Eyes turned away from the iridescent boulevards and towers of Knō and peered up in trepidation, locked on a night sky that was unexpectedly livid. A brief, white line tore across the troposphere, west to east. Imperfect in form, it came as a radial arc blurred and staggered from atmospheric interference and departed over the distant horizon. A moment as ephemeral as a meteor shower, but juxtaposed by a portent as dark as the line was bright. For a moment, for those who saw it the isthmus city felt quiet.

On the microband Port Solt crackled in a singular paroxysm of static violence, then returned nothing.

On the scattered map of Orst’s photomagnetic infrastructure, its signature was blotted out.

Minutes after the arc, most residents of Knō were back to the immediate affairs of life. Then the ground shivered, the buildings swayed, and the air roared. Weakened by time and space, the concussive wave nevertheless evoked shock and action. Activity on communication hubs surged, and many learned the horror of what had transpired; of missing loved ones, of opportunities lost, of how — on Orst — there seemed never, ever to be any warning. 

Atop a cliff that overlooked the narrow waterway betwixt the Inner Sea and Grand Abyss, a woman peered into a telescopic lens at the Eitemōr Astronomical Sodality. She jotted keen, precise figures on a one-use pad embossed at the top with the letters E, A, and S overtop a constellation arranged such that it called to mind a tome or open book. Readings verified, she keyed her numbers into a digitized interface. To her right a massive, wall-mounted screen transformed from matte black to a live satellite feed of what was Port Solt, rendered in infrared, standard eye, and full spectrum. The final corner flashed with an inbound call indicator, which she dutifully answered.

[i]“Status?”[/i]

[i]“Epicenter, Port Solt. Total infrastructure destruction, some survivors. Nothing on the causal agent. The feed on the screen is live, just pointed celestial watcher TB-tetgon-af. We’re both likely the first to see it.”[/i]

An active pause, and the bottom-right corner of the screen split in two; it indicated an outbound call, which was answered without formalities.

[i]“Triage teams being assembled. Heck, it hit Port Solt dead-on. We’re going to need more people, more teams. What’s the priority?”[/i]

[i]“Chatter localization indicates Oblin activity precipitated the event. ”[/i]

[i]“Survivor extraction, first. Then medical, housing. Inform the hospital admins, show them frames from this feed so they understand the severity. Focus on Solt, but don’t forget the rural populations near the epicenter if we can get to them.”[/i]

[i]“Any wends functional?”[/i]

[i]“Your people don’t know? Nevermind. Maybe the one in the Terrfoch Sands, but it is two days by land from Solt. What about boats?”[/i]

[i]“In distress, fighting a terrible current, high winds, massive waves. Every last one within a day of Solt. Zoom in on the waterline. See that? Unnaturally low. Trawlers far south of Solt went signal-dead, but last word consensus was: ‘The island rises; it moves!’”[/i]

[i]“Is TB-tirgon-af avai—”[/i]

[i]“Already on it,”[/i] she cut in, [i]“on screen now. It—it isn’t where it should be. Zooming out and—.”[/i]

There was a terrible silence where they all thought the same thing, but refused to say it out loud; perhaps they felt it would add more life to the spectacle. At length, which was only a few seconds:

[i]Floatplanes—no, the water is too violent. Hovercraft for sea rescue. On the desert, north of Solt—use the floatplanes there. It’ll take a few hours to get them there, but that’s our best bet. Load one up with some Esos, fresh water, emergency supplies. Maybe they can revitalize Solt’s wend.[/i]