The Festival was held in the heart of the West. The closer you got the smaller the dunes, the more they melted into the landscape, flattening out. Here there was only one long plane stretching as far as the eye could see, level as a table. It was here that the Festival was held every year.

They called it the heart not only because it was at the center. There was also a thrumming quality to the sands, as though it were alive, pulsing beneath the feet in a constant rhythm, so subtle and so metronomic it slipped beneath notice most times the same way you don’t register every breath. A background hum of power. When they arrived Dorian felt it tickling the base of his feet through his boots. We’ve arrived.

Tribes of all garbs and colors milled about, separated into vague districts which were arrayed around the heart in a loose circle. Most were smaller in size, equivalent to Rust Tribe’s, and they’d staked out grounds a ways away from the center.

So far, one tribe arrived that stood apart from the rest in both quantity and quality. Men and women that looked like moving bronze statues, slick and sharp, clad in satins that Dorian had only seen in Hu’s exotic collections. The Narong tribe, Io’s patchwork memories supplied. Apparently the only major tribe that’d come so far. They seemed hard at work pitching their tents and unloading a plethora of dried meats. So were the rest of the Tribes; thus far there was little mingling. Each was in the midst of heavy preparation, busy as anthills. If Dorian had to guess, maybe a third of the Tribes had arrived, with only one major one. The Festival hadn’t yet started.

There were others, too, that didn’t seem to fit any of the Tribes. They seemed like enforcers: men and women in white-and-gold cloaks which flowed down their bodies like rivers of silk. They were clearly set apart from the rest, and only by the opulence of their wear. It took Dorian a half-second to identify what it was.

The cleanliness. The smoothness of skin and clothes. The way in which they moved, more grace than tautness. These were no natives to the rougher parts of the Desert. They patrolled the grounds in intervals, wafting between Tribes and stalking around the center.

At their arrival, one walked up to them. A man whose gray hair was tied back in a smooth bun. His aura was suppressed but by the man’s physique Dorian could tell the man was at least low Vigor.

“Welcome,” he said to Chief Rust. Even his voice was smooth—pleasing to the ear, each syllable slipping right into the mind. “My name is Shen. I am of the Azcan Oasis, and I am one of this year’s Festival organizers.” He tipped his head to Rust in greeting. Not a dip, not a bow, the barest minimum of a gesture of recognition.

“Might I know the name of your Tribe?”

“We are the Rust Tribe,” said Rust, a picture of neutrality. “I am Chief Damien Rust.”

“Rust Tribe…” The man pulled out a scroll and consulted it for a second. “Ah. Your grounds are marked out there.”

He gestured to his right, where a few hundred feet away there lay a flag with one scripted rune planted in the sands. “As a lesser Tribe, you shall have access to forty-five tent-spaces of standard size as living-spaces.”

Then he gestured to the center of the flat plains, where a corresponding flag stood. “Within the heart, you shall have ten tent-spaces for commerce. Understood?”

Rust nodded curtly.

“Good,” said Shen. He scanned the crowd briefly; Dorian felt a wave of qi pass through him, then abate. Shen nodded, satisfied.

“Today at sundown, the commencement ceremony for the Festival takes place,” he said. “I advise you prepare well by then. May the Heavens favor you.”

With a nod, he left.

Rust turned to them. “We have today,” he said. “Make the most of it. Unload our resources. Though this Festival differs from the rest in scale, in format it remains the same. First we trade. Then we compete. At day’s end we feast.”

As he spoke he walked back and forth before them. “Gatherers. Smiths. Alchemist. Ready your goods. You’ve all rationed well for today. You’ve got until sundown to present your best work at the heart.”

He opened his mouth, then stopped, tilting his head. He looked like he was listening for a tune nobody else could hear.

Dorian heard it too. Not by ear but by soul. The thrumming in the sands was rising fast, from background hum to low whine.

“Interesting,” said Rust in a monotone. He turned to eye the center of the plains’ heart, where a basin the size of a meteor crater lay carved into the sand. “It’s come early this year.”

Frowning, Dorian strained harder. He honed in on his senses and tapped a foot on the sand. The pulses hitched, heartbeats thumping erratically, rising in number and thrown spurting, off-rhythm. Somewhere deep in the ground, something ancient and huge yearned for the surface. The whole of the flat plains trembled as though afraid.

Dorian barely had time to register it all when the basin burst clean open and a geyser roared to the sky.

For a second there was only white brine and the deafening, cavernous sound of hundreds of tons of water breaching and crashing and breaching again. Each droplet of it was full of qi—a wealth of deep Sinkhole qi shooting two hundred feet into the air, flecks of liquid casting shimmering rainbows in the light. Water vapor blasted out from it like smoke from an explosion. It was total. It was divine.

“The Geyser of Lost Souls,” muttered Tuketu. “Never ceases to amaze. The next four days are the only days of the year it blows.”

Ancient tribal legend had it that the Tribes were called back by their ancestors each year for a reunion at this very point. That the liquid, so the story went, were the eager spirits of lost loved ones rising for the one time a year when they were loosed from the underworld. It was, of course, just a function geology and qi-infused water, but Dorian found the story oddly charming.

“The Festival’s truly begun.”

***

Rust Tribe had moved into the setup and preparation phase; for the next several hours gatherers and metalworkers and cooks and the rest moved to and fro, setting up tents for trade, unloading chests. At the very center of it all was the geyser. To the side, Azcan representatives set up a big ring of awkward contraptions to harvest the water, crude artifice. It looked like a bucket with legs, catching and keeping excess from the geyser’s fiercer outbursts. No doubt these artifacts would be stored in Interspatial Rings, then shipped off. The Azcan had stationed itself as the monopolizers and as far as Dorian could tell, nobody—including the new arrivals, two major clans, sought to challenge them. The perks of being a hegemon. Dorian had no doubt that liquid was a huge boon for alchemy.

Whatever the case, he was plenty satisfied already. The qi density here was shocking; on previous trips, Io hadn’t had the opportunity to really appreciate it. It felt like he’d been returned to a Middle Realm—a God’s realm, with the amount of ambient qi soaking the air. The closer they were to the geyser, the thicker the qi got. It was no wonder the major tribes got the closest spots to the heart. Even from a half hour’s worth of cycling, Dorian was already on the brink of breakthrough.

He took a cursory stock of the rest of the arrivals. Just from the qi signatures he could sense some strong folk and strong resources; artifacts peppered the landscape. At least three, likely more Profound realms were around the grounds, hidden from sight. He’d likely know them better as the day went on. The same went with the rest of the Tribes. Everyone was busy setting up. At first glance he made out some distinctive features of the tribes present; the major tribes all seemed to have a “thing.” One was the tempered body cultivators he’d seen earlier. Another were garbed in unreasonably thick furs given the weather. Where’d they even get the materials? A third sported headdress with Vordors’ feathers, one to a man; they were a lean and tall bunch, likely kiters. On and on the Tribes went.

“Io!” a gruff voice broke his survey. Frowning, he turned to see Hu doing an angry march, waving his flabby arms around like he was trying to achieve liftoff. “Come!” He gestured hard. Confused, Io went.

Hu gestured to three sweaty men struggling to organize the bulk of Hu’s many, many belongings. “Look! Look!” He cried, pointing with a trembling finger. Shattered glass lay scattered on the ground. Lukewarm spilled elixir trickled into the sands. “These three numbskulls Rust assigned me broke a vial!”

The nearest numbskull in question looked up, a pained expression on his face. “What are you looking at?” snapped Hu. “Chop, chop! Back to it!”

He turned to Io with an expectant look. “They can’t be trusted with the delicate stuff. You can see why I’m in a predicament, apprentice.”

Which was how Dorian ended up spending the rest of his afternoon assembling Hu’s workshop and storefront.

***

At least he got some good brewing done in that time. He’d lugged up all the standard stuff he’d stored over the past week; the modified healing potions would be a hit, he expected. He’d backlogged a bunch. There were standard Qi-boosting elixirs in the mix, too. Some were brewed with premium Sinkhole herbs; those would pack a big punch. These alone would, post-embezzlement, form a nice base of spending money. Enough to strike out on his own, even, if needs be. And that wasn’t even factoring in the moneymakers.

The real profits would come from the luxury elixirs. In Rust Tribe he’d have been roundly chastised for making such things; there’d be no demand for, say, an elixir to enhance endurance in love-making or one to promote clear skin. Most everyone was more concerned with preventing their skin from being shorn off by a stray Vordor claw than clearing up acne on said skin.

But here, in the presence of all these major clans and Oases representatives, he suspected he’d find buyers. As far as he knew much of what he offered, including a life-saving Elixir which offered a nifty boost of qi in emergency situations, were fairly unique—at least, that he’d heard of at this price point.

Half of sales was in presentation. Accordingly he spent half his time polishing up each display and presenting each little vial in uniform, glowing rows.

After all that, there was only one thing he had time left to do.

If the Festival started tomorrow and she wished to compete, her recovery would need to speed up drastically.

He rubbed his hands as he looked at the empty cauldron before him, a tangle of exotic Sinkhole ingredients on hand. It was time to get experimental.