Brium stared down at the area beyond the walls of his tower, Cyprus, pushing a curtain aside to look through the barred window. A great abundance of people stood at attention behind him—most of them were ordinary humans, while two were Vessels. They were all armed for war. The Vessels were in their liquid form, silent and still, water tendrils wound like a snake poised to lunge.

At the walls surrounding the foot of the copper tower, a great blockade waited, tense and cautious. Soldiers formed the bulk of the ward, while the Vessels, some bearing gold and some bearing silver, acted as the commanders. They were organized, divided into three units numbering near two hundred each. The frontliners bore great tower shields burrowed into the ground, mindful of the archers posted on Cyprus’ walls. Those behind the shield-bearers kneeled, watching the walls and the giant gate of the tower between the small cracks in their allies’ shields.

The industry of Sethia had ceased and many of the people came to watch. Unlike the raid at Argent, the guard was organized, deliberately keeping people inside the walls. But even the guards, too, were consumed with curiosity and nervousness, casting glances towards the tower of Cyprus. People resorted to climbing the walls of Sethia to get a better view. The archers atop the city’s walls did not hinder those people.

“It’s like two animals snarling in each other’s face, practically at the throat, yet neither doing anything…” Brium mused. “Neither want the danger. Threatening. Posturing.” The Lord of Copper turned his head back. “Though we aren’t equals. One is a lion.”

“My lord,” Captain Jeralian spoke. “I don’t think we can delay much longer. They’ve been demanding you appear and be judged for near an hour.”

“It isn’t as though we’ll struggle in the fight ahead…” Brium shook his head. “But has he really disappointed me like this? Yarra wouldn’t let him. She’s more than a match for his party.”

“My lord,” continued Jeralian, frustrated. “What should I do?”

“Go and join the garrison,” Brium waved his hands, not even deigning to look back. “It’ll be another hour yet before they genuinely act. Gold and silver—shiny metals and intimidating besides, but ultimately weak and useless. Everything is in place.”

The Captain of the Guard moved off, his order received. Brium continued to watch.

“The Lords of Silver and Gold demand that Brium, Lord of Copper, appear to receive judgement for his heretical ideals!” the commanding Vessels shouted, remaining in physical form to do so.

A man wearing red and gold clothing, his face hidden by a red cloth wrap, also climbed up the walls of Sethia. He looked around, watching the soldiers blockade the gate to Cyprus. He reached into his pocket and pulled free a disc. It was silver, polished to the point it reflected the sun nigh perfectly. He held it level with his face, tilting it up and down in the direction of Cyprus.

The light of the suns above reflected on it, blinking at the archers on the opposite wall of Sethia. Though some were annoyed by the light, one of the archers reacted as though awoken. He stepped away from his companions, looking around, and went to an empty spot on the wall. He retrieved an arrow from a hidden crevice and nocked it silently.

Before any of his fellow archers could realize what was happening, the man pulled back his bowstring and fired the arrow recklessly at the blockade. The arrow sung as it travelled, leaving a noise like windchimes in its wake. A purple light trail appeared where it travelled—those closest saw that this trail of light was composed of strange runes.

When the arrow impacted with a soldier’s shield, black sand exploded in all directions with tremendous force. Screams of confusion and pain both split the air. The watching crowd in Sethia grew tense with uncertainty, murmuring to each other in shock. A sandstorm started to writhe in the wake of the explosion, black particles twisting about and battering those closest.

When the initial confusion settled, a single cry dissolved the uncertainty of the blockade.

“Attack!” one of the commanding Vessels shouted, moments before their body dissolved into water.

The cry of war was soon echoed by the other commanders who followed the first Vessel in assuming their liquid form. Great masses of water exploded outwards, coursing towards the walls at the foot of Cyprus.

“What?!” shouted Brium, leaning close to the window. His composure was broken, but that did not last for long. He turned his head back. “Send the signal,” he directed one Vessel, his confusion and rage vanished in wake of a cold military demeanor. “And you—ensure that archer is caught.”

The Vessels could give no affirmative, but both moved at once, one writhing up the tower’s stairs to a higher level. The other moved past Brium, breaking the bars on the window to enter the fray quickly. The soldiers in the room moved, knowing their duty.

Brium sat on the window, watching the unfolding chaos. His hand gripped one of the broken bars. His fingers swelled as they clenched the metal as though filling up with water. The iron began to compress, creaking.

Below, the soldiers marched to the outer wall of Cyprus. The disciplined archers released their arrows at them as they approached, their job becoming only easier as their targets marched closer. It might have seemed nonsensical. Walls were made to defend—without an opening, nothing could be done to those inside.

One needed a siege engine to break walls. The Vessels filled that role.

The commanding Vessels flowed past the warriors they led, infantile forms trailing along. Their liquid bodies braced against the walls, tendrils of water gripping into the stone. Then, like great battering rams, tendrils of torso-thick water struck out in unison. On the first blow, the thick iron gates rung out like giant gongs, each Vessel's blow leaving inch-deep impacts into the metal. The second blow came, wrenching the gates from the walls. The doors barely remained standing, stone crumbling where the hinges had been freed. When the third barrage of water struck the iron, the gates exploded backwards as though blasted, crashing into the poorly maintained gardens of Cyprus.

Before the dust even settled, the attacking soldiers marched through the open gateway. The defenders dropped boiling oil at them through murder holes as they passed. It proved to be of varying effectiveness. Many blocked the assault with their shields, while some were hit, screaming in agony as the oil burned them.

The commanding Vessels did not follow their soldiers in assault. Instead, they writhed up the side of the walls, cresting the parapets and confronting the archers. As soon as the archers spotted the Vessels, they let out a primal screech of fear and ran. The closest chose to jump off the wall rather than confront the servants of Fellhorn.

The Vessels rampaged unopposed, pressurized jets of water cutting through any opponents with little resistance. They flowed along the wall, leaving a trail of blood and gore in their wake. Yet as one passed over a grate in the wall, a great geyser of water erupted. The assailant was one of Brium’s Vessels. The ambusher sought out the infant form of its foe, and the surprise attack landed cleanly. A burst of blood marked the first death of a Vessel.

At the top of Cyprus, the Vessel Brium ordered to ‘send the signal’ materialized in physical form. Nude in light of her transformation, the woman stepped up to a strange apparatus, grabbing a bag of loose powder and dumping it into a metal cone. She pulled a latch nearby, and then stepped back.

A great copper flame erupted into the sky. The sound was deafening, the crude explosion echoing out for miles. The flame was the same size as the tower itself and persisted for only a second or two before dissipating. It left a trail of smoke drifting into the sky, making Cyprus seem like a spent candle.

Sethia fell into chaos—the token fighting force assaulting Cyprus was not the extent of the forces within the city. Vessels of differing allegiance moved to action, emerging from their estates and businesses to survey the situation and take action. The civilians in the city ran in a frenzy of fear and dread, their reckless stampede worsening the discord.

No one seemed to know the meaning of the flame signal, but soon enough, astute observers noticed the distant mountains stirring. Flying dots emerged from the rocky peaks, and the people felt their hearts beat faster. Soon, these far-off figures took form, solidity, winged forms resembling a locust plague come to ravage crops.

As the flying figures grew closer, the roars of the dreaded wyverns echoed against the black walls of Sethia. The people encased knew what those cries meant. To some, it heralded a forgotten past. To others, it was only a call heralding a coming flux.

Yet just as the wyverns told the people what approached, actions within the city made it clear that it was not coming—it was already here.

Cloaked figures bearing daggers glowing with purple runes stayed near the entrance of prominent places, waiting for Vessels to walk past. When they emerged, the hiding assassins ambushed their prey, stabbing with their daggers. Each blow landed sent black sand dancing through the air. A great many of the assailants failed—Vessels were difficult to fell.

Elsewhere, archers fired at the Vessels that had assumed a liquid form. The chiming of the arrows drowned out the panicked screams, and purple runes danced in Sethia. Each arrow exploded just as the first had, killing indiscriminately. Many more civilians were killed than Vessels. Nevertheless, the assault was devastating.

In minutes, every military force was mobilized. The guards of the city chose their allegiance. Though those belonging to Argent and Aurum were more numerous, the servants of Copper were well-organized, obviously anticipating the rebellion. Brium’s men quickly grouped up, seizing a portion of the city that was well-defended. They were joined by Vessels of the same allegiance.

A great many of Fellhorn’s faithful were torn between moving to confront the wyvern threat coming ever closer or the traitors in their midst. The purpose of the entire event—seizing Cyprus—seemed to have been forgotten as the city was torn by infighting.

Yet beyond the black rock and dirt hills surrounding Sethia, in the vast sand dunes of the great Burnt Desert, there was a wind stirring. It could not be a normal wind—it picked up black sand, winding it about as it rose ever upwards into the air.

This wind continued to speed up, picking up more and more black sand, until it became a small tornado. Purple light shone within the whirling sand and wind, the twisting force rising ever upwards towards the sky.

This tornado of black sand bent downwards, bowing towards the town of Sethia. Like a tensed coil, it sprung forward, scattering purple light and clouds of sand in every direction. The corkscrew headed for the tower of Argent with a singular focus. People manning the silver tower screamed in fear and panic.

The veritable railgun struck the side of the tower with considerably less force than it appeared to have. A great curtain of sand descended, forming a stairway right up to the broken window of the tower of Argent. Near twelve people stood at the foot of the sand mound. Most striking among them were three exceptionally tall people with pale skin.

“Thanks for the ride,” Argrave called out, purple runes swirling around him.

“That was the last Sand Courser we had,” Florimund shouted. “How you knew of it baffles me.”

“Don’t think too much. Just focus on the battle ahead,” Argrave returned, placing his feet on the sand before him. “You boys have fun!”

Argrave started to climb up the newly made entryway, heading for Argent. Though he tried to run, he soon slipped, and Galamon had to stop him plummeting ten feet to the ground below. After this, the three of them proceeded slowly up to the silver tower of Argent.

The veteran southron elves turned towards the chaos ahead of them. Their explosive entrance had drawn much attention. Their figures were vague and uncertain, black armor shimmering against the sand. Each step they left seemed to be jittery, repetitive, and illusory. Their march forward was structured yet seemed unstructured. Such was the power of their magic.

Argrave made it to Argent and looked out across the vast chaos of Sethia.

“Christ. Talk about high stakes.” Argrave mused.

“Go inside,” Galamon grunted, pushing Argrave into Argent.