Commander of the First Tier, Miron Madrigal sat alone in the Fulcrum, pressing his thumb and index finger hard against the bridge of his nose. A jaw-cracking yawn caught him off guard—a lingering reminder of how prematurely his sleep had been shattered by the incessant ringing of the early alarm. Arriving first was hardly unusual for a man of his punctual, disciplined nature, but the morning’s bells had rung with a frantic urgency he had never heard before. High above, the massive stained-glass windows encircling the hall’s upper level caught the early dawn, amplifying its reddish hue and casting a deep, blood-crimson glow across the chamber.

He made a mental note to address the administration at the Temporal Tower; the volume of those chimes was simply excessive, leaving a migraine lurking just behind his eyes. Still, he took small comfort in assuming his wife, Alariel, and daughter, Medina, had slept through the racket. He doubted his son had been so fortunate. Madark was a light sleeper, routinely haunted by night terrors. Even far off in the clutches of the Sixth Tier, the boy had likely heard the clamor. In truth, the entire city had probably been jarred awake before the bells were mercifully silenced.

Protocol for a bell-warning dictated that each Tier Commander organize a detachment of soldiers to stand by, ready to meet their counterparts at the Fulcrum should urgent dispersal be required after the briefing. Miron felt reasonably assured that his capable Second was seeing to those duties back at the compound. Still, in more than a decade, this was only the fourth time the call had been issued, leaving him to wonder if the other Tiers were reacting in accordance.

When Miron had first departed the First Tier compound to secure transport from the AMS guild, he had fully expected a delay. To his surprise, a Lucidarch was already waiting to weave his alignment directly to the Fulcrum—an impressive display of foresight from the Arcanarch, and a sharp contrast to previous incidents where Miron had been left waiting nearly half an hour just to traverse to the Fifth. Yet the uneasy look on the Lucidarch’s face lingered in his mind: the expression of a woman guarding a truth she wasn't permitted to speak. Given his proximity to the Temporal Tower, Miron’s early arrival made sense. What troubled him was why no one else had joined him yet.

Miron tapped his fingers against the Crescent Table, shifting uncomfortably as a sudden, sharp itch flared on the soles of his feet. It had begun the moment he entered the chamber. The urge to pull off his boots to address the nuisance was overwhelming, but indulging in such crude relief within a space as hallowed as the Fulcrum would invite immediate scandal. Fortunately, the chamber remained empty. Casting a quick glance around the spacious hall, Miron bent low to unbuckle his boot, desperate to dislodge whatever foreign object was clawing at his feet.

A door creaked open. Two distinct sets of footsteps echoed through the chamber: the crisp, rhythmic tap-tap of a woman's heels striking the lignin floor, followed closely by a quieter, heavier tread moving in cadence. Hastily refastening his buckle, Miron forced his posture upright and turned toward the rear entrance, doing his best to ignore the persistent scratching beneath his socks.

Guard Commander Harlan and the striking Lady Kara Kazarian were moving toward the Crescent Table. Both wore heavy frowns, though Miron caught the moment Kazarian’s eyes widened, her scowl softening into a smile upon spotting him. Miron was—and would forever remain—a faithful, devoted husband and father, but the Prime Mystarch in full display commanded an undeniable presence. Her arrival provoked a sudden rush in his extremities that proved far more distracting than the phantom itch at his feet.

She wore a striking red dress that complemented her shoulder-length auburn hair, which rested lightly against a pair of stylish pauldrons. Purely aesthetic, the armor pieces accentuated her shapely figure, while the crimson light filtering through the stained glass seemed to set her hair ablaze. She was simply magnificent—and as cunning a spy as the Fourth Tier could ever hope to produce. Beneath her charm lay an intelligence that always seemed to know more than it let on. Miron was well aware of her façade; her politeness was an artifice, leaving a hollow emptiness in the wake of every word and gesture, calculated entirely to serve the interests of the Temporal Tower—or, as Miron suspected, her own.

“Madrigal,” Harlan greeted with a curt nod, sweeping past the Crescent Table and descending with quick strides down the short flight of stairs. He stepped into the central oval set in the depression below, directly in the line of sight of the eight primary chairs. The heavy chairs were arrayed in a wide, sweeping arc solely along the table’s thick outer curve, their occupants looking straight down over the bare, inward-slanted inner edge toward the pit where Harlan now stood. 

Miron returned the greeting, though his gaze quickly drifted back to the Prime Mystarch. Lady Kazarian lightly caressed the chair of the Fourth Tier—a simple, practical piece—before gliding over to the Second Tier Commander’s seat and pulling it out.

“Greetings, Commander.”

“Good morning, Prime. A pleasure to see you so early in the day.”

The Prime Mystarch offered a slight grin. “How are the children, Commander?” she asked with her signature, drawling charisma, settling into her seat and crossing her legs.

“Well. Quite well, Lady. Medina spends most of her days with the druids, and Madark, as you know, is serving his time with the Sixth Tier,” Miron said, a faint shadow crossing his face.

“Ah, yes. Medina may bring that bridge between the respectful Tiers. One may hope. And of course Madark is a rambunctious young man. I am sure he is doing exceptionally well—and making friends with his ‘captors,’” Lady Kazarian replied with a subtle wink. “It is truly a shame he is there at a time like this. He should be with his mother and sister.” She sighed, adding softly, “Truly a shame.”

Miron offered a measured smile. “Yes. Alariel has missed him dearly these past months. But he will return a stronger man for the experience, I have no doubt.”

Lady Kazarian’s expression remained unreadable, leaving Miron with the uneasy feeling that she knew something he didn't. “Well,” she continued brightly, “perhaps you and Lady Alariel will simply have to produce more offspring to make up for his absence.”

Miron chuckled, though another sharp scratch at his soles made him wince. How is it possible for both feet to itch this intensely? He wondered briefly if Medina had played some elaborate joke on his footwear, but dismissed it—she wasn't the type. Madark, on the other hand, certainly was. The thought of his troublesome son made Miron smile. He hoped that the Sixth Tier were reconsidering this most recent ward-swap.

“I fear those days are long behind us,” Miron said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Two children have taken enough of a toll on my wife’s peace of mind—especially with one being returned and the other currently held as a ward.”

Lady Kazarian laughed softly. “A shame, indeed. But our city always needs more youth.” Spotting his subtle grimace, her tone shifted. “Are you feeling well, Commander? You look distressed.”

“Simply a lack of sleep, I assure you.”

“Up late with Lady Alariel, no doubt?” she teased with a subtle wink.

Miron felt a slight blush color his cheeks. “No, nothing of the sort. The Tower's bells are extraordinarily intrusive when rung like that. I half-considered submitting a formal grievance to this council.”

“Unfortunately, in this instance, I presume your brother-in-law determined they needed to be rung with extraordinary vigor.”

“Aris? Why would Aris be ringing the bells and not the Arcanarch? What has happened?”

Lady Kazarian leaned in conspiratorially to avoid being overheard by the Guard Commander, but her response was cut short as a flurry of hurried footsteps echoed from the outer corridors. Several aides and officers filed in, moving swiftly down the stairs toward Guard Commander Harlan. The man was hunched over a central tactical map, staring intently at a disputed region of the bluffs northeast of the city where the Third and Sixth Tiers frequently clashed with severe casualties.

Guard Commander Harlan straightened up, his voice barking across the room. “Hurry now—take your seats! And fetch a Warlock down here immediately!” he ordered, gesturing sharply to the attending scribes.

Miron suppressed a sigh, but Harlan caught the movement and glared. Miron returned the look with cold detachment. “You could begin by sharing what you know,” Miron said calmly.

“And repeat myself every time another commander walks through that door?” Harlan snapped back. “You will wait. Where are the others?”

There was no love lost between them. Harlan was widely loathed for his pompous demeanor, but within the walls of the Fulcrum, his authority as Guard Commander carried weight—often acting as the proxy voice for the Fifth Tier Commander, an aging noble enriched by off-world ventures who rarely bothered to govern directly.

Normally, council meetings were arenas of political theater—venomous words, veiled threats, and sharp wits competing for dominance. Long gone were the days of open warfare in the city streets; modern disputes were settled through political maneuvering here, or through skirmishes in the lucrative hunting grounds beyond the walls. Yet the history of the Fulcrum was written in blood. In past centuries, arguments in this very room had devolved into deadly duels; the most severe altercations had sparked full-scale civil wars, while others resulted in day-long sieges that ended only when enough blood was spilled to force a truce. Such chaos always risked drawing out the Underkin—a persistent subterranean threat that usually plagued the Guard’s outer watchtowers and the deep forests of the Second Tier, but rarely breached the city proper unless drawn by the scent of mass slaughter.

Miron tried to recall the last time a council argument had ended in a fatal duel. None had occurred during his nearly twenty-year tenure as Commander of the First—a title he had assumed after his own father was killed in just such a confrontation between the First and Sixth Tiers.

Architecturally, the Fulcrum was the city's most expansive above-ground structure. Though dwarfed at twelve stories tall by the Temporal Tower, it was as wide as the tower was high, spanning from the base of the Fifth Tier to the threshold of the Fourth. In decades past, Fourth Tier residents had built illegal settlements across its multi-domed roof, sparking brutal crackdowns by the Shrine Guard that left dozens dead. The Tiers only intervened when the spill of blood drew the Underkin over the walls after overrunning the guard towers.

Looking down into the hall, Miron observed Guard Commander Hanish Harlan standing in his polished, ornate armor, his pale face radiating smug superiority. Behind Harlan, a dark staircase descended into the sub-levels—ancient, subterranean chambers whose original purpose was forgotten, now repurposed by the Guard as prisons and interrogation cells. Across the main hall lay the Guard’s quarters, and beneath those sat The Vault.

Despite its mundane name, The Vault housed Shrine’s most dangerous relics: ancient weapons from an era when the children of Angellen could manifest arms directly from their minds, refined power stones used to fuel Warlocks, and relics allegedly carved from the bones of the Goddess Lucinda. Among them rested the legendary spear of the Eighth Tier Commander—The Admiral’s Poker—alongside a ceremonial Fourth Tier dagger and a framed remnant of crimson canvas said to be a piece of the original sail from The Zedrich, the legendary flagship of the Free Sails.

By now, the morning sun had cleared the horizon, sending warm rays crawling up the stone walls. The ancient architects had designed the hall with uncanny precision: ambient light bounced seamlessly between floor and ceiling, converging into an etheric, solid-looking canopy above the Crescent Table. Even during late-evening sessions, the room remained brilliantly lit. In the brightening light, Miron’s gaze drifted to a discolored patch of stone near the center floor: a silent reminder of the room's bloody history where a long-dead Fifth Tier commander had been struck down after misreading the room during a tense negotiation. Miron knew the man's name was documented in one of the First Tier’s historical texts, though the detail escaped him. I should ask Medina when I return home, he thought. She would know.

They really ought to place a marker there, he reflected. The dark stain seemed unusually prominent this morning—perhaps due to the harsh angle of the dawn light, or simply because he had rarely been inside the Fulcrum at such an early hour. Morning meetings were notoriously avoided; tempers were shorter, and bad decisions were made far too easily.

Miron sat back and waited, his eyes occasionally drifting toward the Prime Mystarch. She sat near the guest dais—a table reserved for distinguished visitors, though most frequently occupied by the Arcanarch or his talented protégé, Aris Ascarian, elder brother of Alariel and uncle to Commander Miron Madrigal’s two children.

Etched along the front of the primary Crescent Table were the ancient words: Where Fates Are Cast. Perhaps there was a time in history when those words held absolute truth—when the people of that dead world escaped to distant stars and their first home of Shrine was the pillar, the Fulcrum, that kept some semblance of unity. Today, it was a grandiose reminder of feckless leadership and apathy.

A sudden shadow flickered at the edge of Miron's vision. He turned, startled to see Captain Trillion of the Fourth Tier standing silently just behind the Third Tier Commander’s empty seat. The man had slipped into the hall without making a sound—a stark contrast to the usual grand entrances made by others who comprised the regulars to the Fulcrum. Miron had not even heard the heavy doors pivot on their hinges. It was notable that Amir, the Fourth Tier Commander himself, was absent, sending his silent, calculating Captain in his stead. Perhaps the most dangerous man second to only Amir himself.

“I have always appreciated the design of this chair in particular, on the rare occurrences I’ve been granted supervised entrance into this magnificent building,” Captain Trillion reflected aloud, his final words dripping with sarcasm as he trailed a finger casually along the carved armrest. “Certainly in comparison to that.” He gestured toward the most practical, humble seat among the eight lining the convex side of the Crescent Table, then flashed a wide grin that displayed a set of perfectly straight, gleaming teeth. It was the smile of a man who knew he was the center of attention, thoroughly relishing the performance he was putting on for the assembled council.

“And of course, who could forget that one?” Trillion added with a grand gesture toward the unoccupied Eighth Tier Commander’s seat—a chair that had stood empty for more than three hundred years.

Though the Fulcrum had undergone several minor renovations over the centuries—its lignin pillars shifted and remolded by Warlocks, then painstakingly carved by legions of dwarves into the ornate columns present today—the Eighth Tier’s seat remained a relic of a bygone era. It was a historical piece, perpetually on display, meticulously dusted, oiled, and treated with preservatives to protect the timber. While every other chair in the hall had been grown from living lignin, the Eighth’s was crafted from natural wood, standing as a tangible monument to those who had came before. It honored Alistair Shae and the Free Sails: privateers turned heroes, turned leaders of the Eighth Tier, those titans of a legendary age who slew the Dead Devil and cast his severed head into the Well, allowing the city to be settled at last.

No one dared sit in that famous seat. Travelers from across the celestial ring of stars—and even from as far as The Strands—paid exorbitant sums for guided tours of the Fulcrum, and the undisputed centerpiece of every visit was that simple, austere wooden chair where Alistair Shae had once sat.

For Captain Trillion to dismiss it with such flippant theatricality was nothing short of scandalous, especially for a subordinate attending merely as a proxy for his Commander. Yet, despite himself, Miron was secretly impressed by the man's sheer brashness.

“Where is Amir?” Guard Commander Harlan asked, his tone heavy with suspicion.

“Not here. Perhaps fell into the Well? Probably not even in the city. I honestly do not know. I’m not his keeper.” Trillion said wistfully. “Perhaps,” he added, “you will see him later. Who knows?”

Harlan let out a weary sigh. “And the Fourth? Where are they?”

“Everywhere,” Trillion replied with a subtle grin.

“The city may be under a serious threat,” Harlan growled, resting a hand near his weapon. “I know the Fourth cares little for anything and nothing for anyone else, but this body, for one damned day, should show some semblance of unity.”

Captain Trillion merely shrugged. He offered the Third Tier’s seat one last admiring glance before moving to sit in the prosaic chair reserved for the Fourth Tier.

The seat of the Third Tier Commander he had just coveted was indeed remarkable: a grown chair formed from the living lignin upon which the city of Shrine itself was raised, shaped by Warlocks and sculpted by dwarves whose legendary skill with stone was matched only by this masterwork in wood. Curving vines and remarkably lifelike leaves cascaded down its back, an exemplary piece displaying the craftsmanship that must have cost the Third Tier coffers a formidable sum, certainly in comparison to that of the Eighth Tier.

Miron shifted uncomfortably in his own seat, the often mocked ‘throne’ of the First Tier Commander. To him, it was less a chair and more an imposing, unyielding instrument of torture. While the padding had been refurbished several times throughout his tenure by servants of the First, it never felt sufficient. The wood always seemed to itch, as though microscopic splinters remained embedded in the grain, ensuring every subtle repositioning was met with a newfound respect for nature. Today, the sensation was worse than ever. Beginning at the soles of his feet, a crawling, uncomfortable prickle was spreading up his legs and lower back—a sensation terrifyingly similar to what he had experienced during past crises. He tried to ignore the strange yet oddly familiar irritation; far more pressing matters were at stake, made significantly worse by the dangerous representative of the Fourth appearing so unannounced.

"Why were the bells rung, Harlan?" Miron asked, his voice carrying a sharp edge of impatience as the persistent itching began to fray his composure. "Is the city under attack—yes or no? If yes, I will prepare my Tier."

Guard Commander Harlan paused, his eyes briefly darting toward Captain Trillion who was smiling widely before shifting back to Miron.

A silent understanding prevailed within the Fulcrum that all weapons were to be left outside the inner sanctum. The Shrine Guard enforced this by confiscating arms at the threshold—the dark stains on the floor serving as a stark historical reminder of why such precautions existed. Yet Shrine Guard Commander Hanish Harlan was uniquely exempt from his own rule. He invariably paraded himself before the council in full regalia, weapons on prominent display, eager to project himself as the only adult in the room. In many respects, he had to be; the Tier Commanders acted like spoiled, petulant children at the best of times. Harlan made a point of demonstrating his authority with not one, but two legendary artifact weapons: his bone sword, False Peace, and one of the ancient gauntlets that had supposedly helped end the War of Tiers—a conflict resolved, in part, by slaughtering enough people that the survivors were forced to unite against the Underkin.

No doubt each Commander had some form of weapon. Particularly the wizard commander of the Seventh Tier and his reportedly powerful staff.

Harlan looked thoroughly unimpressed by the simmering tension in the room, yet he maintained a deliberate, safe distance from the Fourth Tier Captain. Though he was not currently wearing the artifact gauntlet, his hand rested lightly on the hilt of False Peace.

Suddenly, the heavy doors to the Fulcrum swung open with a violent bang, rebounding hard against the stone wall.

A very large and very intoxicated druid stumbled into the hall, releasing a loud, reverberating belch that Miron felt in his chest. Harlan turned, his scowl deepening as if his gaze could melt stone. The bearded druid’s shirt was unlaced and hung open, revealing a round, plump stomach that transitioned abruptly into a heavily muscled chest patched with red hair and smeared with dried mud, suggesting he had recently been rolling in the earth. Taking the long way around to his seat, he groped along the blank wall for non-existent handrails. As he approached the stairs leading up to the Crescent Table, he swayed with every step, ultimately tripping on the bottom riser. A dull thud echoed around the silent hall as his head clipped the stone.

Harlan let out a heavy, weary sigh. "Commander Wulfgin. Are you seeing stars?"

"I’m here!" the druid grunted, pushing himself up. "Where? Where are they? Where are they! The Second will only defend our forests! We do not—"

"Take a seat, Wulfgin," Harlan interrupted, his voice dropping into the soothing, patronizing tone one might use with an overtired child refusing to go to bed. "There is much to discuss."

Commander Wulfgin grunted stubbornly and squinted across the table at Miron. "Madrigal! Why are you here? In my house?"

Miron sighed, bringing a hand up to his forehead to mask another itch, and spoke in a low, exasperated tone that nevertheless carried across the silent chamber. "Commander Wulfgin, you are in the Fulcrum. Show some damned decorum."

"Ah, right. We—" Wulfgin burped loudly, a sickly, sour odor wafting across the dais, "—we will not leave our forest to fight battles you fools started!" He slurred his words, pointing a trembling finger at the numerous empty chairs. "Where is everyone else then, anyway? Where’s the assassin, eh?" he mocked, twisting clumsily in his seat as though expecting Fourth Tier Commander Amir to be lurking directly behind him. "Damn cowards, always off hiding in the dark, up to no good!"

And then, Commander Wulfgin nearly jumped from his seat when he saw Captain Trillion sitting there.

“Who is that? Where’s Amir?” Wulfgin asked Miron after composing himself. Then Wulfgin’s eyes widened in shock as he recognized the Fourth Tier Captain. “I knew I smelled a rat.”

Captain Trillion laughed. “I’m surprised you can smell anything right now. But yes, I am here while my Commander is away, performing some duty elsewhere.”

“Why’ve you bast-” Wulfgin began but halted, seemingly swallowing some bile. “--you rats been around me forests of late?”

The crisp, distinct click of heels echoed through the corridor, heralding a new arrival. Miron recognized the cadence immediately. One of the few quiet joys of attending these dreary council meetings was the arrival of Stalker Alouette Al-Dias. She walked with sharp, deliberate purpose, each heel striking the floor as if attempting to crack the polished lignin beneath. Her tall, athletic frame was framed by dark, cascading curls of black hair. Though Miron was a happily married man, he couldn't help but appreciate the sheer presence she brought into a room.

Al-Dias ascended the stairs two at a time, stopping abruptly near the table as if striking an invisible wall as the stench of stale ale hit her. "Go wash your ass, you pathetic disgrace," she commanded, glaring down at Commander Wulfgin.

Miron sighed for he had smelled the odour as well.

Al-Dias remark broke the tension, Captain Trillion couldn’t contain a sudden burst of laughter.  drawing chuckles from the surrounding aides and even a faint smirk from Wulfgin himself. Though the massive chairs around the Crescent Table were spaced at least twelve feet apart, Al-Dias made a show of dragging her seat noticeably closer to Captain Trillion, who offered her a brief and very large smile, his blue eyes lingering on her with quiet appreciation—whether for her sharp tongue or the chair she now occupied, Miron couldn't quite tell.

Adjusting her tunic, Stalker Al-Dias abandoned any pretense of courtly pleasantries and spoke in her usual brisk, unvarnished style.

“My huntresses have returned. The Sixth engaged the invading force—the Drengers. The Sixth were broken. Both the Battlemaster and the Arcanarch are dead.” She paused, letting the heavy weight of the words settle over the hall. “My scouts missed the initial exchange, but they reported multiple Angellen among the enemy ranks. The Sixth sustained catastrophic casualties; their formation shattered, and those who survived are currently attempting to regroup. A large contingent was seen fleeing on Geks.”

Commander Madrigal stood abruptly and turned an angry gaze to the Guard Commander who matched that stare.

“How large is the invading force? Certainly large enough to defeat the Battlemaster—and you didn’t think it prudent to inform me of this while I was sat here for an hour? Is our city under attack or not?” Miron's voice carried more than impatience, but annoyance that was magnified by the incessant scratching sensation.

“See! I told ye all. You poked the bears and the Strands are–” Wulfgin shouted out but was interrupted.

“Easy, Commander. Please let her finish.” Miron quickly stopped the interruption from Wulfgin.

Al-Dias turned a cold, suspicious gaze toward the Prime Mystarch, who sat listening with unreadable patience. She already knew, Miron realized.

“Furthermore,” Al-Dias continued, her voice turning sharp, “the AMS Guild refused to deploy Lucidarchs to ferry reinforcements to the front lines. My own stalkers were turned away. The acting Arcanarch has halted all alignment weaving beyond the city walls entirely—because the Arcanarch himself was wounded.”

“What?” The Prime Mystarch’s composure cracked, a flash of genuine shock breaking through her polished veneer. For once, she had been caught uninformed. “How? How badly?”

The Third Tier Commander ignored the Mystarch’s pleading look, turning back to the chamber to deliver her final report. “The enemy advances from the northeast, just beyond the Sixth’s gate. Their main force numbers no more than a thousand now after their losses to the Sixth, with less than a few hundred lesser creatures trailing as a rear guard. The largest concern is six Colossi.”

“Colossi?” Miron asked.

“A type of golem, Commander. A type of golem,” Captain Trillion interjected smoothly.

Miron lowered his head, raising his eyes to glare at the Captain with simmering anger. “And you’ve seen these types of golems before, have you, Captain?”

“Nay, Commander, nay I’ve not.” Captain Trillion responded with a mocking laugh. “Devil the one, I’ve not. Don’t plan to neither.”

“Right,” Miron muttered, shaking his head as he squirmed in his chair, desperately trying to ease the relentless itching.

“But what I do know is it takes more than steel to cut them down.” Trillion added.

The Guard Commander cleared his throat. “Regardless. While they seem formidable, they were only met with a token force by the Battlemaster and Arcanarch. They have nowhere near the numbers required to even come close to harm the city. That is why this is not a drastically urgent matter. Over eagerness and stupidity caused the deaths–”

“Then why are they here? Any Tier, a dozen wizards from the Seventh could easily cleanse the field.” Interjected the Mystarch.

Silence fell across the Fulcrum. Miron glanced back toward Captain Trillion and caught the lingering, sinister smile still resting on the man's lips.

“Now forgive me, Commander Al-Dias, how is it you know so much exactly?” Miron asked. The words came out sounding far more like a harsh demand than an inquiry, and he instantly regretted his tone. The searing discomfort spreading up from his feet was rapidly fraying his composure.

“The Fourth are not the only ones capable of spycraft, Commander,” Al-Dias replied coldly.

“Indeed,” Miron murmured. “It appears not.”

Naturally, the First Tier maintained its own vast intelligence network—a operation he hoped remained still mostly secret. The heavy treasury drain required to run it sparked constant controversy and debate among the leadership of the First Tier, along with lingering suspicions that their spies were compromised, given most had been trained by the Fourth Tier itself.

To mitigate this, Miron kept the bulk of his network off-world, deeply embedded within the vassal cities—both friendly and foreign. In those lucrative trade markets, rival factions constantly deployed provocateurs to sabotage one another, and Miron had no intention of leaving his Tier’s riches vulnerable. It was an inherited fortune he meant to secure for his house and children.

Madark would eventually don the mantle of Commander; he was the rightful heir, whereas Medina lacked the ruthless drive required for a position traditionally held by men. Should she try, the path would prove brutal. Miron offered a wordless plea that his children would succeed—and that he would be an old man before either was tested by the burden of leadership.

Captain Trillion cleared his throat. “Well, I could speak to the truth if you will allow—” Trillion began lazily.

“Not necessary,” Guard Commander Harlan snapped, his hand gripped tightly on the hilt of his sword. “We are still missing Commander Ire and Commander Silmuth.”

Captain Trillion cleared his throat again and proceeded under the watchful scowl of the Guard Commander, watching his hand closely grip his sword. “Don’t ye be casting no aspersions of threat against me, ye bastard. Had this body read the reports written and widely distributed by my Commander? No, likely not. In them, he specifically detailed a looming threat—the threat of Strand operatives infiltrating parts of the North. But alas, you lot assumed someone else would deal with that. This army ain’t large,” Trillion said, glancing to his right where the Third Tier Commander sat, seeking a validation that never came.

He slid a small rondel dagger from his boot cuff and began picking beneath his fingernails—a casual gesture meant to remind Harlan that he was hardly unarmed. “These foreigners likely have some other ill intent. They’ll need to be ousted somehow, forcibly removed, I’ve no doubt, but they won’t be attacking the Whirlwind gates with any meaningful threat.”

Across the table, Commander Wulfgin seemed to be sobering up quickly, the ruddy flush draining from his heavy cheeks until the big man looked sickly pale.

Trillion let out a sudden, dry laugh that echoed off the high lignin ceiling. The entire chamber went dead quiet. Down in the depression below, the attending scribes froze, their quills hovering above their parchment.

“Do you see how complacent we’ve become?” Trillion’s voice dripped with mocking disdain as he expertly flipped the rondel end over end, catching the hilt with practiced ease. He paused, scanning the silent faces as if daring someone to challenge him. No one did. “We brought this upon ourselves. We project weakness because we are weak. This invasion is merely our long-overdue punishment—for what stupid bastards in the Strands would think to bring such a small army at such great cost? Eh, Mystarch? How much do you reckon it cost ’em to ferry that many Drenger and those golems? Big bastards, those. The alignment must’a been a berth wide enough for The Zedrich itself. But my question is—how did the Arcanarch die? That is the real curiosity. A man who can move anywhere at any time with little cost to his own coffers allowed himself to be slain?” Captain Trillion finished with a quiet chuckle.

Miron looked toward the Mystarch and caught an expression he had never witnessed on her face before: a sharp mix of outrage and lingering embarrassment while staring at the Fourth Tier assassin.

Captain Trillion matched glares, his more whimsical, but still filled with some threat. “It doesn’t matter, not really. Cards will fall where they may regardless.”

Miron found that statement directed specifically to the Mystarch and he wondered what history the two shared for surely there was something there.

Before anyone could reply, the heavy chamber doors swung open once more.

Acting Arcanarch Aris Ascarian swept into the Fulcrum. Walking closely at his side was Seventh Tier Commander Ire, who strode straight-backed and proud, striking the stone floor with the butt of a ghoulish staff with every other step. The weapon was crowned with a cracked, jagged mass of bone—the legendary remains said to house the skull of Riven himself, held together by ancient, arcane seams. If Miron harbored a true fear of anyone in the room should his Tier come to blows with another, it was the Seventh. The Sixth were undeniably formidable—savage brutes who swelled to terrifying proportions as bloodlust took hold. But the wizards of the Seventh were a catastrophe waiting to unleash; in wars past, they had reduced vast swaths of land and living lignin infrastructure to smoldering ruins.

Aris was visibly furious. The sleeves of his high-collared robes were drenched in dark crimson, failing to hide the blood-soaked linen bandages wrapped tightly around his forearms beneath.

Trailing behind them came Commander Silmuth, an ancient figure who moved with a heavy limp and a deeply stooped posture. Though time and brutal labor had bent his frame—broken from decades of digging for the hearts of the Underkin and braving subterranean horrors in the deep dark—he still radiated a grim, terrifying authority.

At Silmuth’s shoulder walked his personal bodyguard, Von-Veis. A former member of the Sixth Tier, Von-Veis had once stood on the verge of being crowned Battlemaster, but a bitter falling out had driven him from his kin. He had since taken up mercenary work for the Fifth, where his brutal talents were put to lucrative use. Still, looking at the towering guard, Miron doubted whether even a warrior of Von-Veis’s caliber could stop someone of Amir’s lethal reputation if the Fourth Tier Commander decided to strike Silmuth down before anyone could react.

“Good. You are all assembled,” Aris said hurriedly, striding toward the guest dais without breaking pace. “Pardon the delay.”

He turned his piercing gaze toward Lady Kazarian. “Kara. Are you aware?”

The implication was clear: he was asking if she had already learned of the Arcanarch’s demise.

“Yes, Arcanarch,” the Prime Mystarch replied smoothly. “I am aware.”

At the sound of the tentative title, Aris seemed to draw himself up, standing an inch taller. Though the Conclave had yet to formally convene or announce a successor through their secretive rites, there was no doubt in the room: Aris Ascarian was claiming the mantle of Shrine’s newest Arcanarch. Standing before the council, he towered over the hall—as tall as the most imposing battlemasters of the Sixth Tier, yet his actual build was slighter than a huntress of the Third. His slender frame cut a sharp, ominous silhouette against the blood-crimson light filtering through the high glass windows.

Then, a deep unease took hold of him, as if a chill wind were pulsating through his core—a sensation he had not felt since he was a child attempting his first magnetic alignments.

Several piercing whistles ripped through the air high above. Through the open-domed ceiling over the crescent table, Miron watched streaks of magical energy crackle across the sky.

All in the chamber leapt to their feet at the horrible screeching sound—save for Captain Trillion, who simply leaned back and kicked his feet onto the table, and Commander Wulfgin, who fell backward in his haste to rise, leaving an arcing trail of vomit behind him.

Miron and Trillion both looked at Wulfgin, then at each other. Captain Trillion shrugged, offering Commander Madrigal a sharp smile and a wink.

“Dammit, Ire! Is that you again?” the Guard Commander screamed at the Seventh Tier Commander.

Commander Ire narrowed his eyes. “That?” He gestured toward the domed roof, drawing the Guard Commander’s eyes upward to the slowly dissipating, electrically charged streaks above the city. “Unlikely.”

Miron found the remark curious. What was Ire referring to? Before he could ponder it, shouts of alarm and desperate cries erupted from just outside the Fulcrum's main entrance.

“Get off me!” Commander Silmuth’s voice echoed into the hall. Von-Veis had enveloped the smaller man in a protective hug, holding a broadsword nearly as large as the Commander himself.

Acting Arcanarch Aris Ascarian stood deep in thought, beginning the intricate process of opening an aperture to view what had flown overhead. Suddenly, a soft hand gently squeezed his forearm. Strangely, Aris noticed how long and neatly painted the red nails were, each finger wrapped in strands of delicate white jewelry.

He winced from a sudden, sharp pain. Kara Kazarian quickly withdrew her hand.

“Allow me, Arcanarch.”

Aris lowered his voice to a whisper. “I suspect the Warlocks are overloading the electromagnetic fields around the city. Especially now.” He felt the charge humming around him; whatever objects had flown overhead had been altered by the magnetic field. “And it’s too danger—”

Before he could finish, the Prime Mystarch of the Temporal Tower vanished in the blink of an eye, leaving behind the tell-tale shimmer of an alignment. Kara was a prodigy—able to instantly blink herself faster than any other person in the history of the AMS guild, outstripping even the legendary Ascar Ascari if the records were to be believed. Aris gasped, fearing he had just watched the Mystarch disintegrate within the atmospheric storm.

Moments later, Kara materialized almost exactly where she had been standing. Her auburn hair was wildly electrified, nearly every strand standing out of place.

“Yes. I don’t recommend anyone interact with the weave right now. However—” she ran her manicured fingers through her hair, attempting to tame it, “—whatever those were, they landed in the sea.”

“How many?”

“I counted six streaks. But Aris,” she hesitated, her tone shifting, “there’s something else.”

It must be those colossi I saw through the aperture, Aris thought. “What else?”

“A Warlock?”

Commander Ire perked up at the word, turning his head slowly, reluctant to remove his eyes from the crackling energy in the sky. He moved toward the front entrance, which Guard Commander Harlan was frantically opening. The threshold overlooked the Well and the sprawling ocean beyond the sheer cliffs below.

“What madness is this?” Commander Ire muttered, staring up at the construct hovering ominously over the center of the city, directly above the Well.

Aris stepped onto the ledge behind him and saw rippling waves where the objects had fallen—the very projectiles he had glimpsed moments earlier. He frowned. The forces arrayed against the city had brought a sufficient stockpile if they were willing to launch a volley like that. Thankfully, this attempt had missed wide.

Aris followed Commander Ire’s gaze back toward the sky. High above, the Warlock hung motionless, its long, slender right arm pointed directly toward the Third Tier Perch, lingering at the same latitude.

“What the hell are your Warlocks doing, Ire?” Harlan shouted. Like nearly every man of standing in the city, Harlan utilized the versatile constructs for everything from shaping new lignin structures to managing finance, relaying communications, and paying the Shrine Guard. But he had never seen one act independently, let alone levitate.

Furthermore, the Seventh Tier claimed ownership of every Warlock in the city, leasing them out and recalling them regularly for maintenance and crystal replacements to keep them functional.

“Ire!” Harlan screamed at the back of the Seventh Tier Commander’s head.

Unthreatened by the Guard Commander’s fury, Ire merely shrugged. “I haven't the slightest clue what that one is doing—but it is definitely not mine.”

“Why is it pointing there?” Commander Al-Dias asked, growing concern lacing her voice.

A few heartbeats later, another volley of ear-piercing screeches tore overhead. Four flew high and continued toward the open water. Two, however, found their marks with devastating accuracy, slamming directly into the Third Tier Perch.

Plumes of dust and debris erupted into the sky and then came crashing down below onto the homes and structures of the residents of the Fourth Tier. The thunderous crash reverberated through the city and echoed up the Fulcrum, the natural acoustics of the courtyard amplifying the noise into a deafening roar that hummed down the Well. A split second later, tremors shuddered through the lignin foundation beneath their feet.

Stalker Al-Dias broke into a full sprint toward the Well, summoning her bow and arrows mid-stride to target the hovering Warlock.

“No!” Commander Ire shouted after her.

“No?” Miron asked incredulously. “It’s clearly targeting locations for the enemy, is it not?”

“I will not see these divine beings destroyed!” Ire bellowed back.

Commander Silmuth snorted derisively. “Divine? You absolute fool. They’re simply constructs. Open Riven’s gates and blast it from the sky! What if they target our location next?”

Commander Ire gripped his staff tightly, directing a hateful glare over his shoulder at Commander Silmuth. Von-Veis stepped between them, his face set in a menacing sneer.

“I’ve killed wizards before,” Von-Veis growled softly.

Ire scoffed. “I’ve melted entire colonies of ants before. What is your point, exactly?”

In the distance, Al-Dias desperately fired magically charged black arrows into the sky. Most fell short or drifted wide due to the awkward angle, each leaving trailing tendrils of dark smoke around the floating figure. Growling in frustration, her stamina was waning and her quiver ran low.

“You will not destroy my home!” Al-Dias inhaled deeply, centering herself as she invoked the aspect of the huntress. Stepping back, she drew and released a black arrow imbued with true-shot magic. The shaft zipped high through the air and struck the Warlock directly beneath its outstretched arm, bathing the construct in dense black smoke.

As the cloud slowly began to clear, the construct abruptly shifted its arm, snapping its hand down toward the Fulcrum—pointing precisely at the courtyard between the entrance and where Al-Dias stood.

“That’s not good,” Miron muttered through gritted teeth. The itching on his feet had become nearly unbearable.

A sudden, chilling thought struck him: Had he been poisoned? Perhaps Commander Wulfgin had been poisoned as well. But to what end?

Miron turned quickly to locate Captain Trillion, but the man was nowhere to be seen. More distressing still, Commander Wulfgin now lay motionless on his back. At first, it looked as though his throat had been slit—but a second glance revealed he was covered in his own blood, having violently vomited up his internal organs.

“Not good indeed. We are going to be struck dead, you fool of a wizard!” Silmuth barked.

Commander Ire growled and raised his staff high above his head. Von-Veis flinched, but Ire had a different target in mind; he would deal with Silmuth later through exorbitant contracting fees on future Warlocks.

Clearing his head, Ire spotted the black arrow still embedded in the construct’s underarm and quickly tabulated the repair costs and overtime hours he would have to pay his goblin workers. Then he shook his head and laughed softly. For the first time, he was about to see what a Warlock looked like when it was utterly annihilated.

Commander Ire slammed the butt of Riven’s staff hard against the lignin stairs, then raised it into the air once more.

“Riven!” Ire screamed, his voice amplified by magic. Wisps of fire swirled around his feet and surged up the length of the staff. He slammed it down a second time, then thrust it high.

“Riven!” he roared. “Open your gates!”

Above the Warlock, a two-dimensional pool of darkness opened, its center pulling inward to form a fiery, inverted cone.

“Annihilation!” the Seventh Tier Commander bellowed, commanding the energy to be unleashed.

A slow-moving sphere of Riven’s living fire emerged reluctantly from the swirling void above the Warlock. The construct lifted its head and cocked it—a distinctly Angellen gesture.

The burning orb did not have far to travel. Once clear of its native realm, it accelerated with terrifying speed, slamming directly into the Warlock. The impact ignited a blinding flash of crimson and gold, a radiance so intense it eclipsed the sun, stinging the eyes of everyone watching below.

Only smoldering bits and pieces of the construct fell silently into the depths of the Well.