A tavern’s flickering candlelight and a streetlight’s fading illumina glow cast shades into the dark alley Saphiria skulked through. Backs pressed to icy plaster walls and listening to inebriated shouting and the clinking of metal and ceramic mugs, she and her most capable servant awaited the signal. It would come soon.

The recent rumors led Saphiria here. Just three days ago, her people praised Dimitry as the apostle, accepting him as Zera’s medium. But now, one could hear them whispering of his corrupted magics throughout Malten.

An enraging prospect.

A disturbing prospect.

How could one capable of thought deride Dimitry after he had saved countless lives and slaughtered an entire heathen raid? It was foolishness. And considering the swiftness with which the sentiment spread, it was unnatural.

When Saphiria had lived in Estoria, the largest city in the Amalthean kingdom with a population even more condensed and connected than Malten’s, she worked with scoundrels to torch the reputation of the Shire Reeve—a warden known to abuse his prisoners. She spent six months framing him with everything from murder to tax theft, yet an entire year passed before the complaints of the populace became loud enough for King Gregorius to execute him. If a man as rotten as the Shire Reeve took so long to get his comeuppance, how could a single mishap undo a beloved surgeon?

Saphiria swore to find out. Her task was not easy.

Ever since she caught the pie vending thugs, word of a patrolling princess had spread, and every gang in the city went into hiding whenever she dispatched the royal knights. Either the gangsters were organized beyond comprehension or a double agent had infiltrated the royal knights—a possibility Saphiria could not ignore. Nobles across Malten comprised much of the royal knights. If what the thugs said was true, that a noble had hired them, her own men might have been leaking her plans to the gangs before she could capture them.

Tonight, Saphiria shed most of her forces to curtail the chances of espionage. She worked alongside the two servants she trusted most.

The first was a court sorceress who pinched her knee-length tunic, a dingy woolen skirt flowing from the hem. “Your Highness,” Leandra said, “when Her Royal Majesty learns that you and I are wearing peasants’ attire in public—”

“She will deal with it.” Saphiria adjusted her plain brown headscarf. “Enchanted armor and yellow robes would alert the gangsters. They elude capture as is.”

Leandra scowled, her amethyst eyes glinting in the feeble light. “Those damnable critters, making us stoop so low. Harder to exterminate than brigands.”

More pernicious, too. Dimitry feared they would bring further harm to his followers, and while Saphiria had scrambled to capture the criminal to reassure him, his Hospitallers left to reclaim the coast two days ago with him following the morning after.

Saphiria clenched her fist. For chasing her friend out of Malten, they would pay dearly. She spent all of yesterday interrogating the jailed pie vendors. Though Dimitry might condemn her methods as villainous, one thug swiftly pleaded he had an associate tasked with decrying the apostle. They were told to wait until after the poisoning incident to visit alehouses, cookshops, and anywhere else people congregated to convince them that the Ancient Evil had possessed Dimitry’s food offerings. Everything was planned.

Yet when Lukas sent spies to survey establishments across Malten, he discovered that there was more than just one criminal. In pairs of two, dozens patrolled the city, blaspheming the apostle. Another gang. There seemed to be no end to them.

So they could not alarm their brethren, Saphiria would capture each gossiper one pair at a time. No marching knights. No warnings. None would escape. Like a farmer’s wife who had carried a milkmaid’s yoke all her life, she hunched her back and peeked around the corner.

No signal yet.

But there was the silhouette of a boy. No older than ten, he stared at Saphiria from the shadow of a cobbler’s shop across an intersection. Another child, watching her, just like the time she raided the pie vendors’ hideout. Did they know who Saphiria was? Was it another gang? For babies to resort to crime—the thought broke her heart.

She stepped out of the alley to confront the boy, to punish him and smuggle him to the orphanage, only to pause at a whisper.

“They come,” Leandra said.

Saphiria’s gaze darted back to the alehouse entrance.

A crow of a man, dressed in all black, stepped out. It was Lukas. He straightened his worn leather sleeves as he left. That was the signal. The targets were following him.

First a man. Then a woman. As if hurrying elsewhere, they walked together on a deserted nighttime street.

“There’s two,” Leandra said.

Hoping for the boy’s sake that they did not interfere, Saphiria grabbed a filthy rag protruding from between two timber beams. “I’ll lure them in. I need one awake and both alive. Stay out of sight and silence them when they come close. If a child comes, do not harm him.”

Reaching into her tunic for vol, the court sorceress retreated. “Be safe, my liege.”

Saphiria waited for the thugs to get closer. And closer. Once they were close enough, she flipped a pouch.

Silver and copper coins crashed to the ground, ringing and chiming as they rolled and spun and spilled atop paved stone.

The thugs’ attention snapped towards Saphiria.

Eyes wide as if her family treasure had been discovered, Saphiria glanced up at the thugs. She grasped for coins.

Greed consumed the thugs.

Ogling the marks Saphiria clutched at her belly, the man puffed his chest like a backwater savage and strode forward, threatening her with towering height, his barrel body shaded black and dim light looming over his shoulder.

Feigning fear, Saphiria teetered back, and the woman swooped in to claim the space, scooping money off the alley floor.

The man lunged towards Saphiria’s stash, but as if losing all vigor, both of his arms flopped down. Eyes closing, he collapsed, and his face soundlessly plunged into Saphiria’s outstretched knee. A well-placed snoozia and silencia.

Noticing the marks she scrambled to collect no longer jingled, the woman looked up, shrieking in silence as Saphiria drove a filth-encrusted rag into her agape mouth and knelt on the back of her head, pressing her face into loose coinage.

Leandra emerged from the shadows and kicked away a hand reaching for a knife scabbard. “Your Highness, why did you not use gold marks?”

“Gold marks?” Saphiria asked, restraining the thug’s wrists with horsehair rope and checking around the corner for the boy. He was gone.

“Surely gold would be a more irresistible lure than silver and copper.”

“It would not work. We are but two peasant women.”

With fingers carrying the burn scars of heathen’s blood, the honorary countess thoughtfully stroked her cheek.

Saphiria flicked the back of the thug’s head. “You. Stand or I will make you stand.” The thug stumbled to her feet, and Saphiria pushed her towards the extraction zone Lukas had prepared.

“I’ll grab the other.” Leandra dragged the male thug across the ground with thaumaturgically reinforced strength.

Dense metal rang in the night.

Saphiria’s head shot back. “What was that?”

“I’m not sure.” Leandra hovered over a thick iron bangle with a central handle. “It fell from his pocket.”

“Those inscriptions on the sides, are those seals?”

“Perhaps it is a spell canister.”

“Why would a thug have something so intricate?”

Saphiria and Leandra shared an alarmed glance and looked at the female thug, who shook with fear.

‘Kindest Archbishop Dimitry Stukov of the Cathedral of Malten, I pray this letter finds you well and on time. Strange magics foster distrust within the hearts of the people. Aristocrats are to blame. Do not meet with Tylo Sauer. Do not return to Malten. Once my associates and I have dealt with the matter, you will be the first to know. Signed, your most ardent supporter.’

Dimitry rerolled the unevenly truncated scroll, which had neither a seal, address, nor name on its smooth vellum surface. It didn’t need them. Though the characters took on a hasty cursive form, each loop and rounded edge was gorgeous and measured, judicious like the girl who wrote them.

Only thirty minutes had passed since a royal courier demanded that Dimitry return to Malten to meet with Tylo Sauer. However, just as he finished preparing for the hour-long horse ride back, another messenger arrived with Saphiria’s letter. She found something. Considering that Tylo was the second most powerful noble in the kingdom and despised Dimitry, his bombs, and enchanted rifles at a recent summit, her warning deserved consideration. For an angry marquis to request a meeting while ‘strange magics’ turned the populace against Dimitry couldn’t have been a coincidence. He wouldn’t go.

While neglecting the royal order might upset the queen and enrage Tylo, Dimitry trusted Saphiria to handle the political fallout on his behalf. She was clever, and he had more important matters to attend to. Chief among them was constructing his settlement. If he succeeded, even the most influential noble would have no choice but to bend to his whims.

Two days ago, Dimitry left Malten without a word to anyone except those involved: his supporters, his troops, and the workers he left behind to run the lab and hospital. His motivation was simple; out here, Dimitry was in charge. There were no gangs or thugs to hurt his followers. No one to shake their faith with rumors. An echo chamber. While divergent opinions were of value, only unfaltering belief could accomplish the monumental task ahead, and now that they had cleared land, amassed firewood, and established a sustainable food source, the real work could begin.

But first, Dimitry had to send the queen an apology. Her resources were vital to his success.

As he pushed past the tent flap, an ever growing campsite emerged around him. The savory scent of roasted fish and four-winged poultry rose from the fire pits Valerie’s cooks commanded, and in the distance, echoing between vast fields of willows and barren oaks whose snowy boughs reflected morning light, Angelika’s practiced cadences resounded as she marched with hundreds of troops on her trail.

Dimitry headed towards the rear of the camp to meet with the resident royal messenger—a medieval hotline for the relaying of emergencies.

“Your Holiness,” a familiar voice called.

He stopped.

At the mouth of a pavilion tent cul-de-sac knelt a red-robed sorceress, the parallel golden stripes across her shoulder designating her as the Fire Leader—the commanding officer of all sixteen sorceresses stationed here. Though Greta was forty at the youngest and her cinnamon braids grayed, like most ladies from the guild, she boasted a toned physique that would bring shame to all but the fittest recruit. “A moment of your time?”

“Of course.” He held out a hand to help the wise-looking woman to her feet. “Is everything alright?”

“No one’s died yet.”

“That’s good. It’s been a little while since I had to stitch someone up.”

Greta glanced at the coast, where sorceresses stood atop sea stacks in shifts and riddled oncoming marine invaders with holes. “I’ve been counting heathens. It’s not looking good.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s only the ninth and despite so few enchantments around we’re already getting eleven heathens a day through the inlet alone. I predict at least three raids by the end of this lunar cycle.”

Dimitry leaned back against the sole girthy oak at the camp’s center. “Your expression tells me that’s not the worst of it.”

“If this continues, we’ll be recalled soon.”

Her words struck Dimitry stiff. He knew the guild would return to Malten for the Night of Repentance; they had a city to defend. But for them to go too early would undo everything his troops had built. “How soon is soon?”

“Ten days, perhaps.”

“I need more than a week to set up, Greta. Can you give me fifteen days?”

“The more I watch, the more I fear this month will be as deadly as the last. There is no telling when they’ll strike Malten in mass.”

“But if we’re fighting heathens here, wouldn’t less reach the city?”

“Now that the heathens have become coordinated, perhaps they will skip your colony altogether and strike Malten directly. It is a more critical target. The decision isn’t mine to make, but knowing Mira for so long, she will come to the same conclusion.”

Though Dimitry wanted to refute her point, he couldn’t. Malten was vital to this kingdom’s survival. If the capital fell, his outpost and the rest of the country would collapse soon after. “Can I hold on to a few sorceresses, then? At least two or three.”

“An expedition can’t continue without a Fire Leader, and I will surely be recalled.” Greta knelt and raised an upturned hand. “Forgive me, Your Holiness.”

Dimitry didn’t push his luck. Maintaining relations with the guild was crucial, and she was already doing him a favor. The only contract sorceresses had to take was Malten’s defense in times of need, and despite what this squad’s active contract claimed, that they were preemptively killing heathens, Greta and her subordinates wagered their reputations to fight for the ‘corrupt’ apostle. A sign of goodwill and respect.

“No, you’re right.” He helped her up once more. “Also, you don’t have to kneel whenever you apologize.”

“Please survive with your holy magics, and I will rally the girls to return on the new moon.”

While a kind offer, by then, Greta’s reinforcements would have come too late.

An apology for his absence was not all Dimitry had the courier relay to the queen. She had already agreed to provide everything from digging tools to experts within the week, but now that his colony faced defenselessness, he requested she expedite the delivery and include additional assets.

Dimitry would introduce guns at last. While they weren’t the flintlocks he had hoped to produce—complete with spring steel mechanisms—magic allowed him to circumvent technological deficiencies and manufacture a simpler yet equally powerful weapon capable of weaning the colony from the guild’s protection. A heathen raid wouldn’t survive long against a thousand soldiers wielding black powder weapons, assuming he armed and trained them in time.

However, while Dimitry waited for craftsmen and enchantresses to arrive, there was another resource nearby that could help him defeat the heathens: allies.

Local allies.

Battle-hardened allies.

He traveled north along the coast even now, following trails of yellow dust drifting on the waves. Far behind him was the settlement, two miles of layered tree trunks concealing all but smokestacks rising from the canopy to invade a gray horizon. His duties were many, but with pleasant wintry winds brushing his cheek and sand crumbling beneath his feet—a reprieve from Malten’s noisy, cluttered streets—things could be worse.

Walking alongside him was a sorceress with a voltech rifle hoisted behind her neck and under her arms, boots purposefully plopping into the largest mounds of sand they could find. “You sure there’s something this way?”

“Why else would powdered sulfur float in from the north? It’s a calling card.”

“Do you really think aquatic demons are that subtle?” Angelika asked. “I mean, I didn’t understand a single fucking garble when we went to Waira, but they seemed pretty straightforward to me. Honestly, my kind of people. Well, if you can consider them people, that is.”

“I’m glad you like the myrmidon,” Dimitry said. “You’re going to be seeing a lot of them.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because as my most promising officer, I aspire for you to collaborate with them someday. Hopefully soon.”

“Firstly, I’m your only officer, so I’m your most promising officer. And secondly, can you stop calling me a promising officer?”

“No.”

Angelika heaved an exaggerated sigh. “You know, you and Leona and mom are the only people that have faith in me. Lord Warnfrid looks at me with pity, and the Hospitallers, well, I’m pretty sure they only tolerate me yelling at them because they shit their pants with amazement whenever anyone casts a spell and because I protect them from heathens.”

“The sorceresses have only good things to say about you.”

“Yeah, but that’s ‘cause most of them are my friends. Like, I bet the princess wouldn’t speak badly about you even if you let loose a wet fart into a battle horn in front of the entire royal court.”

“What?”

“… Just an example.”

“Angelika, everyone has to start somewhere. I like to think I’m a good judge of character, and I say you’re more than capable.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. These things take time.”

She turned to him and smirked, cheeks rosier than the reddest shell on the shore. “You know what? I feel better.” Angelika playfully punched his shoulder. “Thanks.”

Dimitry palmed the crown of her hood like a basketball and ruffled the red-brown curls beneath. “You’re welcome.”

“S-stop. Stop! Is this how you treat your most promising—“

The sound of flippers slapping against wet sand.

Angelika instinctively loaded her rifle, and Dimitry let go of her head.

Humanoids approached. Their towering statures rivaled that of professional basketball players, and the smooth jet-black bodysuits they wore—stitched from some aquatic creature’s hide—concealed all but their faintly pink faces, webbed feet, and scleras yellower than jaundice patients’.

At the fore was Waira’s ambassador to Malten. Leylani’s blue earring jiggled with every assured stride. “Hello… friendses.”

Angelika jumped back, and the iron ball she had just loaded into her rifle plopped into the sand. “Holy shit!”

The expression of the male behind Leylani soured.

“Can you relax?” Dimitry asked.

“How can I relax after hearing that? She spoke Whorlfahst!”

It seemed the time Leylani spent practicing speech with Klaire was paying off. An ally amongst the myrmidon who could communicate with people would prove invaluable, especially for Dimitry.

Leylani brushed back the long and moist white hair clinging to her bodysuit. “Friend good?”

“Yes we are,” Dimitry said. “And you?”

“Wait long. Many question.”

“Then ask.”

She turned her gaze to the south, looking past stacked boulders at the outpost in the distance. “Friendses why go… do war… water see…” Leylani bared her teeth as if to force misbehaving words into submission. “We’ve been watching your forces since you’ve arrived. The Hierarch wishes to know whether you come for battle.”

Though her speech came through as English, the sudden shift in fluency marked the end of Leylani’s progress. Dimitry decided against complimenting her efforts. The myrmidon weren’t big on flattery. “We’re only here to kill rock giants.”

“Then it is as we thought. For two days we’ve observed, and only when you arrived did we lower our arms.” She cupped Dimitry’s hand. “It is good to see you, Dimitry of the humans.”

“The pleasure is all mine, but I doubt you’ve been waiting here all this time just to say hello to your new neighbors.”

“You are correct.” Leylani pointed to the ground, and a giant myrmidon brought forth a sealed casket. “On the night of the full moon, I watched from your city’s walls as bombs burst into flames and vanquished the rock giants. The ascendants have listened to my tale. They wish to sample this weapon. As you have shown great interest in our yellow rocks, we offer these for barter.”

The casket opened two rows of minerals atop a cushion. Though the myrmidon had swum here, a clever putty waterproofing mechanism kept the soluble contents from dissolving in ocean water.

Dimitry crouched and lifted the first gemstone from the left: a jagged chunk of raw garnet, iron impurities shading its uneven faces pink and crimson. The mineral collector within him squealed with delight, but he lacked the resources for personal pleasures. His gaze then snapped to a rough white crystal—nahcolite. A source of sodium bicarbonate! Also known as baking soda, the chemical was not only a potent antiacid that he could peddle to nobles when they gorged themselves with honeyed meat at banquets, but it could also treat metabolic acidosis, a condition he often encountered in methanol poisoning and severe burn patients.

Next was nahcolite’s chalky cousin, trona. The two minerals often formed nearby because they had similar chemical compositions. Trona was sodium carbonate, an ingredient found in detergents. There was also fluorite—the source of fluoride in toothpaste—rutile, pyrite, feldspars, rutile, anhydrite, apatite, and some minerals he couldn’t even name! The possibilities were endless.

Angelika shook his shoulder. “You alright?”

“Fine! Fine. I’m fine.”

“Right…”

Dimitry wanted them all, but there was a problem. He burnt through his black powder reserves on the Night of Repentance, leaving only enough for rifles. “Will you take anything besides bombs?”

“Moon rocks,” Leylani said.

Shit. Vol was an even more precious resource than black powder. “Anything else?”

“That is all the ascendants wish to purchase.”

Damn the myrmidon and their directness. Realizing he gripped handfuls of sand with curled fingers, Dimitry sucked in a deep breath. He needed a renewable source of potassium nitrate—the limiting reagent in his manufacture of black powder—sooner than he thought. Not only to buy minerals, because of course he wouldn’t put his hobbies ahead of necessitates, but because arming myrmidon with bombs would lessen the number of heathens that reached his outpost.

Then again, even if he had enough potassium nitrate for bombs, the myrmidon would quickly learn that explosions didn’t function so well underwater. Unless he made naval mines. Not a bad idea. His troops could place them around the settlement as well. An invaluable weapon for the coming days.

“Angelika!”

“Yo.”

“Find me a soldier who can ride a horse. I need them to fetch some people from Malten.”