra’s Master, Moscow saw to it that there were tighter collars on our necks.”

“Who is your supervisor?” Petra asked, her voice trembling a little.

“Zinichev.”

Gwen tried and failed to identify the name.

“He’s the Secretariat for the Middle Faction in Moscow Tower,” Natalia said with a wane smile. “Mild-mannered, ill of confidence, a push-over often bullied by the twins from the Militant Faction, and used as a penholder by the Grey Auctioneers.”

Finally, Gwen recalled a vague face from a vague dossier of individuals involved in the Russian encroachment of her domain. The Magister’s appearance was so tired and unassuming that she had assumed he was a senior accountant. “Oleg Zinichev?”

“Correct,” the young woman’s fingers flexed and un-flexed. “A vulture in the feathers of a dove. Only the officers of the Sparrows and special operatives like myself answer directly to him. He answers directly to Tower Master Popov.”

“And we need to… convince Zinichev, do we?” Gwen furrowed her brows. On paper, Zinichev was a mere Magister, one that few would miss. However, as Natalia did not lie, the Tower Master of Moscow would have a fit if such a dangerous bird were to go awol.

“That’s our second option,” Natalia said. “The first is that your Paleness could gradually take in members such as myself until we find someone with access to those Glyphs.”

“Is there a third option?” Gwen asked, wondering what the hell is a Paleness. “One that doesn’t involve a regional war?”

“I can reveal my training,” Natalia volunteered. “Maybe someone in the Mageocracy could deduce a counter-Glyph? There are dangers, though. A failed Dispel could trigger the erasure protocols.”

Petra suddenly spoke beside her. “Natalia, do you know what can forcibly trigger the implanted spells?”

“I do.” The Mind Mage looked at Gwen’s cousin; then, a realisation appeared to have struck. “I see. This could work as well.”

“Gwen.” Her cousin lowered herself, then held Gwen’s hand in supplication. “Gwen… please bind my parents to the World Tree…”

“I can manipulate the implanted triggers so that even when they’re cognisant of the Mind Magic, the self-harm is minimised,” Natalia volunteered herself. “Please, your Paleness, allow me to prove myself.”

“Just… call me Regent,” Gwen corrected her newly acquired Mind Mage, though Strun seemed to have taken to the neologism with gusto. “And yes, if Aunty and Uncle are willing, Petra, I shall gift them the Blessing.”

Natalia seemed to be energised by her acceptance of service. “Regent. If I may make another suggestion?”

“Speak,” Gwen could feel Petra’s impatience, though she felt equally interested in the Mind Mage’s eagerness.

“Nizhny Tower has a weakness,” Natalia volunteered. “One only you can resolve.”

“Oh?” Gwen felt herself a party to a conspiracy, which, by all circumstances, she was.

“Tower Master Petyr Shuysky is an old man, my Regent,” the Mind Mage spoke in hushed tones. “His body is failing from what comes naturally to all Mages, but Shuysky especially, as he was a survivor from the Grand Duke’s line of Shuyskys. During the Revolution at the turn of the century, he was tortured and disfigured, and later, it was only through four decades of blood trials that he was inducted into the late Union. He was given command of Dmitrovskaya Tower—the local name for Nizhny’s Mage Tower—because his old age meant there was little to no possibility of extensive ambition for one living in the final years of his century-long life. Though Shuysky plays his role with humility, the Sparrows know that he has an obsession with prolonging his life and that he has resorted even to benign forms of… Necromancy.”

“A knowledge which is kept… for leverage?” Gwen figured out Natalia’s game, for the Displace Beast can change its pants but can’t dismount its tentacles. “We could threaten the man with it?” “Er…” The Mind Mage seemed confused by her assumption. “No, Regent… what I am saying is that you could, perhaps, tempt the Tower Master with the sweet nectar of your body… then encourage him with sufficiently applied leverage.”

Outside the spatial “branch”, Gwen was surprised to find the Dwarven Master of Mimm Agaeth Kjangtoth, her Majordomo Richard Huang, and the unfamiliar figure of a familiar ally from the past.

The unfamiliarity lay in the Golem Suit their guest sported, a head-to-toe ceremonial outfit inlaid with patterns of rare minerals embossing a faceless helmet, indicating the Clan origins of the wearer. Gwen recognised the armour as an authentic Deepdowner suit, the type donned by the Dwarfs’ “Ancestral” leaders when on business outside Deepholm. Of course, with their home Plane now missing for almost half a century, many Deepdowners like Axehoff had changed with the times.

The exception was those whose bloodline was directly linked to the Seven Ancestors, whose heresy would shake the foundations of the Ancestor’s Hall.

“Hilda?” She spoke the name in Dwarven, using the formal speech, as befitting the daughter of Kül-Hildenbrandt, scion of Varekan-Kül, Bringer of the Lumen. “If I am not wrong, allow me to welcome your Grace to Shalkar.”

With a hiss and a melodic sound of gears in perfect motion, the Golem Suit bowed its head. “Gwen, Regent, Sister. It’s good to see that you have assumed your rightful position in the Axis Mundi as foretold.”

“It is you.” Gwen felt a little happier than she had been, considering the heaviness of what she had just executed in the secrecy of the World Tree’s secret places. “My word, it feels like an eternity. Have you had lunch? We can entertain your Grace in the Citadel below. Is that permissible, Lord Axehoff?”

“Perfectly so, Regent,” the Dwarven Master of the city below concurred.

“Regent,” Richard interrupted. “If I may. Our esteemed guests are here with actual problems that need your attention. Perhaps lunch can wait, or Lord Axehoff can secure a chamber in the Engine Hall for a discrete working luncheon?”

“Of course, my apologies,” Gwen inclined her chin slightly. “I was being inconsiderate.”

“Aye,” Axehoff dropped his formal register. “Lassie, we need ter talk about the Sinneslukare.”

A velvet-hued vision of death-pale tentacles caressed Gwen’s front lobe.

“I see. Lead the way.“ She directed her party back toward the Levitation Platforms. “Richard, can you consult with Strun, Petra and Natalia and work out a response to our Russian developments? I want the proposal on my desk by tomorrow. I also want a situation report from Lulan regarding the Human Commons.”

“Natalia?—Ah— Dear Natalia.” her cousin’s brow rose and fell, and then the Water Mage seemed to take command of whatever emotions had stunned his body. “Of course, Regent. I’ll see to it that the proposals are ready.”

Gwen gave her cousin an affirming nod, then steered her Dwarven guests onto the platform. In the next moment, Richard stepped into the vine-framed pocket space while she and the Dwarves rapidly descended from the main trunk of the World Tree into the Citadel interior.

Mimm Agaeth Kjangtoth

The Guild Commons.

The Engine Hall was so named because the old Guild Hall was turned into a kiln by the Brass Legion. With due respect to the thousands of guards, craftsmen and labour caste citizens who had not yielded to Elementals until their final suffocating breath, the chamber had been made into a mausoleum for the original Kjangtoth’s final defenders.

The new hall, constructed around the original Guild Hall, was a doughnut-shaped structure that morbidly served the Dehur Anthank, the Citadel’s “Deep Grudge” against the Elemental Prince of Fire, Zodiam.

Though almost all Dwarven structures were communal, the Deepdowners were gifted chambers of prayer and meditation from which they could invoke the Spirits of the Ancestors, cogitate the mystical workings of the engines, and plot forth the future of the Citadel.

It was in such a chamber that the Regent of Shalkar had been invited, affording the trio a level of secrecy rarely enjoyed by the stout-kin of the Murk.

“Regent, allow me to express my gratitude for your time.” Hilda gave a formal head bow before invoking the prayers to unlatch the mechanism of her rebreather helm. With a hiss, the opaque metal construct retracted, revealing a handsomely whiskered face inherited from the Bringer of the Lumen. When she next spoke, it was in a more relaxed vernacular. “I hope we can speak candidly.”

“Of course you can.” Gwen saw no reason to insist on their mutual stations. After all, the first time they had met, both of them had been stark naked. “So, what brings you here? I hope it's good news.”

“If only,” Hilda sighed as the joints of her armour shrunk, making her silhouette more approachable. “Axehoff, if you could bear the honour of knowledge? As ordained by the Ancestor Scald, Billelynn Møsvian, I shall defer my claim of truth to the Master of the Domain.”

“You are too kind.” Axehoff’s armour wasn’t nearly so ceremonial. To Gwen’s knowledge, it was because her liaison was an elected Deepdowner from the Dwarven strongholds of Bavaria, a people who had spent centuries in the Himmsegg. Without the blood name of one of the Seven Ancestors, the excessive ceremony would only lead to protests from the true scions of Deepholm’s ruling Clans. “Lass, thanks to the progress initiated from your cooperative rediscovery of the lost low-ways, the Deep Council has finally achieved a major milestone in our retaking of the Murk.”

“Oh?” Gwen realised only one thing could make two Deepdowners show up in full costume. “Did you…”

“We did,” Axehoff spoke with his hands positioned to form the Glyph of the Cave. “We found it, Regent. We uncovered a Dyar Morkk lost section leading to Deepholm.”

Gwen felt a rush of blood warm her skull. “That’s… wonderful!” She couldn’t help but share in the Dwarf’s relish, for she had known from all the work she had conducted with her Dwarven partners that the rediscovery of their roots was the single most cherished desire of its communities. “But… you don’t look very happy. May I ask why?”

Axehoff turned to his companion. “Hilda, I pass the honour of truth to you.”

Nodding, the Deepdowner beside them laid a hand over the table, then materialised from its internal storage a crystal container.

The Regent of Shalkar looked down.

The Regent cursed her perfect vision.

“Strewth…” She was looking at a head. A Dwarven head preserved in a crystal clear solution of soup. There was an enormous hole at the base of the skull with a wound that told a story. The narrator of that story was also floating in the brine fluid.

Her eyes focused on the pink squid thing with the texture of a pruned baby. “… a Sinneslukare?”

“One in its larval stages,” Hilda confirmed her suspicions. “From our home.”

“Who is the victim?” Gwen noted that the head belonged to a much younger Dwarf.

“One of Hanmoul’s men,” Hilda spoke with a heavy solemness. “He was only discovered because Hanmoul was experienced from the incident we shared. A week ago, one of his men suddenly fell violently ill mid-quaff, so Hanmoul made him attend a physical. A scuffle ensured in the Stone Shaper’s office, and here we are.”

“The Sinneslukare lost his head, huh? I suppose the strength of Dwarven drinks can certainly cause alcohol effects in… foetal parasites.” Gwen tried to imagine the moment of discovery. “Did Hanmoul decapitate the poor lad?”

Hilda nodded solemnly. “Many creatures in the Murk can take advantage of a host’s body. Usually, the regions they infect are the lungs, the intestines, or even between muscle fibres. This one attempted to transfer itself from its victim to the Stone Shaper’s Apprentice. Hanmoul walked in on the act and immediately took action.”

“Strewth,” Gwen shuddered, shying away from the eye-less squid. “Did you make a sweep through the Citadel?”

“We did,” Hilda’s expression grew dark. “We found just under a hundred Dwarves from the various castes, and thankfully none from the Engineseers’ ranks.”

“That’s a lot of Sinneslukare…” Gwen furrowed her brows. “Why do you suppose there’s such an infestation now? The incident with the Balefire Dreadnaught was isolated, was it not?”

“The answer…” Hilda sighed. “Is also the Dyar Morkk. With so many Dwarven Citadels now connected, we are no longer an isolated people. Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth alone now has over forty thousand residents. During the Pilgrimage of Stone, we saw over two hundred thousand visitors in a little under forth Lumen-cycles.”

Gwen felt the Deepdowner’s pain. The loss of the low-ways had splintered the Dwarven Clans operating on the surface layers of the Murk. Now, rediscovery of the paths that traversed the Deep Murk meant not only could the surface Dwarves go down—creatures that had lived below could now work their way up.

“I take it this new development is not good when paired with the rediscovery of the arterial tunnels connecting the Murk to Deepholm?” she asked. “The Deep Council—sans Deepholm’s seats—are understandably worried about what they may find?”

“That is correct,” Hilda applauded her insight. “Thanks to your actions inadvertently breaking the magma crust, our people have been working extensively with Humans nations amicable to our cause. Our people are prosperous as of late, Regent, not unlike the people of your Shalkar. As such, many of the younger post-Beast Tide leaders question the necessity of returning to Deepholm, especially if…”

“If the old Citadels are infested…” Gwen sucked in a lungful of cold air. “I get it. Nobody wants to fight the Ancestors. Especially if those Ancestors have senile Balefire Dreadnaughts at their disposal.”

“Any outcome other than the unbridled joy of our ancestors welcoming our return to the fold would be unacceptable,” Hilda traced Glyphs with her fingers as she spoke. “But even if that’s the case, the Dwarves of the Murk are no longer the loyal adherents of the Seven Ancestors. We have only been trapped here for forty of your Radiant cycles, Regent, but the flow of time on the surface is rapid entropy. Outside of those who had maintained the Old Furnace Prayers, I do not believe Deepholm would see our citizens as the kin of the same stratum.”

“Certainly, I would not be welcome in the Council of Stones,” Axehoff made a half-snorted laugh. “My Deepdowner Suit was made here, in the Murk. No hands belonging to a blood-kin of Haj-Zül Brumdahr had blessed a single cog. The paradox would be enough to send a Greybeard into the Lumen.”

Gwen offered her sympathies by giving the Engineseer a pat on the shoulder pauldron. “I feel like I can guess why Hilda is here.”

“As Regent, your Highness commands the honourable Rat-kin Legions under Sir Strun,” Axehoff code-switched to High Dwarven. “You are also the Mistress of the Earth Devourer and the Devouring Worm Caliban, and most importantly, Your Highness possesses the means to repel the Sinneslukare’s infestation.”

“I do?” Gwen thought of her meagre spell list. “Do you mean… Essence Sympathy?”

“Yes, the bond you share with your legions is anathema to the parasites known as Sinneslukare,” Hilda’s eyes sparkled. “We know this because of the discovery here…”

She indicated to the floating specimen staring into space. “Was made possible by your brew.”

“My brew?” Gwen was now truly confused by what her short stint at Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth had foreshadowed. “What brew?”

“The Mao-tai infused with your Blessed Essence,” Hilda reminded her. “That was the drink that made Sinneslukare act out. Our Stone Shaper said that it was because your brew had been infused with the Essence of a jealous and tyrannical being, one that existentially threatens the existence of Essence-symbiotes like the Sinneslukare.”

“You STILL have my Mao-tai?” Gwen felt more shocked that something she had made to butter up the Dwarves could exist after so long had passed. “That’s rather fortuitous.”

“Hanmoul has a dozen caskets he has reserved for rewards and barter,” Hilda half-laughed. “They fetch a Deepdowner’s ransom in the inter-Citadel markets.”

Despite her enhanced memory, Gwen could not recall for the life of her if this was Almudj’s Essence, the Yinglong’s Essence, Sen-sen’s excretions, or something more exotic that made the Mao-tai so disturbing to the Sinneslukare.

Thankfully, the exact admixture was no longer important, for the Essence of the World Tree that now flowed from her conduits like amber was far more potent and possessed of Almudj’s extreme prejudice against “strangers”.

“I can see why you need my involvement,” Gwen said. “Hilda, know that for my fortunes on the Isle of Dogs and for creating this city with your sweat and Runes, I am forever indebted to your people, so speak candidly.”

“For now, we would like your permission to produce batches of honey ale infused with your Highness’ Golden Mead,” Hilda said. “We will prioritise this as a way to keep fresh infestation in check.”

“I may be able to manage that,” Gwen pondered the exact scale of what was needed and felt no confidence that she could produce anything on that ridiculous scale. “I’ll do what I can, though I am just one woman. Hopefully, when the World Tree’s Dryad Spirit awakens, she could take over production.”

“And of Deepholm, Regent?” Axehoff waited for her answer.

“I wish to help, but…” Gwen pursed her lips with a sigh. “Strun and the Rat-kin have served the city well as its protectors. To send them into danger in the Murk…”

“This is why we would like to keep the exchange transactional,” Axehoff assured her of their honest intentions. “The Council from Bavaria will spare no expense in repair, restoring, refitting and retooling your Tower, Magister Song. If you are absent while on an expedition into the Murk, we will guarantee that our most battle-hardened legions of Hammer Guards will guarantee your city's and its people's safety.”

“With your Leviathan Core as a base, the Clans will build you a Tower the likes of which the Mageocracy has never seen. Your Rat-kin will be armed with Magitech marvels that are the envy of the Mageocracy,” Hilda added. “Please, Regent… Gwen. We need to know what has happened to Deepholm.”

Gwen observed the intricate gauntlet holding her hands, feeling the trembling hope in the digits of the Deepdowner who called her friend.

She had a duty to the Dwarves who had carved out a niche for her in her direst hour.

But she also had to ensure that Strun and her loyal Rat-kin did not throw their lives away. As much as they resembled Lei-bup’s Mermen, Gwen could not perceive the loss of her ratty disciples with the same casual expediency afforded by her numberless Mermen. It was hypocritical, she knew, but such was the honest desire of the Pale Priestess.

But of course, she had another duty as well.

As the Guardian of the Axis Mundi, she had to uncover the hidden plots of her spectral foes.

And without a shred of doubt, the Sinneslukare featured as a main member of the ensemble gallery of villains standing along side Sobel.

Sobel… and her Percy, assuming her blasted brother was still alive.

“Can I have a brief spell to put my thoughts in order?” Gwen asked of her two Deepdowners. “I shall give you a reply within the day after I consult those who would be… involved.”

“Of course.” Hilda moved to replace her face mask, signalling that, at least for now, their conversation was at an end. “Whatever your decision, Regent, we are grateful and will endeavour to aid in the construction of both Shalkar and its Tower.”

“And I’ll have Petra Spellcube whatever Golden Mead I can manage while we both weigh our prospects,” Gwen felt that a good deed deserved equal kindness in turn. “Thank you Hilda, Axehoff. I won’t keep you waiting for long.”

With mutual understanding reached, her two companions formed a laconic escort back to the central Levitation Platform, after which Gwen ascended toward her domain.

After a performative sequence of waves and nods at her friendly employees in the lobby, she returned to the Bunker, where pressing decisions on Shalkar’s Worker’s Union had to be made.

On the vast space offered by her desk, she found a blue folder embossed with a Sigil design belonging to Richard’s office, that of the Central Management Bureau. In the hours she had spent in deep conversation with the Deepdowners, it would seem that her majordomo had already spoken to Natalia and made up his mind regarding how the Sparrow should be used.

Removing her jacket, Gwen allowed her body to slump on the designer furniture the Dwarves had imported for her from their enclaves in Denmark. Though her body remained at peak health at all times, the mental fatigue of the week’s events seemed to have drained the Essence from her vitality-rich mana conduits.

Russians.

Sparrows.

Towers.

Sinneslukare.

Sobel.

Spectre.

The dots felt aligned—though the traceable picture in her head remained vague.

After a brief spell with both eyes shut, she took up the report.

To my dearest Devour of Cities, Mistress of the Mer, her Paleness, Richard began with his usual ill humour. It is my dearest wish and direct desire that our city would possess its own information network, which shall always have our interests at heart. Therefore, I cannot, in my good conscience, allow this opportunity to pass.

Lulan, God bless our angel of death and metal, is not a viable replacement for ears and eyes among our people and beyond. Natalia, on the other hand, is my kind of Right Hand. She is highly motivated and incredibly flexible. I have also spoken to Charlene; her crows are not averse to an aggressive recruitment campaign…

Richard’s prose continued for several more pages, changing from casual to formal and, finally, back to its usual sardonicism.

… For many reasons mentioned, Regent, you MUST acquire the Sparrows for our roost. I cannot begin to imagine the dangers we may face once that Super-Structural Tower of yours takes flight—so before then, it is imperative that we poach as many messenger pigeons as we can to fill our empty rosters. We need professionals, Regent, so recruit them, PLEASE, and do so with extreme prejudice…”