The crisp Mountaine air cut at Aerwyn’s rosebud cheeks like shards of glass. Today was especially windy, powerful gusts whipping at the Royal Mage’s thick, glossy jet black locks. It sliced through her nostrils with every inhale, chilling her bones beneath the thick, Tunnbaq fur coat she adorned. The coat had been a Royal Gift for her most recent birthday, one she’d accepted graciously and worn loyally since. The dense fur caressed her jawbone, enveloping her slight frame and trailing behind her in a waterfall of opulent white hair. Aerwyn had set off at sunrise, tasked with some Crown comms between the Royal Family and the Wyvern Rider corps. The Rider camp resided fairly deep into the Mountaines, set into the windward versants; Wyverns rode best with the aid of Mountaine air. The Camp was not a place of luxury nor comfort. Built entirely by practical hands with nothing but the basics for the Riders; Shelter. Camp beds. A kitchen compiled of a stove and artisan chopping board. The Riders needed very little save for their armour and winged battalion.

Aerwyn’s fur-clad form so juxtaposed to the rocky fissures and grey-washed scenery turned the heads of Rider passer-bys. Chin lifted, shoulders broadened, the Royal Mage glided up the mountain path to where Constable Láidir was sharpening his blade. The morning sun bathed the mountainside in an amber glow, cottonball clouds rolling across the skyline dotted with the airborne Wyverns that circled overhead. Aerwyn’s steely gaze, like Antartik ice, raised to watch the Wyverns fly. Their large, dragon-like wings beat methodically, riding the harsh breezes with practiced elegance. A smile twinged her blushed lips. She marvelled in the Mountaine’s beauty for a moment, revelling in the patriotic electricity that crackled beneath her skin.

“Your Grace,” came the gravelly tone of Constable Cahill. Brandishing his freshly-sharpened blade like a staff, the towering man’s grip flexed on the handle, the steel glinting in the morning light. “And to what do we owe the honour of your presence on this fine morning?”

Cahill’s heavily bearded face and wiry brows were absent of expression. Nothing save for a hint of inquisition danced behind his dark eyes. He stood like a doorway to the Camp, blocking her entrance with his body built like a house. Standing at 6ft4, the Commander loomed over almost anyone, constantly looking down on everyone as a consequence. He had an air of defence around him at all times, an impenetrable force field of professionalism and dedication to the throne. Cahill’s bravery was the helm of the Wyvern Corps, the respect of every Rider tattooed across his scarred, leathered skin. Aerwyn was fairy-like in comparison, his beastly form dwarfing her on the mountainside. The Mage pulled the Tunnbaq fur coat tighter around her still, the wind splitting the fur follicles like parting seas. Her icy gaze locked on Láidir, unwavering and unnerved by the Constable’s physical presence.

“Crown business,” Aerwyn responded in a clipped, bored tone. She discarded the Constable’s facetious question to the wind, letting it drift away, weightless. “Why don’t you invite me in, Láidir? Give me a tour of the Rider’s recent progress?”

Flinching at the dominance of using his first name, Cahill bowed his head in reluctant submission. With a theatric swoop of his hand, he gestured for Aerwyn to cross over the camp threshold. The Crown had ordered a visit, to check-in on the Wyvern Riders. The soldiers saw themselves as above Continent Law, arrogant thanks to their winged beasts they tamed and mounted. It was an exacerbated egoism specific to the Riders that the Crown had taken a mild irritation to. They rarely ventured down to Kunlun from their mountainside camp but when they did, they threw their weight around. Taking over taverns, brawling with ignorant drunkards, muscling in to exclusive clubs they were unwelcome to. Kunlun meretrixes cowering in brothels fell prey to the Rider’s heavy hands and the Crown had asked Aerwyn to reinstate the balance. A challenge only the finest of Mages would be up to.

Rider brutes avoided Aerwyns eyes as she trailed behind Cahill, her face smoothed into an expression of passive disdain, pursing her lips in a way that established her head and shoulders above them. Wyvern cries echoed against the rocky walls of the camp, the smell of unwashed leathers and flesh desperate for a bathe stinging her nostrils. Cahill sheathed his blade as he strode the stony path, boots crunching on gravel beneath his weight. The Constable’s warriors bowed their heads in his wake, a sign of respect for their leader. If only they exercised the same restraint they showed here when they descended upon Kunlun. The air crackled with static tension, the Royal Mage’s presence in their camp setting them all on edge.

Approaching a canvas-roofed gazebo, serving as an area for Rider meetings and briefings, Cahill whistled as if calling a dog to his heels and Aerwyn watched the seated Riders rise obediently from their seats. Wordlessly, they scattered like ants and Cahill inclined his head to offer her a seat at the wooden table. Tabletop scattered with an assortment of well-worn maps and tankards, Aerwyn ignored the offer of a seat. Instead, she remained standing, levelling her gaze at the Constable as he lowered himself into a chair at the head of the table. She let a chilling silence fall, the whistle of wind rustling the maps and flapping the fabric roof above them. Neither of them spoke for a moment, simply assessing one another with challenging eyes. It was Cahill that looked away first, adverting his gaze and submitting to the Royal Mage’s satisfied smirk.

“The Crown has learned of your insubordination, Láidir-“ his name practically spat from Aerwyn’s lips. “Did you honestly think you and your bunch of vagabonds could behave just as you please, in such blatant disrespect to your King and Queen, and return to camp unscathed?”

Spoken like a mother scolding her child, Aerwyn’s upper lip quivered in a sneer. The image of those poor defenceless whores in Kunlun, wordlessly accepting their fate at the hands of the Crown’s Riders, drove her on. Their vulnerability, their fragility and nakedness, it pushed the Royal Mage forward. Her moral compass pointing her towards the inevitable, the Mage summoned her inner power, blue eyes aglow with the Magic that brewed inside her. She took a singular step toward the Constable, who sat indignantly at his table. An elbow laid nonchalantly on the arm of his chair, Láidir rest his chin on a clenched fist. Despite his aggrieved aura, Aerwyn saw how those knuckles were whitening, balled fists barely containing anger. Still, her power hissed beneath Aerwyns fingertips, expression unsettlingly calm.

“How quick you all are to forget Lucan’s punishment the last time you fell out of line like this…” the Royal Mage tutted, shaking her head.

She lifted a finger, blue electrical sparks sputtering from the end, pointing it at the Constable like the tip of a merciless blade. A shrill, Wyvern cry erupted overhead and Cahill’s eyes shot upward, breath hitching in his thick neck. The man, always so fearless, inwardly cowered before the Royal Mage’s vengeful stance. Nothing the eye could see externally, no trembling hands, no quivering knees. Just resolute silence, steadfast in the face of a Royal scolding. No line of defence. No denial. No resistance. Just quiet. Adamant.

“No deed goes unpunished in Kunlun,” Aerwyn said flatly, quoting the words of the Crown when punishing unlawfully practiced Magic. The blue-hued power at her fingertips fizzed ominously. Láidir’s hooded eyes watched it carefully, unblinking.“No deed-“Aerwyn repeated, “Goes unpunished.”

The Mountaine air suddenly stilled as if someone had flicked a switch. No wind. No breeze. Not a single puff of air. Wyvern cried out in protest from the skies and Aerwyn took ahold of the winds in her grasp, mentally reciting an ancient dialect as she casted. Her hair began to dance around her angular face, eyes narrowing. The Tunnbaq fur coat flapped in her winds. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she sent the gale-force wind shooting forwards. It forced the Rider’s wooden table flying off its feet, the tankards and papers shooting into various directions. Ale soaking the maps, metal clanging as it dropped to the ground, the Constable’s chair was thrown back by Aerwyn’s wind as if he were light as a feather. Láidir grunted as his body thudded to the ground, landing in a heap. The summoned winds howled then dissipated. Stilling as quickly as they’d ignited. Riders, onlookers, watched wide-eyed as the Royal Mage knocked their leader down with a simple flick of her nimble wrist.

This was the job of a Royal Mage in Kunlun. To oversee. To manage. To tame. To remind those that have forgotten that the Crown comes above all. The Mountaines, an unforgiving Continent full of testosterone-fuelled warriors, would only respond to offence. Aerwyn’s softened, gentle heart remained hidden for tasks like these. In an ironclad armoury, her vulnerability and her softness would be locked away, disguised by a veil of impenetrable authority. This was the job of a Royal Mage in Kunlun.

“Stay out of Kunlun, Láidir.” Aerwyn’s voice raised in command. The Rider Leader had begun to rise to his feet, dusting himself off, face stony with suppressed rage and embarrassment. “And remember you are under Royal Command. Whether in flight. On foot. Or between the legs of a whore. You are not above the Law.”

Aerwyn sighed. She lowered her hands, sliding them beneath opposing sleeves to shield them from the winds that had recommenced in the Mountaineside. No answer. No response. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

“Don’t make me come back to this place again,” the Royal Mage warned, scrunching her dainty nose at the camps smell. “Your unwashed jockstraps are an offence to my senses.”

Turning on her heels, Aerwyn took the first slow, small steps of her descent. Láidir cleared his throat behind her and her head whipped round, challenge flashing in her eyes.

“Yes, your Grace.” The Constable gritted out.

And Aerwyn left, the smell of lavender and tonka in her wake.



The Royal Mage had retired to the Mage quarters. She’d retreated to the Library, burying her head in ancient tomes. Learning was never complete. Magic a lifelong lesson. Lucan had encouraged her love for reading, nurtured her thirst for knowledge. It was in the room surrounded by shelves of leather-bound books that she received the letter of summons. It was placed before her, just above the open book from which she read hungrily, waxed shut with a Royal Seal. Aerwyn arched a perfectly preened brow and took the letter between her fingertips. She slid her finger across the edge of the envelope, tearing it open. Blue eyes skimming across the quilled page, Aerwyn’s eyes widened.

Every Royal Mage. From every Continent. Called to Aethelguard. That night.

“Lucan!” she called. “Lucan! Come quick!”

The letter crinkled beneath her pinching digits. She read and reread the words inked on the page as she awaited the Retired Mage, her predecessor, to arrive. She shook her head in disbelief, curiosity tickling her heart. She wanted Lucan to confirm what she read before her. Confirm that this was, indeed, a summons.

Elowen’s High Artficer’s Chambers were a far cry from the cramped and dusty towers rumoured of the Mountaine kingdoms, where they said royal mages were locked away among ancient, crowded bookshelves like casks of wine to age and develop in cool, quiet darkness. Nor were they sealed and hidden like the rumours from the Dezert, where secrets and sabotage disappeared into labyrinths of caverns buried under sand. And they certainly didn’t resemble the stories that drifted up from the Antartik of wild mages who made their homes in wolves’ dens and practiced their art under the cover of the eternally-darkened sky.

Rather, the High Artificer’s Chambers rather more resembled a ballroom. Taking up the entire East wall of the sprawling royal palace, the main working area was bounded wholly on one side by a gallery of massive windows, arching far overhead and filling the room with blinding rays of golden spring sunshine. Outside, the brilliant surrounds of pristine Elowen countryside were framed by the window panes like so many masterworks; in place of the obsessively manicured gardens that took up most of the grounds, the High Artificer was privileged to look out on deliberately preserved, untouched wilderness.

Grassland rolled out for miles over gently sloping hills until they faded into dim blue distance, painted in every imaginable shade by merry bands of wildflowers, like the masterful strokes of some divine artist. The grass itself, knee-height at least by this time in the season, rippled in the ever-present breeze like an ocean, painting shimmering bands across the hills. Just above them, rocked gently like children by the wind, hovered a veritable host of butterflies; thousands of them, in every shape, size, and colour, feasting on abundant nectar and glimmering in the sun like the sparks of some great, enchanted fire. It was the butterflies that impressed visitors the most, by and large - most people were awed into silence by the sheer number of them.

But the idyllic scene outside the windows clashed awkwardly with the scene inside the High Artificer’s chambers. Of course, the furnishings were as opulent as the rest of the palace. Books of every size and shape marched in orderly rows along enormous rosewood bookshelves which took up the entire opposite wall, worked by expert hands and obsessively maintained over generations. Crystal chandeliers hung, glittering, from the ceiling, turning the mid-morning sun into a dazzling spectacle of rainbows cast every which way. But the broad, polished tables that usually held delicate alchemical instruments were unceremoniously shoved up against the walls, piled high and overflowing with open books and half-rolled scrolls. Every available surface drowned in papers scrawled with all manner of text, diagrams, and strange markings. In one corner, nearest the door, a modest collection of empty teapots and user dishes had begun to amass, but dominating the scene was the massive, dizzyingly complex matrix drawn in chalk on the burnished wood floor - perhaps the only part of the room not carpeted with papers.

It was chaos, to be sure, but it was no mere mess. It was a chaos born of fervor, fueled by passion, and sustained by deep understanding.

Amid it all, the new High Artificer knelt at the edge of the matrix, hunched forward like a predator with eyes fixed on the centre. Arms outstretched, his lips began to move, but no sound seemed to come from them; instead, all sound was muffled and muted beneath a low, but rising thrum that seemed to emanate from the very air itself. The papers strewn about began to move in a gathering wind otherwise unfelt - perhaps a clue as to how they ended up on the floor in the first place - and the light seemed to dim, although no cloud passed over the sun. Over the walls of books, shadows flickered with no visible source, at first abstract and random, but at length coalescing into the writhing, struggling form of some giant, monstrous snake.

The thrumming in the air rose and quickened, and the tempest of papers raged on, the High Artificer’s many robes whipped up around him, but his focus never wavering. After what might have been an instant or an eternity, it all climaxes in a flash of green and a crash like a lightning strike, and then all abruptly went still.

There was quiet. Papers rustled to the floor, and the sun shone in through the windows again. Thin curls of ominous green smoke rose from the very centre of the matrix. Eliseo Rhaveus scrambled to his feet.

Eli swept to the centre of the matrix in an instant, any chalk he disturbed quietly re-forming itself into proper order as he slid to his knees before the object in the middle. His tallow-coloured eyes were afire with anticipation as he picked up a small silver stand, but his face fell just as quickly when he more closely examined it.

It was a simple silver hook, curled upwards to suspend a gold chain. At the end of the chain, set into a gold pendant wrought in the likeness of a snake’s maw, was the remains of a green gemstone. Although expertly cut, a deep crack marred its surface, and its depths were dark and clouded. Eli sighed.

Another failure.

He felt much heavier as he laboured to his feet, tossing the gem unceremoniously aside. The failure itself wouldn’t sting as badly if not for the days of anticipation that lead up to it, or for the long line of failures that preceded it, themselves piled sadly on a nearby shelf. Added to his frustration was the fact that he knew it could be done; a similar gem, though amber and set in a bird’s talon pendant, hung from his own neck as proof. But it seemed the Apophis essence he was trying to seal inside this gem was a fair sight more resistant to the idea than the original kestrel had been.

A faint creak from behind him alerted Eli to a visitor. He didn't turn around. “I said I wasn’t to be disturbed.”

“A-a thousand apologies, Your Grace,” came the stammering voice of whichever footman had drawn the short straw, “but Her Highness Princess Gianna requests your presence.”

“Ah,” Eli chuckled despite himself, tiredness settling heavily on his bones. His mother didn’t request anything. No wonder one of the servants dared disturb him. “Thank you.”

“Your Grace.”

The footman took his leave, no doubt extraordinarily relieved, and Eli groaned as he stretched, rolling out his shoulders. He glanced over at the growing pile of dishes near the door, where the servants simply deposited his meals and dared not retrieve the crockery. It wasn’t the first time he’d demanded such an arrangement, but the pile didn’t normally get so high. Perhaps it was time for a break. Perhaps a little fresh air and sunshine would help him crack this spell upon his return.

But… perhaps a bath, first.



“His Grace the High Artificer to see you, Your Royal Highness.”

“Thank you.”

Even in an embroidered leisure dress, Princess Gianna looked positively regal; she sat straight as a poker, her chin raised toward a splendid view of the manor gardens, and dappled sun kissed her face through a trellis of fragrant honeysuckle, her olive skin notably lighter than her son’s. Her rich brown hair was streaked with gray as of late, but elegantly twisted under the dainty coronet she never went without. To her left, a small patio table was already set with coffee for two.

Eli strode casually out onto the terrace on the heels of the butler, not really waiting to be announced in his own childhood home. In his billowing linen shirt and riding pants, he fit in with the well-loved flagstones and elegant wrought iron furniture much better than he would have swathed in enchanted robes, but his shape-changing gem still dangled from his neck, as always. Under his arm, he cradled a lumpy package, wrapped haphazardly in bright floral cotton.

“Happy birthday, Mother,” Eli greeted his mother warmly, stooping to kiss her cheek. Before he took his seat, he offered the package to her.

Princess Gianna raised an eyebrow. “It’s not my birthday,” she said, though she accepted the package nonetheless.

“Oh?” Eli made himself comfortable, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “When I got your summons I thought I must have forgotten it.”

“Do I need a special occasion to visit with my son?” Princess Gianna retorted, unwrapping the package. It was a fine porcelain teapot, its pearly white walls glowing in the sunlight and painted delicately with pale golden roses. “Oh how lovely,” she commented, giving her son a sly grin. “I think I’ll keep it nonetheless.”

“Consider it a belated gift,” Eli said, sipping coffee, “or a gift in advance, depending on how I missed my estimate.”

Princess Gianna chuckled warmly, placing the teapot aside. “There is a reason I called you here,” she admitted.

“Aside from the pleasure of my company?”

“Yes,.” The Princess produced a letter from her sleeve, holding it out across the table. It was addressed to Eli, but the seal was broken.

Eli looked at the letter with only passing interest, unconcerned by the idea that his mother had apparently been going through his mail. Honestly, if she could handle all of the useless letters he received in the course of a day, he’d be thrilled. “Let me guess, Cousin Mercedes found a new prime number?” He asked as he served himself a piece of lemon cake. “No, that can’t be it - the last one she sent me stretched over the whole ballroom.”

“It's a royal summons from Queen Serena,” the Princess corrected, dropping the envelope. “She's called all the Royal Mages in the realm to Aethelguard.” She eyed her son’s lack of reaction. “Tonight.”

Eli quirked a brow over his coffee. “That's a little short notice, isn't it?”

“It might have been, if the letter hadn't arrived three days ago.”

“Three days?” Eli sat up. “Why wasn't I informed?”

“Probably because you told your servants whoever disturbed you would be the next thing you put inside a gemstone,” the Princess shook her head. “Must you torment them so?”

“They'd have worse to deal with than me if they interrupted my spell before completion,” Eli retorted, snatching up the letter to check for himself. He scanned the page three times before dropping it again. “What's this about?”

“I assume that's what you'll discover when you arrive.”

Eli sat back, returning to his coffee in a somewhat sourer mood. “Is there anything else I should know about?” He asked sarcastically, “Perhaps a war started while I was in my study?”

“Nothing quite so drastic,” Princess Gianna waved a hand quite casually. “Only that Ernesto will be accompanying you.”

Eli groaned. “Ernesto?”

“He's expecting you to transport you both there at five.”

“Not Uncle Federico?” Eli tried lamely.

Princess Gianna rolled her eyes. “Of course not Federico.”

Eli sighed. He expected as much; Crown Prince Federico, his mother's eldest brother, had been sickly all his life, and these days he was all but invalid. His son Ernesto, a few years Eli’s senior, was all but guaranteed to become king once their grandfather passed into the mist. Unfortunately.

Princess Gianna could see her son's reticence, and sighed. “This is the job, my dear,” she gently reasoned. “Like it or not, you're going to have to find a way to get along eventually.”

Eli took a breath, a childish retort on his lips, but thought better of it. He sighed in turn; he hated when his mother was right. “I suppose.”

“Consider it a learning opportunity,” the Princess proposed.

Eli shot her a look. “Don't rub it in.”

The Princess chuckled. “I should let you tend to your preparations,” she announced, standing.

Eli tossed back the remnants of his coffee and stood as well; this was his cue to leave. “Always a pleasure, Mother,” he said as he bowed, his unenthusiastic tone not at all matching his pleasantries.

“You'll be fine, my love,” the Princess smiled and kissed his cheek. “Cheer up. And do bring me back some of that coastal tea blend. I should like to properly christen my lovely new teapot.”

Eli scoffed, earning himself a wry smile in response. “Very well,” he conceded. “Good day, Mother.”

With that, he took his leave, headed off for a few hours’ sleep before what promised to be a very long week indeed.

---

---

Three men surrounded a metal table, a wyvern corpse laid atop. The animal was being dissected under Lucan’s supervision while an adolescent boy stood farther apart, taking notes.

“…The pharynx and upper larynx show signs of inflammation, the tissue has degraded due to acidity…” One of the men was listing as he cut the body apart.

“Once you delineate the spread, let us proceed with the extraction of the gland,” Lucan instructed.

The low sounds of rote reporting, dry instructions, and furious scribbling punctuated the operation. The scalpel cut into flesh, rending apart skin, muscle, and nerves. The jaw had been cracked, the dead wyvern’s mouth hinged apart for easier access. Their prize was close, and tension mounted as its resting place was exposed. The room took a quiet, collective intake of breath when it was pried open. The silence was measured in heartbeats as the tissue was cut out, yet relief did not find them when it was withdrawn from the skull.

They weren’t done. Not just yet.

“The receptacle is ready,” Lucan announced in a hushed tone.

As soon as the gland was placed in a glass jar, he tapped his metal cane against the stone floor. Thin lines lit up, a rush of light running across the floor, up the table’s legs, and onto the runes drawn on its surface, culminating at the vessel. A flash and the light was gone, the ink consumed, a miniscule drop of the retired mage’s energy expended.

“It is done.” At his words, a louder exhale was shared, the assistants’ postures relaxing. The gland almost seemed to pulse in its confines, the pink flesh gleaming oddly. It would retain its freshness for days longer, the decomposition staved off. That was not all; he had chained a second spell, which would diagnose and analyze its composition. Already, a pen moved across a roll of parchment with unnatural speed on a tiny wooden stand, a muted glow of arcane script animating it.

Lucan transferred the container with the gland – for it was safe to do so – to the wooden stand, then retreated to the corner of a room. Smooth stone countertops lined the area filled with alchemical contraptions of all kinds. Nearly one whole wall was taken by a walnut cabinet partitioned into multiple smaller drawers, each storing an ingredient in its appropriate container. Adjacent was a well-used preparation area where ingredients were chopped, minced, crushed or otherwise manipulated for use in remedies.

While the physicians worked on the wyvern – he didn’t need to tell them to take it all apart – Lucan prepared for his own experiments. He had both mundane and magical means available to him, and the corrupted creature would need both applied to it.

A good hour later saw him staring at glass apparatuses, dissolving the gland. First, he would get the pure concentrate of the venom they had detected within the mutated wyvern. Only could they think of poisons or antidotes. He held no illusions that the process of mutation could be undone, and yet...The possibility taunted him.

Cautious steps approached, and a soft voice called to him, “Master Lucan?”

“Not to you, Prince Eustace,” he turned to the boy with a smile. For the scribe had been none other than the youngest prince. He held the notebook to his chest, fingers fidgeting even as that inextinguishable spark lit up his gaze.

“Right. Sorry, Elder.” The exchange was familiar; the boy didn’t care for propriety as much as his parents wanted him to. Even the prince’s mere presence at the lab had been contested, yet his earnestness had earned him cautious permission.

“Um, I just wanted to discuss all the changes I’ve noticed with you. If that’s alright.” Lucan nodded. “Right!” The boy perked up. “The corruption – or mutation – is still developing, and it’s a fast pace of changes we’ve seen. There’s the surface changes; scale colouration, head shape, minor deformities…” As he went on listing what he’d noticed, Lucan encouraged with affirming hums and nods.

The retired mage prompted the prince with questions, challenges, even his thoughts on the future course of action. For one, the boy was a joy to teach. For other, Lucan thought of the future. A future where a member of the royal family held understanding of magic despite not being a mage. A future where such understanding led to acceptance, perhaps.

To a day where magic would not have to be shunned, but could be studied more freely, where trust was placed in regulation by law rather than exclusion, fear-mongering, or worse.

A day he wouldn’t live to see, but could dream of.

---

---

After his forays in the laboratory, Lucan had withdrawn into his room in the mage quarters. He was in the midst of taking notes on his most recent combination of medication for the king when Aerwyn’s voice resounded through the chambers. Her voice was pitched high with excitement, one he’d not heard from her in a while.

With a musing hum, the retired mage rose from his chair, and headed to the library, whence he’d heard the call. His steps were measured, sedate; in his age, there was no reason to rush.

“Yes, m’dear?” He greeted, an amused smile quirking at her flabbergasted state. Noticing the letter pinched between her fingers, he came to stand by her, and beckoned for it to be handed over.

“Hm.” His gaze had moved across the writing swiftly, but aside the soft hum, there wasn’t much of a reaction. He handed the letter back to her, and commented, “I see Aethelgard enjoys its demands as much as ever.” A knowing chuckle was followed by a nod to Aerwyn. “Nonetheless, I have no doubt that the matter is of some urgency. You will have to get prepared.” After a beat, he added, “I suppose so might I.”

There is scratching in the stones. Separate from that tink, tink, tink, of miners and carts, of steel and ore. No, this was jagged. Inconsistent. Something wholly arrhythmic, stumbling without reason.

Such things are why he was here, why he resides in dank depths in near perfect darkness. For things reside down here that always seek to walk instead of crawl. Things that should not see the light of day, or taste the blood of his countrymen.There has been a scent in the stale air, a rumble of things moving. Enough the unsettle those who have no concept of what dwells, merely that something approaches. Therion had known of such movement, felt how the eddies changed and swirled with the breath of something foreign.

Yet he waits, within a cave of blackness and stone covered in gouges. To venture further would invite things to slip by, to hang further back is to risk others getting to close. This is perfect for one such as he, away from discourse, discussion, and risk. It is better like that. Let him focus, let them work, let things remain simple.

Something still draws ever closer, sound that once merely tricked ears with a touch of magic now makes things rumble in his chest out of sorts from his heart. So he stands, stretching out muscles that had not gone sore but still needed to be moved. A moment of preparation unneeded but for the sanctity of mind instead of body.

It is but another moment before that beast slithers forth from the far left tunnel, one that rarely gets traffic due do its thin nature. This creature is anything but, as round about as his waist but long enough to encircle the room should it uncoil. As it sits, it is bundled like a wire or a snake. Therion would call it a snake if not for the antlers made of arms or the collar of blind eyes.

A Montagrew, rare enough to not be mounted in some half-sane hunters hall and strong enough to kill any who did track it. Not the most mystical creature either, its strength comes from muscle alone. No poisons or strange attributes. Just physicality, and scales that act like stone. But it would be truly mystical if a blade could easily peirce its hide, nothing down here was that soft. Why else would they need a mage to act as a guard?

It makes the first move, he lets it. Springing forth like lightning with a mouth open to snap round his torso, it is a simple enough move to sidestep. Therion grabs its antler like one would a hand shake, firmly before moving it steadily up and down. This slams the Montagrew into the stone floor, stunning it for a split second enough another blow to land, then another, and a third. A flurry of them falling upon it like rocks in a landslide. Unfortunately it is stern enough to recover, tail flying round to wrap round Therion in a mimic of a very aggressive scarf. In turn does the man get it in something like a chokehold, making the whole thing quickly devolve into a wrestling match that rolls from one wall to the other.

He forces the grip to loosen and tighten, climbing higher and higher up its body as it it were a tree and his arms rope. In tune with the flexing of muscles does the ripples of magics flows through those arms, resonating with that beast. There are minute seconds of confusion that merely makes it struggle harder. Not hard enough, for within seconds he has his hands free from body and neck and wrapped round its head instead. In contrast to the several minute long scuffle, this next part is positively easy. A surge of magic, a spark of connection, a flaring of sensation far beyond what any human should experience plus a body wide burning that slowly focused into his arm, and it was over.

Its scales slackened and released him, letting them both roll over and catch a semblance of a breath. Least before a throat is cleared and a light is shown over his form. Flickering flame and a stern countenance, both hurt to look at closely with eyes slit and sensitive. An easy enough fix for the light, not for that face though.

“Message for the Royal mage.”

The afternoon sun, high in the Kunlun skies, speared javelins of orange light through the multicoloured mosaics of the Royal Mage Quarter’s windows. It cast cloaks of gold over the Library walls, setting the leather-bound book spines ablaze. The Library smelt of old parchment and the medicinal aroma of quill ink that sat in open pots atop the bureau desks. Aerwyn had shown Lucan the Summons, watching her Mentor with that signature curious, piercing gaze. He’d been underwhelmed in his response, sparing a mere raised brow and hum of acknowledgement.

“I see Aethelgard enjoys its demands as much as ever,” Lucan’s usually neutral tone was ringing a touch caustic from where Aerwyn was sat in her chair, as she looked up at him searchingly.

She raked her eyes over the Elder Mage, his silver hair framing an angular but weathered visage. His was a face she’d looked to so often for guidance, forever trying to read the detailed microexpressions. But Lucan was a notoriously elusive soul, ever professional, ever guarded. Though there was a gentleness and fondness reserved entirely for her, Aerwyn had never been able to read him as she could with so many others. No matter which lens she viewed him through, no matter the angle, Aerwyn could never be certain exactly what was going through Lucan’s wonderful mind. He was a Mage of many secrets, the only indication of their existence harboured within the late nights spent in his Sanctum. But that mattered little to the Royal Mage. To her? He was a teacher, a father figure, a protector… Lucan’s remaining presence in the Mage Quarters anchored Aerwyn. Despite being fiercely committed to her role, and entirely capable, she still sought council with the Elder Mage. As did the Royal Family. There was no element of competition nor was his involvement undermining to her. She valued him too much to complicate his presence.

“Nonetheless, I have no doubt that the matter is of some urgency. You will have to get prepared.” After a beat, Lucan added, “I suppose so might I.”

Instructional, the Elder Mage’s words hung in the air as he retired, presumably, to his own rooms. Aerwyn’s eyes had returned to the parchment gripped between her fingertips, rereading the Summons with the fire of curiosity ablaze within her. What could possibly be of such urgency that every Royal Mage, from every Continent, was being summoned to Aethelguard that same night? Suspicious, the Kunlun Mage contemplated a ruse. Was this some kind of ploy? A strategy of some kind? To what end, she couldn’t be sure. But the letter held in her hands, staring back at her with devilish intrigue, was the first of its kind since she’d assumed her position as Royal Mage. Never had she stepped foot in Aethelguard under these circumstances. Sure, she’d travelled to the port town for trades and sea air. But never had she entered the Royal Grounds. The Planes had somewhat of an elitist reputation; Riches, glamour, abundance… All qualities the Mountaines denied, instead assuming strength and hardiness as its preferred state. But tonight? The Mountaines, The Dezert, The Planes and The Antartik would all be under one roof. United by the ominous Summons they’d each received.

Rising from her seat and smoothing down the material of her layered dress, Aerwyn began to pace the Library, eyes scanning the vast collection of Tomes that sat upon the shelves around her. If she were to be ordered to attend a gathering of rival albeit peaceful Continents, she’d ensure she was appropriately protected. Light Magic, woven intricately, could be infinitely protective. No enchantment gains invincibility. No shield is utterly impenetrable. But over the years, Aerwyn had learned to craft wards that had masterful ability to withstand. With that, the Royal Mage plucked a Tome from the shelves and cradled it open in her palm, with the other hand she flicked through the pages. Eyes sliding across the symbols and scrawlings that filled the Tome, Aerwyn quickly found the spell she’d been searching for.

Standing at the helm of the Library Lectern, she placed the opened Tome on display and began to whisper an incantation in a hushed, hurried tone. The key to a powerful Ward was repetition. Aerwyn built layer after layer, weaving them together with that internal thread she’d come to know as her Magic. Soon those layers came together to form a thick, protective blanket. She felt its presence begin to form, draped over her shoulders like a cape. Her fingertips aglow, Aerwyn began to intricately wave them through the air around her, strings of cool white light appearing in their wake. Again and again Aerwyn uttered the whispered spell, volume increasing slowly as she felt her power build within. The Ward crescendoed, a brief blast of light radiating from her form accompanied by a loud audible hum that shook the Library bookshelves. Aerwyn mentally cut the thread, tying one final knot to seal the spell, and she breathed a sigh of relief as the Ward’s warmth enveloped her in a comforting embrace.

”That’ll do…”she murmured to herself, nodding in approval at her handiwork. ”Can’t be walking into the Wyvern Den without armour, can we?”

Still, the Kunlun sun bathed Aerwyn in amber hues. Her eyes slid closed for a brief moment, the reassurance of the Ward and the afternoon rays warming her soul.





Aerwyn stood before her Queen with shoulders broad, spine rigid but gaze lowered. Then, she bowed. Long and deep, back curved and arms extended like a ballet dancer.

“Rest, Aerwyn” Ysolde crooned, her voice tight with command yet warm with affection.

The Royal Mage straightened, running her palms along the length of the gown she’d chosen for the summons. It was midnight blue. Silk. Layered with a black netting littered with tiny turquoise gemstones glittering like raindrops. The Princess looked down at Aerwyn with approval, a small smile on her dainty face. The Throne Room, cavernous and regal, harboured grand statues chiselled expertly from Mountaine rock. Rich dark blue and purple gonfalons brandishing the golden royal crest hung from the rafters overhead, rippling gently from the Mountaine air that barrelled its way through the window panelling. A blood red carpet spanned the entire length of the throne’s approach like the aisle of a church, framing the pathway to where the Queen and the jewel of Kunlun were sat atop their thrones. Aerwyn bowed her head in acknowledgement of her Queen’s command, resuming a more relaxed stance. She tossed her bouncing, glossy dark hair over her shoulders, clasping her hands at the small of her back.

”Your Majesty,” Aerwyn purred, “I assume you wish to discuss the Summons?”

Queen Ysolde gave her Royal Mage a bemused smile, one that indicated she was about to disclose something amusing to her. A shuffling of footsteps came from behind the throne and Aerwyn angled her head in an attempt to see who would dare approach the throne from behind. The familiar thick torso and muscular form of Commander Cahill emerged from behind the Crown, his giant form occupying twice the space of an average man. Cahill’s ruggedly handsome face was twisted with the echo of hatred for the Royal Mage. His fists, pinned to his side, were clenched but hovering around the hilt of his sheathed weapons. For a moment, the two of them simply stared one another down like two predators crossing paths in the jungle, Aerwyn feeling the crackle of her power humming beneath her skin.

“I understand the two of you have already encountered one another today?” the Queen smirked, enjoying the tension between her Wyvern Commander and her Royal Mage. Láidir’s eye twitched. The amusement was not shared with the class. “But if my Lieselotte is to cross borders into Aethelguard for some ambiguous Summons, the Crown requires protection.”

Ysolde’s generously jewelled hand rested atop her daughter’s as if to embolden her point, the two of them shared an adoring look, and the Princess nodded in agreement.

Aerwyn swallowed down the ball of resentment that formed in her jugular. She pointedly refused to acknowledge Láidir with another look, directing her icy gaze at her Rulers.

”Your Majesty,” she began, a hint of plea in her tone. ”The Princess will absolutely be safe under my watchful eye. Lucan and I will handle this Summons with unwavering care…” Aerwyn’s hand raised to her chest, placed over her heart in an honest promise. “The Princesses safety is of the upmost importance to us, of course. I’ve already installed a Ward that would include her in its protection… Besides, I’m sure Láidir has important Rider business to tend to. There’s a mess at the Rider Camp I’m sure he’s desperate to deal with.”

The Commander’s eyes burnt into the side of Aerwyn’s face, her cheek turned in blatant disregard for Cahill’s presence. The Queen smiled, shaking her head affectionately. They encouraged Aerwyn’s wild side, the very passion that set her apart from the average Mage. Whereas some Royal Families stifled any sign of such fire, the Mountaines valued strength and resilience above all else. Aerwyn’s sharp tongue was something The Queen especially enjoyed. Lieselotte’s eyes flicked between the Commander and Aerwyn as if she were watching a lancing match, an eagerness dancing in her eyes. The Crown was enjoying this dynamic a little too much. Aerwyn gritted her teeth. At her expense, too. She’d no doubt be forced to share the saddle of a Wyvern with that brute. The idea sent a shiver down her spine.

“Aerwyn, Commander Cahill is the best Rider the Mountaines has ever seen!” Lieselotte exclaimed, shooting a dazzling smile at the man who positively shook with repressed anger beside the thrones. His eyes shot daggers across the room. If looks could kill, Aerwyn would surely be a crumpled heap at the feet of her Rulers. “There isn’t a warrior more worthy of this assignment. Of course, Mother and I know you and Lucan are more than capable. But this is an opportunity to assert ourselves in front of our fellow Continents. We must stand strong. So I thought you and the Commander could go ahead by Wyvern to Aethelguard, ensure it is safe for my arrival, then Lucan and I will teleport to join you. On your signal.”

Lieselotte shot Aerwyn a wink, revelling in the drama. The Royal Mage inclined her head in a nod of acknowledgement. There was no use protesting further. It had been decided. Aerwyn would be paired off with the hairy, stinking, mound of muscle that was Cahill. She’d have to endure the burning scent of his unwashed jockstrap and ale-crusted beard from far closer than she’d ever volunteer for. The idea filled her with a disdain that was hard to mask from her face. Both the Queen and the Princess waved their hands in dismissal, a mischievous and bemused smile shared between them.

Aerwyn didn’t wait for Cahill to join her. Bowing in leave, she spun on her heel and strode down the burgundy carpet, her silken dress billowing out behind her. Internally, she muttered her vehement protests, jaw set with the effort of withholding her rebuttals. With a flick of her wrist, a gust of wind bust the Throne Room doors open. They swung on their hinges, making way for the enraged Royal Mage. A saddled Wyvern was already in the courtyard, chained to a post. Its yellowed eyes watched her approach, hot air steaming from its flaring nostrils. Aerwyn crossed the Courtyard to the giant reptile, its two legs built like tree trunks fastened to the ground, barbed tail flicking from side to side. Golden green scales covered its body, shimmering as it shifted from one giant taloned claw to the other. Its forked tongue pierced the air once, twice, as it tasted her approach. Giant, reptilian wings snapped open to full extension. Cahill’s Wyvern was sizing her up as he had done himself cliffside this morning. It growled, low and rumbling.

“Wyverns are a great judge of character,” came the snark remark of a disapproving Commander from behind her. She didn’t turn to face him, instead Aerwyn eyed the two-seater saddle with a new level of dread. They were situated far too closely. Not to mention there was no handles for Aerwyn to hang on to. Cahill stepped in front, rolling his shoulders anticipatively. He clicked his neck one side, then the other. “I’ll mount first.”

For a man with such exaggerated muscular features, Láidir mounted the Wyvern with a practiced ease. His large hands took hold of the lead saddle, gripping the leather hook, and swung his leg over the breadth of the beast. He nestled into the saddle, the Wyvern tossing its head excitably, low grunts huffed from its jaws. Aerwyn watched with disguised hesitancy. She still couldn’t quite believe she was being forced to ride Wyvern with Cahill. Lucan would find this hilarious, undoubtedly.

“Come, Your Grace!” the Commander said gruffly, his Wyvern’s serpentine eyes fixed on her warily. He reached forward and unchained the dragon-like creature.

Aerwyn looked down at her billowing, layered skirts, wondering if they’d have enough give for the stance of a rider. She’d expected to be teleporting, as was standard for Mages. Not sat on the back of a Wyvern with her arms wrapped around the waist of her new biggest fan.

A sense of finality about her, the Mage approached the secondary saddle and mounted. It lacked the finesse of Cahill but wasn’t entirely uncoordinated. The cool leather crumpled her dress material and it rustled in protest, legs feeling awkwardly spread wide around the girth of the Wyvern’s lower back. She clenched her thighs, remembering the riders stance from her earlier years as a Kunlun child desperate to be included in her brothers escapades. Those giant Wyvern wings sprung forth again, flapping in preparation. Aerwyn could feel the beasts power beneath her, thrumming with an eagerness to take flight.

“We’ll be teleporting the majority of the way. So hold your horses until I’ve opened the gateway,” she said

Aerwyn felt Cahill tense at her commanding tone, his back holding firm in resistance. She summoned her power, pulling it up from within, feeling it pulsate through her veins as she twirled a pointed index finger. Tracing a circle in the air ahead of her, Aerwyn visualised the Planes in her mind, manifesting a clear image of her desired destination in her minds eye. The plentiful fields of corn, the luscious meadows, the clear blue skies… The portal cracked open, a slit in the air before them. Like a rip in a tapestry, the portal slowly pried open, the seams parting to reveal a watery landscape ahead. The Wyvern snarled and backed up a couple of steps, the saddle dipping and rocking as the creature shied away, Láidir clicked his tongue encouragingly. Awerwyn’s arms instinctively wrapped around the Commander’s waist, struggling to keep her balance.

“We’ll fly from the Planes border. It’ll take a couple of hours at most,” Aerwyn said, her arms screaming in protest at the physical contact with Láidir.

He snorted dismissively, patting the neck of his Wyvern.

“Onyx can do that journey in an hour. Max.” The Commander spoke confidently, Wyvern huffing as its barbed tail swung side to side, pincer coming dangerously close to Aerwyn’s head.

Before she had a chance to reply, Láidir kicked his ankles, jabbing the dragon-like beast in its sides. Onyx leapt forward, throwing the two of them back with velocity, diving head first into the portal.



Aethelguard’s ports were alive with boating families and sailors stationing their vessels for the night. Crates being carried from sea to land, shouts from across the water, gulls cawing overhead. Racing against the fast-fading daylight, the Aethelguard common folk were too busy to notice the Wyvern that soared overhead. Heads only began to angle upward as Aerwyn and Láidir flew more inland, looking down at the bustling town below, cobbled streets dotted with curious townspeople. Pointed fingers, infectious exclamations of surprise and some cheers at the unusual sight of a Wyvern rider followed them as they traversed the sky towards the castle. It was an undeniably grand kingdom, nestled in a grassy meadow. The air tasted salty here… But crisp. Clean. Aerwyn narrowed her eyes as Onyx crossed over the moat surrounding the Aethelguard Royal Grounds. As soon as they passed into Royal Territory, Aerwyn suddenly felt an energy wash over her. It was as if she’d walked through a powerful waterfall, the water drenching her in a suffocating, repressing chokehold. She gasped. Her Ward. It had slipped from her like sand through her fingers, the protective cloak slipping from her shoulders as they flew closer and closer to the castle. Aerwyn inwardly cursed the Aethelguard Mage. Crafty bastard must’ve put together a suppressant spell to prevent Warding. Or perhaps all magic in general? Her lip quivered. She should’ve known. Onyx’s lengthy wings beat down with loud, rhythmic cracks as they circled the castle like a bird of prey, Aerwyn wondering whether she had time to attempt another Ward. One that could slip past the suppressant spell…

Láidir and Aerwyn had travelled in complete silence, wordlessly sat in their saddles, squinting their eyes against the harsh winds that whipped around them. Now, Láidir turned his head to shout,

“Happy for me to land her wherever, Your Grace?”

The Mage sighed and pointed at a clearing bookended by some obnoxiously vibrant Royal Gardens.

“Just there will suffice, Láidir. I sense the Aethelguard Mage is already aware of our arrival. They’ll be here to greet us shortly, no doubt.”

The sound of sharp steel echoed out the mountain valley, a guttural roar rumbling when an axe bit deep into the troll’s arm. The bone cracked beneath the strike, ice crystals blooming along the wound. Brunhildr wrenched the weapon from frozen flesh. Her thick cape coated in heavy snowfall as she surged forward to lock the edge of her oaken shield into the jaw of the hulking monster. Her knees bucked at the weight, boots sinking deep into fresh snow. Runes edged along her arm flared, flickering once, twice, muscles tensed as she forced the towering brute downward. With a roar she drove the axe into the thick sinew and rough fur of its leg.

“Leif! Right flank!” The blonde bellowed through the thick snowstorm, an arrow loosed into the troll's eye when it desperately tried to push itself upright. Whether to flee or charge one last time the two warriors didn’t know.

Brunhildr scoffed, ending it with a final strike of her axe. Skull split to the teeth to silence the desperate growl. A fur-clad boot kicked at the lifeless body, blood trickling from the final wound before freezing shut. Like the aftermath of a brutal fight. She straightened, shook the sudden tension in her shield arm and proceeded.

“Lady Brunhildr, a masterful blow.” Said the gruff man, the runes on his armour denoting his lieutenant rank in the Antarctik’s army.

The valkyrie smirked at that, then crushed it. Head held high, pale blue eyes indicative of her disdain despite the amusement it solicited. “Flattery is for court clowns, Leif.” She nodded once, then pressed onward into the valley.

It wasn’t unusual to find a mountain troll this side of the border. What was strange was its sudden aggressive behaviour. They had been stealthy, after all. Wide berths of its habitat, no unusual lights or sounds.

… And yet it decided to attack anyway.

Brunhildr grimaced at that when she and her compatriot doubled back. The storm had settled, it always did when the city gates were within arm's reach.

---

Palace duties were a dull affair. Brunhildr often considered whether biting her own tongue might be preferable to enduring them. She was no scholar. Antarctik valued strength far more than debate. Still, some obligations could not be ignored.

She was reading the letter when the raven arrived. Or rather, when she noticed it had already been there for some time, waiting with patient irritation. A summit of powers. That alone was enough to sour her mood.

Eli squinted in the sunlight as he strode out onto the grand palace drive, robes snapping behind him as the ever-present breeze whipped up into a stiff spring evening wind. The sun was far from setting, but it loitered around the horizon nonetheless, casting long shadows and letting just a touch of wintry chill return to the air. Its rays shone coppery against the myriad patterns of Eli’s layered silk robes, the fabric all but glowing in brilliant reds, greens, and golds. His outermost layer, a fine silk cloak in emerald green, sported shining gold embroidery that moved across its surface like the wind rippling over the grasslands, the pattern changing direction as the wind did.

“His Grace, the High Artificer to see you, Your Royal--”

“You’re late,” a chilly voice cut the herald short as Eli approached, followed closely by the sound of feet crunching on gravel.

I could say the same about you, Eli thought sourly, though now at least he could see why. Laid out before him on the palace drive was a fantastical display: a splendid coach wrought in fine Planes woodwork, flamboyantly decorated with banners and pennants and drawn by six spectacular white horses. Horses and coach alike were blazoned with proud images of burning orange marigolds trimmed in gold on fields of verdant green: the symbol of the royal house of Elowen. The marigolds glowed like fire in the slanting sun, and the gold trimmings on the horses’ kit clinked as the beasts fidgeted under their burden, stamping long, elegant legs and tossing chiseled heads crowned with tall ostrich feathers dyed all colours of the rainbow.

“I was ready in the audience chamber to transport us at five,” Eli corrected, crossing his arms. “You didn’t show up.”

Eli’s cousin Ernesto walked out of the shadow of the coach looking thoroughly inconvenienced and a little insulted. He had a similar, willowy build to Eli, but the similarities ended there; he was a good few inches taller and dramatically lighter in complexion, with cold green eyes that glinted out from under a head of almost-curly blond hair. He looked smart in a bright orange vest and white cotton tunic, secured snugly around the waist by a broad, colourful sash full of exquisite goldwork and dripping with little silver bells that jingled as he walked.

Much like the horses, Eli noted.

“You said ‘audience chamber,’ not me,” Ernesto spat back, gesturing behind him. His short green cape snapped back from his shoulder as he moved, and the gold coronet atop his head glittered in the evening sun. “Forgive me if I didn’t think this would fit.”

Eli came up with a dozen cutting remarks in an instant, but remembered his mother’s warning. Like it or not, you’re going to have to find a way to get along eventually.

Instead, he guarded his tongue behind the same thin, patronizing smile that was all the rage among the nobles these days. “I see. Shall I transport us, then?”

“Start getting it ready,” Ernesto replied dismissively, returning his attention to the coach. “There are just a few more things to get together here before we leave.”

The “few more things” included a second coach for Eli (heavens forfend the not-quite-Crown-Prince share a coach), an open-top carriage dedicated to luggage, a small contingent of royal guards in full marigold livery (some mounted, others on foot), two bannermen, and even a team of tall, stately dalmatians to accompany the carriages.

Eli fought not to roll his eyes as Ernesto assembled his entourage. Far be it from him to criticize pomp and circumstance, but this was clearly a level beyond - it seemed that Ernesto was already enjoying his first excursion as a royal representative a little too much. In fact, Eli suspected this was probably still a more modest entrance than Ernesto would have preferred.

Instead, he turned his attention to his preparations. Eli had been expecting to transport two people to Aethelguard, not a small invasion, but it was nothing outside of his comfort zone. However, it didn’t go as smoothly as he would prefer; Aethelguard’s mage must have employed some Dowsing magic, because every time Eli tried to form a link near, but outside of the palace, he was redirected onto the palace grounds.

“I can only get us as far as the gate of the royal city,” Eli reported, arms outstretched toward the idyllic countryside. With a sweep of his arms, the scenery changed. A split formed in the very air before them, drawing the rolling hills back like a set of massive curtains to reveal an entirely different scene: the capital of Aethelguard bathed in sunlight, the palace flanked by the tall white masts of ships in the harbour beyond. Warm, salty air wafted through the portal carrying the shrill cries of seagulls.

Ernesto turned from his preparations and recoiled, momentarily alarmed by the rift in reality before him. He recovered quickly, though, masking his embarrassment under a practiced look of dignified superiority. “Very well. Let’s be off then.”

Eli and Ernesto boarded their separate carriages, and the captain of the guard called out orders, all involved falling neatly into line. The horses stamped and snorted, unafraid of the magic, and surged forward when bidden into the rift.



Prince Ernesto’s arrival elicited exactly the fanfare Eli assumed his cousin had been hoping for. Materializing at the royal city gates, the caravan of the Elowen delegation attracted crowds as it navigated toward the palace, commoners lining the streets and huddling in windows to watch as the caravan lumbered by. Marigold banners snapped in the wind as they went, the guardsmen’s armour gleaming in the evening sun. The horses put on a magnificent display, marching in unison with as much skill as the soldiers on foot alongside them - no less than expected of the country that bred the finest horses in the realm. And all the while, Ernesto sat in his coach looking proud and lofty, eyes resolutely forward even as he allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk.

For his part, Eli wasn’t much different. He was no stranger to extravagance, and certainly wasn’t self conscious about it; his main qualm with the choice to make a proper formal entrance was the number of formal introductions he was going to have to make when they arrived. However, to his genuine surprise, the arrival was fairly painless. Their reception at the palace was a warm one, of course, as would be expected from Elowen’s closest ally, but it consisted entirely of servants who rushed to take their luggage and show them to their apartments and otherwise cater to their every need. The King, Queen, and even the Royal Mage of Aethelguard were as yet nowhere to be found. It was a profound relief to Eli that he could put off hobnobbing for even a few extra minutes on a trip that already threatened to fray his nerves, but Ernesto was decidedly less pleased. Insulted, even.

“They drag us here on three days’ notice like mercenaries and then shuffle us between servants like sheep,” he’d complained to Eli, not quite quietly enough not to be overheard.

Eli kept his own suspicions to himself, mostly just appeasing his cousin with smiles and nods and vague statements of agreement until they were summoned to the banquet hall.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, however, Eli went from feeling vaguely convenienced to on edge. No sooner had he stepped through the door than the breath seemed to go out of him; the pattern on his cloak stopped moving, and his many robes hung limp, where before they had been subtly swaying in an otherwise unfelt breeze. More importantly, the gem around his neck, usually pulsing with faint amber light, went dark, feeling cold and heavy and still against his chest.

Whatever it was seemed to go unnoticed by Ernesto as he immediately launched into socializing, but Eli looked around the hall with newly sharpened eyes, paying close attention to every detail. Aethelguard’s royal mage had put some kind of binding ward on the room. Not a permanent hex, surely - that would probably amount to an act of war. But something to dampen the power of every mage in attendance, to even the odds. If he didn’t know any better (and at this point, he didn’t), Eli might think they’d been summoned to something contentious.

His eyes fell on the Royal Mage himself. Serrelian D’Vyrens, if memory served. Eli had met him on several occasions as a teenager, part of his annual visits to his mother’s Aethelguard villa. They’d talked more than once, the older man seeking him out to discuss magic. He was friendly enough, personable enough, but every conversation had always felt like a play following a particular script. Nothing was left to chance, nothing was organic, nothing was ever an accident.

Now, in this room, the whole world was forced to follow his script.

The guests weren’t kept waiting long. The king’s brash arrival did elicit an elitist look from Ernesto, but neither delegate of Elowen was surprised; the king of Aethelguard’s… unorthodox demeanour was a common object of rumour in Elowen, where nobody of any status would ever even think to behave so coarsely. But the news that followed sobered both of them, and each sat quietly for a long moment when Serrelian finished his address, the weight of the situation settling heavily on them.

An underground organization of mages seeking to harm the crown. Eli supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. It was no secret that mages chafed under the Artifice laws of Elowen and its equivalents across the realm, but they rarely put up much resistance. Untrained mages were more a danger to themselves than anyone else, and the only way to get training was to apprentice under the High Artificer, bound either to serve the Crown or be turned out on the shortest of leashes, never far from watchful eyes. Rejects usually faded into obscurity.

“What dang--” Eli began, but was quickly interrupted by Ernesto’s hand jutting out in front of him.

“--We will perform a sweep immediately,” Ernesto interjected, shooting Eli a burning glare. “If any of this filth has infested Elowen, it will be scrubbed out.”

Eli looked at his cousin quizzically for a moment, but Ernesto did not look back at him again. He looked like he’d just had to scold a page that spoke out of turn at court, and was trying not to make a further scene about it. Eli drummed his fingers on his leg, the many rings on his fingers clicking together. What on earth was his problem?

“...And to His Royal Highness’ end,” Eli tried again, looking skeptically between his cousin and Serrelian before continuing, “exactly what danger does this group pose? Have they committed any magical attacks in addition to this attempted poisoning?”

When it came to political affairs, Brunhildr was decidedly opposed to being the voice of reason in debates and matters she would rather behead with an axe. The High Jarl, of a similar mind, appointed his sister’s daughter, Sigrun Berglund, to accompany the royal mage to Aethelguard.

Brunhildr’s lips twitched when the woman came to stand beside her, equally tall and toned, though dressed with far more regal care than the mage in her bare arms and armour. Auburn hair was braided and laced with rune-carved rings. They exchanged a glance while artificers chipped away at the runegate, chisels ringing sharp as frostrunes sizzled with latent magical energy.

“You look as though you’d rather be back in the pass,” Sigrun said, faint bemusement threading her voice as she caught the scowl carved across Brunhildr’s face.

Brunhildr watched the runes flare along the half-cut stone. “I’d rather be anywhere they aren’t pouring wine and calling it strategy.”

A breath of amusement ghosted across Sigrun’s mouth. “Then I’ll drink the wine. You can glower at the room until someone says something worth hearing.”

Brunhildr gave a short nod. A sound enough plan. It also made it far less likely she would end the evening with some noble’s skull cracked open between her fists.

The gate shimmered to life, frost crackling beneath their boots as the two Antarctikan women stepped through. The passage warped around them into a tangle of twisting roots and hollow dark, less a corridor than a living path cut through the void itself. It was strangely warm in contrast to Antarctik’s usual bite.

Then Brunhildr felt it.

A root groaned somewhere ahead, twisting sharply into a course not laid by the artificers’ runework. Her frown deepened, shoulders tightening as instinct settled hard beneath her skin.

“They would decide where we arrive,” she said, voice edged with suspicion. “Convenient.”

Sigrun’s gaze followed the bend in the path, her expression smoothing rather than sharpening. “If they’ve summoned every power to their table, they were never going to leave the door unguarded.”

Brunhildr gave a low grunt, unconvinced. Her hand hovered near the haft at her back as the living corridor shifted again, roots knitting themselves into a narrower path beneath their feet. Whatever course the artificers had first carved was gone now, bent neatly beneath a foreign hand.

The warmth deepened. Light began to bleed through the dark ahead, pale at first, then gold. The roots split apart with a long wooden groan, opening onto stone instead of snow.

---

They stepped through into the sharp salt-tinged air of Aethelguard, the runegate closing behind them in a hiss of frost and steam. Not the palace proper, nor any inner sanctum. The kingdom had spat them out at a safer remove, just beyond the royal city gates where white stone walls rose clean against the evening sky and banners stirred in the coastal wind. Guards were already waiting. So too were servants, composed and prepared in the way of those warned well in advance.

Brunhildr’s eyes narrowed as she took in the placement, the distance, the order of it. Even here, on ground meant for welcome, the foreign touch of Aethelguard’s will sat ill against her skin.

Sigrun adjusted one fur-lined sleeve with practiced calm. “Well,” she said, the faintest thread of amusement returning to her voice, “they have manners enough not to drop us in the sea.”

Brunhildr looked toward the city beyond the gates, jaw set hard. “Give them time.”

The rest passed in a blur of polished stone, measured courtesies, and servants who moved too smoothly for Brunhildr’s liking. By the time she and Sigrun were shown into the banquet hall, the gathering was already well underway. Antarctik’s seats had been left for them among the others. Sigrun claimed hers with the quiet ease expected of an envoy. Brunhildr stayed at her shoulder, preferring to stand while her gaze raked across the room, weighing crowns, mages, and warriors alike with open distrust.