205, 2/2

Citadel Frostflower was located between the North Ar’Civ river and the South Ar’Civ river, in central Quintlan, west of where the two rivers joined to become the Ar’Civ river. This city was not the largest of the Fractured Citadels of central Quintlan. That honor went to Death Throne, further inland and sprawled across a thousand kilometers like an open-air labyrinth of stone castles, deep canyons of shadow, and lots of ooze. That place was filled with all manner of undead, both aware and not. Mostly not.

Frostflower was filled with undeath, too, but also a lot of life. It was perhaps the nicest and safest of the Fractured Citadels. Built in five concentric circles, with the outer circles shimmering with ice and filled with protective magics constantly layered down by the residents, Frostflower got its name from all those layers of spells. From the outside looking in, the place almost looked like an ephemeral, frosted flower. On the inside, it was a bustling land of mortals like any normal kingdom you would find anywhere, but it was ruled by undead masters in the central circle. Anyone could ascend to undeath in Frostflower, and become one of those masters if they wished. It took personal power, skill, and patronage to ascend, but those things came easy to those who tried. Usually.

The mortals toiled in the soil outside, growing magical plants in the hopes of one day ascending to undeath.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was one of the best places to be for a person like Quilatalap.

Many of the Archlich’s former students lived here. The master of this land could even trace her necromancy and power directly from Quilatalap himself.

That particular student had come to Quilatalap in a fury of worry and terror in the last hour, alerting him to a certain event that was probably going to happen any minute now. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but she needed Quilatalap there when it did. Fairy Moon was coming and she was bringing ultimatums. Maybe Quilatlap’s student could escape Fairy Moon, but probably not. One might be able to fight off that immortal fae a thousand times, but Fairy Moon only needed to win once.

… That saying sort of wore down when it came to Fairy Moon versus necromancers with phylacteries, but it was true enough.

In the main meeting hall, at the top of Frostflower Keep, where windows opened up in every direction so that the ruler of this land could see all of her domain at once, Quilatalap sat on a guest throne on a dais kept to the side. The guest dais and the guest throne were a recent addition.

The main dais dominated the center of the open-air tower, and Quilatalap’s former student waited there, coiled and ready to strike.

Zenipeq lorded over her domain, her flowing, frosty form curled into herself like she was a dragon-shaped wraith. She was not exactly a wraith, but if someone made that mistake, it was forgivable. She had been panicking when she had come to Quilatalap, worried out of her mind, but now she was settled and strong; a queen in her own country, which was exactly what she was.

Quilatalap still remembered when he found Zenipeq almost 1200 years ago. She was a dragon who had lost her life in a failed attempt to replicate the powers of the Houses of Ar’Cosmos, casting herself adrift in the mana as a barely-there wraith. Quilatalap helped her come back together because it seemed like the right thing to do, to help a fellow necromancer. When she came back to herself, Quilatalap gave her some small insights into Paradoxing Dragon Essence and Ice Essence. Zenipeq’s second attempt at Paradoxing her way into the powers of the Houses turned out much better, though she still fell short of the ultimate goal of a True Paradox, for she was not a Wizard. Even so, all that meant was a bit of maintenance every few years; to store her magic into a core that she could break later to use her own mana to reinforce herself properly—

Quilatalap saw a change in the mana long before Zenipeq did. He said, “She comes.”

Zenipeq settled her nerves, her large eyes flashing white and blue as she focused on the air in front of her. She saw it now, too. The mists in the room, which were always under her control, began to swirl outside of her control, like someone was floating invisibly through the windows and into the space. Fairy Moon certainly could have avoided such a display and come in without anyone knowing any better, but she was delivering proclamations today; not murder. Not yet.

Fairy Moon stepped onto the white stone before Zenipeq, her white, pink, and green clothes looking like flowery armor. She was physically smaller than one of Quilatalap’s legs, and much, much smaller than the gargantuan form of Zenipeq. The Ice Wraith Queen physically dominated the space, and her ghostly frozen mists spread even further, but no one was fool enough to believe that Fairy Moon wasn’t just as powerful.

“Why have you come to my kingdom, Fairy Moon,” Zenipeq demanded to know.

“Ultimatums and ultimate ends!” Fairy Moon said, “In accordance with the accords struck between me and the mistress of the Script, all dragons who are dealt the Curse are compelled to come to Ar’Cosmos within the week! No exceptions!”

Zenipeq startled, and there was no use in not showing that startling anymore. “A week! But I thought—” She cut herself off. She had thought they had till the end of the year.

Quilatalap had thought that, too. Damn.

Zenipeq regained some of her composure, then tried, “I am not a true dragon. I have ascended past the Curse and mortal flesh. I do not count myself among your kind, in any possible way, therefore your bindings have no place upon my person. And I have a kingdom here!” Zenipeq’s sorrow finally failed in the face of her anger. She shouted, “And I have been selling necessary goods to Ar’Cosmos for centuries! I AM DUE MORE RESPECT THAN YOU HAVE GIVEN ME, FAIRY MOON!” She pulled back a fraction, though her anger was now on full display in the rippling ice forming out of her mist, like snowflakes turned to swords and daggers. “I will remain here, in my place of power, and continue selling to Ar’Cosmos as I have. Rescind your ultimatum, leave, and I will forget this breach of decorum ever happened.”

It was a good thing composure rarely mattered with the fae, as it usually mattered with everyone else. Zenipeq was losing it. Zenipeq was facing the end of her long rule, though, so all of that was forgivable.

Fairy Moon was unmoved by Zenipeq’s words, because of course she wasn’t. “A true Paradox needs no preservation while yours requires copious consumption of cores. You could fall and fight with other deadly dragons at any damned time. You have before, you will again, and so—”

“The last time I lapsed was 350 years ago!”

Fairy Moon continued, “—you are required to return to ancestral Ar’Cosmos.”

Zenipeg’s frost swords faltered. She tried bargaining, “I want a month! Till the end of the year! I heard that is what you were giving everyone else! I want a month.” Softer, she said, “Please.”

Fairy Moon considered this, then she said what she was always going to say, “No.”

And then she vanished.

Her departure didn’t disturb any mist, or make any subtle sound—

Quilatalap turned his soul’s sights upon the alteration in the air. Ephemeral teeth ripped and tore at foreign magic, and soon, there was no more foreign magic. Fairy Moon had left.

Zenipeq collapsed to the floor. Great big tears of frozen death fell from her misty eyes as she breathed out, “Will my flower continue to blossom, once I am gone? Death Throne encroaches on our fields, always, and the oozes are getting violent, always, and… I don’t think I’ve done enough for my people, Quilatalap. Not nearly enough…” Her voice turned whispery, “The school is still filled with the living… They haven’t transitioned yet. I’m going to miss that joyous time.”

Quilatalap stood from his chair. He was not a harsh man when he did not need to be. Mostly, he tried to be as easy going as he could. But now was not the time to be an easy person. “Despair if you must over your personal loss, but do not fret for your people; they will be fine. You have built a lasting empire. It is unfortunate that neither of us can remain to see it continue, but truths are sometimes like that.”

Hope blossomed on Zenipeq’s face. She righted herself and stared down at Quilatalap. “You could be the king here! They will all fall in line and worship you as their creator if you will allow—”

“Nope.”

Zenipeq dropped her head to the ground again. Quiet tears flowed.

Quilatalap said, “I know myself, and one of those truths is that I am shit at governance. The most I can ever be anywhere is a simple guest with some appointed duties. If you put me in charge of anyone, then one of your people would inevitably ask me for something that I shouldn’t give them. I will, at the time, think that such information would not be harmful at all, and so I will acquiesce. And thus, in 25 years this entire place falls to some cataclysm that I enabled.” He said, “If the crusades don’t track me down and level this place, first, which is something that That Fae is absolutely going to try, now that she knows I am here and you will not be here to dissuade such attempts.”

Zenipeg’s frozen tears continued to collect upon the ground, piling beside her face.

Quilatalap felt a tug on his dead heart. He didn’t like seeing anyone in despair. “That Fairy is likely only giving you a week so that you can show up before the big rush, so you can claim properties before others.”

Zenipeg breathed out, “I don’t want to be a part of House Death, Quilatalap. They’re fine people but… I hate That Fairy.”

Ah. Well. That was a different problem entirely. Quilatalap hated That Fairy, too, but it was like hating storms or hating the color green; it was best to just stay away from those things if one could. Zenipeq would do fine in House Death, though, even if she didn’t want to—

Quilatalap wondered…

For the past three months, a certain topic had made its way across the world, and settled into the Fractured Citadels like a rabbit in a den of wolves. From the tallest citadels to the lowest caverns, and even beyond to the Underworld, everyone who was anyone had been in at least one debate about a certain truth, trying to understand how. How had such a magic happened outside of the Fractured Citadels, this land where Necromancy ruled with a billion skeletal fists? Had someone else come up with that type of magic before? And then hidden it?

Or was the Wizard’s magic truly so new?

What, exactly, was [Reincarnation] doing to a person, and why hadn’t they figured out that miracle first?

Quilatalap had participated in many of those conversations, himself. And now…

“If you wish to remain in this world, then it is time for you to see Erick Flatt, and to ask for a [Reincarnation].”

Zenipeq froze. After a moment, she steeled herself. She rose from her flat position, and gazed to the southeast. Past the Ar’Civ rivers, looking to the sky beyond. “Do you think he could make a Benevolence Dragon?”

“Absolutely. But would he? Doubtful.”

“… Then this is the end of my life as a dragon, one way or another. I won’t be going into Ar’Cosmos if I can help it.” Zenipeq turned back to Quilatalap. “Will you come with me, my old master? To Candlepoint? If the Wizard should grant my request, would you verify that it is me on the other side of that magic?”

“I will do this for you, provided he agrees to the procedure.”

And while Zenipeq asked for a [Reincarnation], Quilatalap decided that he would ask for a residency at Candlepoint, or wherever. There were few places in the world where Quilatalap could go without attracting a crusade, and Erick’s House Benevolence might just be one such location.

He wouldn’t know until he tried.

Zenipeq lowered her head a fraction. “Gratitude.” Then she rose. “I will be ready to leave within four hours, if that is acceptable.”

Quilatalap nodded. “Best get to moving.”

Zenipeq took her leave, turning to mist and vanishing out the windows to crash down into the city below like a fog bank. Sentient gargoyle turrets made of ice and death briefly flickered their undead senses at the quick movement of a nearby soul, but then they turned back to ice statues at the verification of Zenipeq. Far below, the Ice Wraith Queen began spreading through her land, controlling the outbreak of the day’s big news as she went about preparing the city for her eternal departure.

Theoretically, she could come back here once the Dragon Essence was cleared from her soul and she was reborn again, but she would have to regain her power and her magic in order to be a ruler once again, and she would have to do it without Dragon Essence powering all of her spellwork. Regaining her baseline power might take a few years if she never misstepped, but the loss of Dragon-based power would put her at the current level of her second in command, and third and fourth and all the way through to at least the eleventh, if Quilatalap was guessing correctly and Zenipeq had not lied about that. She could not rule this land again through power, as she always had.

Which meant that she could never really come back. She would be killed within the year, if not on-sight.

And, as she had confessed to Quilatalap in calmer spaces with some enjoyable drink, she could see herself enjoying a new life in a living body. Taking it easy. For a while, at least.

Quilatalap stepped forward and gazed across the land. Death Throne was a line of darkness and spikes of the same all across the western horizon, while the ice towers of Frostflower poked up here and there among the somewhat pastoral lands of Zenipeq’s domain. All around this land were the houses and fields of people who used their undead servitors to grow —not [Grow]— quite a lot of semi-magical and magical plants.

For half a moment, Quilatalap thought about bringing some plants to grow at his next house, and possibly even at Candlepoint if that option should work out. But then he remembered that he was shit at growing plants. The box for [Grow] might as well have read ‘[Blight]’ for him, as the saying went.

But maybe Erick would like a gift? A gift might make Quilatalap’s request for asylum more palatable. And hey! Maybe Erick could use a proper necromancer for his new Wizardly empire? Most places could use an archlich necromancer, in Quilatalap’s opinion. People died way too often, in his opinion. Not many places could bring back the dead, and with Erick able to make them actually young again? Well… That would be pretty amazing, right?

Zenipeq had certainly needed his help when he came here, and now this latest batch of students at Frostflower’s school was looking to be one of their best graduations yet! At least double the usual amount of successful liches. Quilatalap improved every place he went, or at least he tried.

If he went to Candlepoint, and Erick accepted him… What would a world look like without true death, and with eternal [Reincarnation]s for all? That had been one of Quilatalap’s goals when he started learning necromancy, all the way back in the Old Cosmology, back when he had a normal orc body, and not this orcol-thing he currently wore.

Perhaps, with Erick’s power, such a world would actually be possible! Or, at least, Quilatalap could teach Erick how to [True Resurrection], so that more people knew of that spell. That plan hadn’t worked out so well with Messalina for she had done some strange things to her version of [True Resurrection], but Erick was certainly a better person than Messalina. Erick could do that magic right, and maybe Erick could teach Quilatalap how to [Reincarnation] in return.

Quilatalap smiled as he stared out across the world.

Yes.

It was time to move on.

After Ar’Kendrithyst fell, Quilatalap had needed to bum around a few different places, looking for a good fit. Sometimes Quilatalap’s choice simply didn’t work for whatever multitudes of reasons, like with the Temple of Shadow’s Light and their sudden civil war, or with Zenipeq and Fairy Moon’s ultimatum. Ar’Kendrithyst had been absolutely filled with a bunch of people doing terrible things to whoever came inside, not to mention all the monsters, but that land had been the only one that had taken Quilatalap in and then respected him. It was hard to find that sort of stability in this world.

But now that Candlepoint was up and running…

Maybe?

Quilatalap certainly wasn’t going to be a hermit, if he could help it.

– – – –

Erick was not allowed to visit Spur directly. He could not just appear on the streets, or at his old house as though he still lived there. Firstly, his old house was gone; torn down due to some hateful act by some random group of people months ago. Erick never bothered to look into that, but he was pretty sure it was the Dragon Stalkers. He had sent them a letter about that, asking them if the rumors he heard were true. They had sent him some threatening letters about working with dragons, but he sent them a threatening letter right back, and then the correspondence stopped.

But even if his house had still been there, and intact, he would not be allowed to go there.

For foreign kings were different things altogether from foreign archmages, or even Wizards. There was protocol. There was ceremony. He couldn’t enter a foreign nation without being invited, or without requesting an invitation. And so that is how Erick found himself sending a formal letter of request to visit Spur, and receiving a formal denial of that request.

Erick stared down at the letter in his hands, having read it a few times now, but still not fully understanding what he was reading. Oh, sure, the words made sense enough.

To the Wizard King, Erick Flatt of Candlepoint. It is the sorrow of Spur that we cannot accept your request to visit at this time. Instead, we would visit you there, in House Benevolence, though it will just be Al and I. Sirocco and Mog are consumed with work at the moment. Let us know what time is a good time and we will make this happen. A contact through Mister Fulisade is acceptable. -Silverite

Erick set down the letter, then glanced out to the Financial District, to the smaller road of Gates which ran parallel to the main Gate Road, but on a road all the way past Mage Bank. It was there that Erick had put the Gate to Spur. Candlepoint had a similar Gate, linking them to the Gate District. That gate lay directly at the end of the north-south road that went up from House Benevolence, and stopped near Mage Bank. Spur’s Gate was next to that one.

Spur’s Gate, just like Candlepoint’s Gate, was as busy as ever, with a bunch of people walking in and out of both sides of the open space, dropping their coins off in guarded boxes if they were individual travelers, or stopping traffic if they had a wide load that needed to come though. Those stops didn’t happen too often, for usually people marshaled their goods onto 2 meter wide, and somewhat long [Force Platform]s that could go through the Gate without interruption.

From there, those goods, or those people, either walked to their next Gate, or blipped over to their next Gate, and another set of brief inspections and money collections. There were a lot of people moving back and forth out there. A lot.

And there would be more as more and more Gates opened up across the world.

Erick looked at the Gate to Spur, and considered [Perfected Polymorph]ing into an orcol, or an incani, or something, and just walking through, and seeing Spur for himself. He hadn’t been there in a long time…

But. No. That would be improper. Rude, even.

Erick would make a decision about meeting Al soon enough. It hadn’t even been five hours since Illustrious Moon’s revelation about the exodus of dragons. He had time… Probably. Did Al have time, though? Did Silverite even know why Erick had wanted to meet Al?

Erick asked Poi, “Should I have been less circumspect? Just straight-up told her why I needed to see him? And not included the desire to see Mog and Sirocco, too?”

Poi said, “I cannot be certain, for I do not communicate with Spur nearly as often as I used to, but I am of the opinion that Silverite knows exactly what is going on.”

It was just the two of them in his office at the moment. The sun sat low in the western sky, and while people and goods walked across the Gate District like trails of ants, inside House Benevolence most people were either getting ready to stop for the day, or already stopped, and eating down at the atrium food court. The Cooks and the servers and otherwise were kicking into high gear, though. A lot of night life was beginning to start, as the shadelings of Candlepoint were starting the second half of their day.

A few people were still working hard at House Benevolence, besides Erick. Zolan and a few others were in deep talks with finalizing the Wayfarer’s Local Area Gate Network of the Crystal Forest, which was yet another thing that had suddenly decided it needed to happen today, of all days. Perhaps the Wayfarer’s had heard the news of the dragons, too, and they wanted to stop tiptoeing around actually committing to Erick’s designs.

Erick glanced through Ophiel, to that meeting…

He came back. The Wayfarer’s Guild wanted their Local Area Gate Network by tomorrow, which was unexpected. Well that was fine? Zolan would probably be out of that meeting in the next half an hour, to come and tell Erick the news.

Erick asked Poi, “Do you think the Wayfarer’s know— Ah. You couldn’t tell me, anyway.”

Poi just nodded and continued to stand to the side.

“Kirginatharp knows.”

“And everyone who is smart will know that Kirginatharp is probably deep in seclusion, not wanting to accidentally see any dragons when they’re migrating across the world.”

“… Right.”

Erick turned his attentions back to the paperwork on his desk. None of the paperwork looked different than normal. Progress reports. Letters of requests for various things, from people all over the world. A few personal letters. Normal, end-of-day reports made by the Office of the Castellan, and the Office of Enforcement. That second stack was larger than most, for Erick had asked for projections of how much crime a Candlepoint-lake-wide [Zone of Peace] might stop, and Burhendurur had needed to talk to the Guard of Candlepoint, to Guard Captain Slip, in order to actually complete the report. The Office of Enforcement didn’t actually enforce over there, inside those city limits.

Based on normal incident reports, a true [Zone of Peace] layered across all of the greater Candlepoint area would stop approximately… 2 incidents per day? 1 major incident per week, like attempted murder? Five minor incidents per day in the Gate District? Nothing major ever reported, or seen in the Gate District?

That was it?

… This land wasn’t very populated; that had to be why. Also the Gates were rather heavily guarded and highly respected. Which was sort of unexpected. Erick had expected more crime, but… He supposed that there were only about 6,000 people living here, in total. Maybe a little more.

It was impossible to count specific people coming and going through the Gate District, but there were about 50,000 movements through the Gates every day. Some people moved back and forth a hundred times, moving goods here and there, while others just came in once to see what this place was all about, and then they left, spending a quick 2 gold for their time and transport.

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With all that movement, Erick had expected more enforcement-related incidents.

“Poi. Please inform Silverite that a meeting in an hour is acceptable. Pick a place out of sight of most people, please. I can even meet outside of the city spaces if they want.”

Poi nodded, and then he sent out a thought tendril.

– – – –

A stunted tree with shade enough for half a person, stood in the middle of a field of dry grasses. This land used to be desert, so even this much was a vast improvement over the endless expanse of orange sand, but there was still a long way to go before this land could actually be called ‘reclaimed’. In the far distance stood the first of three walls that surrounded this land, separating this sparse greenery from the mimics. Seeing all this, Erick felt he needed to do more to help Kiri and Mox reclaim it all, but this land hadn’t been viable for growing anything in a long, long time. A simple [Exalted Rain Aura] didn’t change that. It took time to make something better than it was before.

Erick wasn’t here to deal with the land. Not right now. He wasn’t even technically ‘here’, in the reality-based sense of the word.

He was beyond an open door that stood in the middle of that land, which was not visible unless the viewer was standing at the perfect angle to view it, and they had permissions. The door was wide open, though, and Erick had told Al where to go, so that was plenty of invitation if Erick had anything to say about it.

That door led to a [Fairy Stronghold], where the Wizard sat on a nice, plush chair, alongside a table that held a tea set sized for mixed company, and a tray of cookies. A very large chair and another human-sized chair sat beside that tea table. The room was nothing special, but it was homey. It would serve.

Erick had spent all of twenty minutes getting the place ready for a private talk between himself and Al, and maybe Silverite too if she decided to stick around for any part of it. Erick could have conjured the whole place in less than 30 seconds, but he had found himself continually adding to the space, expanding the Stronghold to make it nicer, or adding flourishes here and there, like different tables or windows, that he thought Al might like. Erick had also stripped those same flourishes from the space a dozen times over, for frivolous shows of power and skill were not comforting when there was actual worry to be had over world events.

Like an exodus of dragons.

Erick was just nervous. That’s all this was.

Poi noticed. He stood to the side of the room, also looking at the door while waiting for Silverite and Al to arrive, but now he turned to Erick. “Do you want to talk about it? What do you expect to happen here? It might help calm your nerves.”

Erick instantly gushed, “Is he a dragon?! I don’t even know, for sure! All I have are clues and circumstantial evidence. How did he feel when he found out I was a Wizard? Did he want to come chase after me, like all the rest, in order to eat me? Or something?— No. Sorry. Not to eat; to stuff me with Dragon Essence and then twist my soul into something that would make him able to live free in this world? Like! I thought I knew the guy! I thought I knew dragons! But I didn’t! Not at all.”

“He didn’t know you at all, either, so you have that in common.”

Erick froze. “… Ah. I suppose so.” He mumbled, “I should have considered that position, too. Al never really knew me at all, did he.”

Poi nodded again. “And now, they’re on their way— Ah…?” A tendril of thought touched him. Poi said, “Silverite is unable to make it. Al is appearing now.”

Erick chuckled. “Yeah. I figured that might—”

Before Erick could finish his thought, and say that of course Silverite would not be appearing, and that it would just be Al, the man himself appeared on the other side of the door. The orcol looked just how Erick remembered. Tall by human standards, at nearly 3 meters, but rather average for an orcol. Muscular, with brown-green skin; again, rather average, compared to all the other orcols Erick had seen since he first laid eyes on this one. Black hair, black eyes; all normal. Tusks sticking up from his lower jaw, and if you didn’t know him, you would think him dangerous; again, rather average, physically.

When Erick had first seen Al, before he knew about the Blessing Of Beauty and Brutality from Aloethag, before he knew about the Rage and about Treehome, and about how orcols could tell if you were looking at them, Erick had thought that Al was one of the most beautiful men he had ever seen. Oddly enough, not an hour before that meeting, Erick had met Irogh, the Registrar of Spur, and he had thought that Irogh was the most beautiful man in the world.

There had been a lot of that in the beginning.

Now it was different, of course. Erick knew better.

Al still looked the same, though.

He probably still smiled a lot, when the weight of the world wasn’t bearing down on him, like it was now. His clothes were still immaculate, as befitting a sewermaster, and especially the sewermaster for a populous and prosperous city like Spur. Those clothes had always reminded Erick of a gangster-sultan, with a lot of pinstripes on charcoal grey. Al was always about clean lines down his body, but with some puffiness here and there. He had the body of a 50 year old orcol, and so he looked as good now as he had when he was 30…

He would likely look like this for as long as he wished, though. Normally, orcols aged gracefully, with their years not truly showing on their faces or their bodies until well into their 80s, and sometimes even past 100 if they kept throwing themselves into the physical rigors of life, and taking care of themselves. Orcols thrived on brutality.

But Al was not actually an orcol at all.