The flight east soon fell into a nearly numbing rhythm. Old Orion never would have imagined riding a magical broom could be boring, but he supposed humans were incredibly adaptable, and sometimes that came with a downside.
With the wyvern threat gone, the only remaining danger was the thin mist sticking to the Belt’s surface, and that was probably their own fault anyway. It felt wrong to relax while still technically at war, but Orion finally exhaled, feeling his shoulders loosen for the first time since leaving Valderun.
This isn’t over yet, but knowing no hidden flock of wyrms is lurking beneath us does wonders for my mental health.
Pauline stayed close, her broom riding the same wind lane as his, wrapped tightly in her shadows like a second cloak. They had pushed him forward again, out of the loose rear and into the spearpoint’s core, and he was now close enough that he could see his mother without straining and feel the subtle pressure of her presence ahead.
It still feels a bit strange to be part of a flying army, but I prefer this over teleporting. I haven’t figured out what I messed up last time yet, so there's a real chance I could cut off another limb, and I’m starting to run out.
Pauline broke the silence first, lowering her voice so it wouldn’t carry down the line. “Did your mother tell you anything about what comes next?”
Orion looked down. The Belt was narrowing again as they left the basin behind, the river resuming its long, steady course, with trading ports along its edges slowly passing by, splashed with color from docks, warehouses, cranes, and the occasional castle.
“Not in so many words,” he said. “She’s still evaluating the situation, since we achieved our main goal of destroying the flock.”
Pauline’s lips pressed together, and her eyes took on a thoughtful expression. "So we aren’t expecting more fighting?” she asked.
Orion shrugged. “It depends on what we find. We need to make sure no one can attack us again, and what we found in Stillport shows there's a lot more happening behind the curtain than we thought. It’ll be a while before we get a clear picture.”
That answer, at least, sat well with Pauline. Her shoulders relaxed just a bit, and she nodded to herself. “That makes sense,” she murmured. “The Mother doesn’t like unfinished work.”
Orion resisted the urge to sigh at how she’d rationalized his words and nodded, letting her have it because he knew that arguing the point further wouldn’t go anywhere.
If even she’s wondering, it must mean the other witches are out of their depth. But I guess everything has happened very quickly, and my privileged access to the leadership lets me keep abreast of changes.
He turned back to watch the deep blue of the Belt ahead, wondering how long it would take to cross it completely at full speed.
Probably about a week for me. I’m sure Mom could do it quickly by supercharging the broom, but that would be cheating. And I know for a fact that the other factions have their own ways of flying, though some are more flashy than others.
The Collegium’s arrival was timely but also quite intimidating for a city that had just faced the risk of being entirely destroyed by infighting and draconic fury.
It had caught him off guard since Asteria had only just informed him at the last minute that they would be coming. That, more than anything, made him think she was beginning to feel more comfortable in her role as a Veil Priestess.
He wondered what she might be thinking, if she was angry, tired, or simply determined to see her first real mission through. His mother had always been formidable, but there was a new sharpness to her now, a level of awareness of her role she had only recently gained.
He thought about the column of judgment again, and how her frame had stood tall and proud despite the immense strain that holding the connection open put on her.
What impact does that have on a body day after day? What effect does it have on the mind? Are her thought processes even the same now?
He wanted to ask, but now was definitely not the right moment. There might not be monsters nearby, but the witches flying in formation could be quite dangerous on their own. He had no intention of giving anyone reasons to criticize his mother.
So he remained silent, cataloging anything he might need to remember later.
Hours slipped by. They passed more ports, more piers, and more warehouses decorated in the Wheel’s colors, with gold trim, crimson banners, and the wheel sigil stamped onto crates and sails.
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Some areas looked touched by recent fires, while others remained untouched, but a second glance revealed suspicious stains indicating they hadn’t escaped the chaos. Occasionally, Orion saw militiamen on the walls, but most of the time, it was men in armor moving about as they approached the heart of the Consortium’s territory.
Near midday, the Belt widened again.
At first, it was subtle: the river just stretching outward, its banks pulling back, but soon afterward it regained the width it had near Stillport. The horizon filled with ships, masts crowded like reeds, and hulls in neat lanes, waiting to be let into the port.
And beyond all of that was the city of Carat.
It wasn’t the sprawling grandeur of Valderun or the austere pride of Silverpeak, but that wasn’t the point. Its wealth was flashier and less metaphysical, evident in the intricate stonework, the thickness of the walls, and the density of the infrastructure. Warehouses resembled fortresses, each guarded by dozens of guards, while the docks stretched in tiers, filled with cranes and winches, built on layers of ancient foundations, bringing in goods from all over Cyril and, some said, even beyond.
Gold and crimson hues decorated everything nearby. Banners fluttered along the seawall, roof tiles glazed with warm tones reflected the light filtering through the clouds, and even statues of merchants in flowing coats, captains with wheel-helmets, and faceless figures holding scales were edged in gold.
It had been the hub of a major faction for over a century, and anyone who looked at it could not mistake it for anything less than the heart of a commercial empire.
Orion’s eyes narrowed behind his lenses as they approached. From a distance, he could see scaffolds and construction frames, and while he’d expected to see them, they were too many and too recent at that. Whole stretches of dockside had fresh timber that hadn’t yet been lacquered to keep the water out, and several roofs were patched in a way that didn’t match the rest of their street.
It was quite obvious that a series of rushed patch jobs had been performed.
Whatever happened here, those in charge were very eager to pretend it hadn’t come to pass, and considering the busy shipping lanes, they seemed to be having some success with it.
A cluster of ships on the water spun around upon their arrival, flapping their sails to catch the wind, and their horns sounded deep notes, signaling to each other. A moment later, sound magic reached up to them, woven through the wind so smoothly that Orion could hear it as if someone was speaking right next to him.
“Witches of the Lunar Sanctum,” a voice called. “Hold your position and state your purpose.”
Asteria raised her hand, and the spearpoint slowed down. The entire formation gradually braked until they hovered five hundred feet above the water, half a mile from the nearest docks, just out of the magical defenses’ striking range.
The city’s wards were not a dome like Stillport’s, but a layered mesh of anchored lines that wove through towers, beacons, and the very stones of the seawall. While they weren’t currently at their most active level, there was enough mana in the air for them to come to life at any moment. It was highly advanced defensive engineering, though not as sophisticated as the wards hanging above Valderun.
Below them, boats clustered like nervous fish, watching them with curiosity. Further along the seawall, men stood behind crenellations, making no hostile moves but clearly not very pleased by their presence.
A squadron rose to meet them soon after.
They rose from the harbor on disks of force and spirals of air in a disciplined ascent that suggested they had practiced the formation more than once. Their robes snapped in the wind, and sigils faintly glowed beneath their clothes, showing they all wore similarly enchanted underarmor.
Very expensive ones too. I guess that’s the benefit of working for the Consortium as a mage, even if they are considered the least magical faction.
Orion’s SDGs flickered to life at his silent command, and names and numbers floated where his gaze settled.
They were mostly at tier two, with levels in the seventies and eighties, Attunement in the three- to four-hundreds, and some even slightly higher. This was not a randomly assembled defensive force, which meant they were either part of the old faction that ruled the Crimson Wheel, or the merchant prince who had attempted the coup had spent a long time building up his men.
And then the three in the back row, standing slightly apart, were the actual powerhouses.
Level 108. Level 121. Level 125.
All three were tier three, with stats high enough to imply a lifetime of dedicated training supported by a major power.
Compared to their lesser companions, they cut an intimidating sight, but when they finally floated up to Asteria, they appeared like pale copies.
The squadron kept a respectful distance, providing them space to maneuver if necessary.
The leading mage was an older woman with her hair braided into an intricate lattice that could have been art, a spell-focus, or both. Gold thread was woven through the hems of her robe, and her posture was stiff as she observed the large group before her.
She glanced at the flights, assessing their strength, before fixing her eyes on Asteria.
“Veil Priestess,” she said confidently, clearly sensing her power, and there was respect in her tone but no warmth. “Carat greets you. What is the Lunar Sanctum doing at our gates with an army?”
Asteria didn't waste time with pleasantries. “We pursued and destroyed the northern dragon Behenien and her flock after she attacked our border cities, burned towns along the Belt, and besieged Stillport. We recently lifted the siege, killed the matriarch, and secured the city’s defenses.”
A murmur of shock ran through the mages.
“Stillport is safe, you say?” the woman asked carefully, as if she had expected a different answer.
They were likely waiting for news from their comrades there. The silence we enforced must have led them to believe the city had fallen to the rival faction.
“It was undergoing internal conflict when we arrived,” Asteria said. “Men in your livery were fighting each other on the walls while wyrms battered the wards.”
That made a bigger splash.
Orion saw the leading mage’s fingers clench in a fist, and one of the tier three in the back row shifted thoughtfully.
They didn’t seem surprised that a dragon, a creature rarely seen outside the Dragonspire Dominion, would attack, as if this were before the Magocracy era, when powerful monsters were seen as natural calamities no one could stop.
The older woman held Asteria’s gaze for a long moment, but she must have realized questions were about to be asked, because she changed tracks.
“I will have one of mine inform His Excellency of your presence,” she said. “He will be able to speak with you on a more even level."
His Excellency, one man. That means the coup has succeeded. I was wondering, but I suppose the impressive efficiency in reconstruction I saw explains how he pulled it off.
The mage turned her head and signaled to one of the tier three without a word. The man then peeled away, dropping toward the city with controlled speed before vanishing into the inner quarters.
The rest of the mages stayed in place, clearly nervous around so many witches but oddly confident. They really shouldn’t have been, considering how much more powerful Asteria was, but the fact that they were told Orion that the surprises weren’t over yet.
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