From the front page of the Times-Picayune, June 3rd, 20XX:
Friend or foe from the north? First contact made with a second non-human race!
MINNEAPOLIS—In a development sure to raise eyebrows and more than a few fears in Washington, the White House confirmed yesterday that the United States has come into contact with a second non-human civilization following the opening of diplomatic relations with the Under-Realm. According to an exclusive tip-off from a source close to the Department of Homeland Security, the encounter occurred in the wake of a persistent, unclassified radar anomaly near the Angle Inlet region of Lake of the Woods. Officials say that air intercept was scrambled immediately following this detection, and that the "visitor,” who was apparently riding atop some sort of flying creature, was removed along with his mount to a secure holding facility in the greater Minneapolis region, where federal officials—joined by civilian experts—conducted a preliminary medical and linguistic assessment before questioning and ultimately releasing the individual last week. White House and Pentagon spokespeople declined to comment on the specifics of the individual’s appearance or capabilities, but multiple sources confirmed that the detainee was able to communicate and was “not hostile, but deeply suspicious” of authorities and, at times, “dismissive of their questions.” He was described as “tall, slender, very pale, with red eyes and white hair.” According to reports, he was detained for an unspecified period before being released.
The Times-Picayune can exclusively reveal, via a source close to the incident who spoke on condition of anonymity, that the individual in question originated from a second, previously unknown nonhuman nation-state, whose location and motives remain unknown as of press time. When pressed for comment, National Security Advisor Ronald Wu offered only this: “We are in the early stages of understanding this new actor. As with our Dwarven visitors, we are proceeding cautiously but openly, consistent with American values and security.”
The implications of this are profound. It means that the United States has now come into contact with not one, but two distinct nonhuman civilizations in less than a month’s time—and that, as of this week, both are aware of our presence. According to statements released by the White House, President Bannister is committed to a policy of “responsible engagement with transparency,” but as we saw last month when a routine naval exercise in the Pacific turned into contact with a Dwarven trading vessel, the pace of developing events may yet outrun the ability of policy-makers to keep up.
Meanwhile, experts interviewed by the Times-Picayune have raised concerns over the diplomatic implications of the individual’s detainment. Sources who spoke to this paper have confirmed that the individual was a uniformed military reconnaissance officer or scout of some kind, and was sent by his superiors—whoever they are—to spy on our shores for reasons unknown. “There are just a lot of questions we don’t have the answers to,” admitted Dr. Linda Bartolomei, a professor of international relations at Tulane University. “And if the government has the answers, they’re not sharing. This individual could have been sent here to simply gather intelligence, and he must not have known about radar or other technologies like it because it doesn’t seem like he expected to be caught. But the way he handled himself, and what’s been pieced together from the reports so far, suggests that this was not a primitive being. He was a trained operator sent here with clear goals and objectives, and my biggest worry is how he’ll report back to his people about how he was treated in U.S. custody. You only get one first impression.”
The White House press office, when reached for comment, re-stated the administration’s position on all first contacts: “President Bannister is committed to mutual security, respect, and the peaceful coexistence of all new neighbors. The United States has no intention of acting from fear. We will engage with all who approach with good faith.”
For now, it is not clear whether that overture will be accepted, or if this new non-human race views America as friend or as foe. But there is a growing sense in diplomatic and academic circles that we will soon find out.
Requests for comment from the State Department and FBI were not answered by press time.
—David J. Verret, Jr., Times-Picayune Senior Correspondent
Thomas Bannister let the newspaper fall onto the Resolute Desk with a thud. He pressed his thumb to the bridge of his nose until his vision pixellated, then looked up at the half-moon of faces gathered around him. His cabinet had assembled in the Oval for the morning brief, and he met each of their gazes in turn before breaking the silence.
“So,” he said, “let’s have it.” He didn’t bother to hide the bite in his voice. “Run through everything we’ve learned about this…what did he call himself again?”
“Sar’Kadan, sir,” the Secretary of State supplied.
“Yes, that. Give the room your report again so we’re all on the same page—and then we need to figure out, one, who the hell else is out there, and two, what the response from his people will be when and if we encounter them again.”
The Director of the CIA, Miranda Schlager, cleared her throat and set her folder on the desk. She wore the same shade of slate every day—suit, blouse, steel-rimmed glasses—and today it seemed an extension of her expression. “The subject, later self-identified as Varthiel Arakanos, was intercepted at 0308 hours Zulu. NORAD detected an anomalous blip entering U.S. airspace, initially classed as a possible low-flying aircraft, large avian, or possibly an autonomous drone. Visual intercept was scrambled per the op protocol. The object turned out to be... a humanoid rider, mounted on a flying canine. Personnel on-site described the animal as ‘a wolf with wings.’”
Bannister fought not to sigh wearily. Flying wolves. Well, why not? This new world was already bursting at the seams with sea monsters, giant birds, and more. Why not flying wolves, too?
Schlager continued. “He very briefly attempted evasive maneuvers after visual detection but was quickly brought to ground and detained. Both rider and mount were unharmed when taken into custody. He was described as calm and composed throughout this process and remained aloof, even arrogant, the whole time. Upon interrogation, he proved surprisingly cooperative, though he somehow managed to make that condescending, too. It was at this point that he identified himself as Varthiel Arakanos, a forward-deployed reconnaissance officer with a rank roughly equivalent to a U.S. O-6 or O-7, and said he hailed from a polity known as the Dominion of Sarnath.”
“And his intent?” asked one of the military officers in the room.
“Spying, of course,” Schlager said with a shrug. “He’s an officer, and he didn’t try to hide it. He told us almost immediately that he was here to perform strategic reconnaissance, get an estimate of our population centers, military capabilities, the works. He specifically said his government was starting to get reports of our sudden ‘appearance’ and wanted to see if any of those stories were true. He had orders to reconnoiter our coast and report back—to observe and assess, but not to engage.”
“What about the creature he flew in on?”
“It gave our biologists fits,” Schlager admitted. “Varthiel called it a ‘zburator,’ and from what he let fall, they’re very important to his people. It was huge and displayed clear signs of domestication and intelligence. It took commands in his language, and at several points, we caught it attempting to circulate in the holding cell—almost as if it was assessing possible routes for escape or rescue. Regarding biology, blood tests and tissue samples indicate a hybrid ancestry closer to canid than anything else, but with a whole array of, uh, recombinant traits. We’re still running mitochondrial analyses.”
“Did he tell anything about where he came from?”
Schlager was ready for the question. “He was very direct, sir. As I said, his homeland is called the Dominion of Sarnath. From what we can tell, it lies far to the north of the northernmost US territory, and satellite images have confirmed that it appears to be about the size of Australia, maybe a little bit larger. In terms of geography and weather, it’s sort of like a combination of Siberia and Iceland: it's got large ice fields and glaciers interspersed with big stretches of tundra and taiga, but it is also the site of considerable volcanic and geothermal activity. I don’t think it’s a surprise to anyone that most of their major cities are clustered around those. We even think they’ve figured out some way to harness that energy as a source of heat and power— which isn’t unheard of, but back home there's nothing on this scale.”
Schlager slid a sheaf of papers across the desk. “We have been observing Sarnath closely ever since Varthiel got here. These are satellite images of what I suspect is their capital city.”
Bannister took the papers and spread them out to look at them. The first image—grainy, high-res, but black and white—showed what looked like a city built in the middle of a snowfield, a black pit ringed by frozen wastes and windblown ridges. The sprawl was immense. Bannister could make out what appeared to be a grid of city blocks, but the lines weren’t straight; they radiated or spiraled from a central point like spokes on a baroque wheel, each ring segmented by radial boulevards marching out from a central plaza or fortress. The city itself was a composite of sharp angles, needle-spires, and arched, vaulted domes, the buildings clustered like the crystals of a geode.
The next few images were thermal, and they painted a different story. Rather than a single uniform heat signature, the city was lit up in a patchwork of veins and islands, like a vascular map of arteries and capillaries beneath a living thing’s skin. Heat signatures radiated along the major avenues, brighter in the rings and nodes around the city’s core and wherever some structure poked up from the frost. The buildings, if that’s what they were, varied—some barely registering above the background cold, others glowing with volcanic intensity. Bannister was quietly impressed.
“Remarkable,” he murmured.
“I concur, sir. Varthiel also mentioned that the entire Dominion is ruled by a queen, who governs as an absolute monarch, but with some form of counsel to advise her. The way he talked about her, he clearly holds her in awe. He claimed that she has ruled for thousands of years, but whether he was being literal or metaphorical is uncertain. He also claimed she was a very powerful sorceress.”
“People don’t live for thousands of years!” scoffed one of the military advisors.
“No,” Schlager said. “Humans don’t live for thousands of years. And Varthiel isn’t human, is he? We have no idea how long his people can live, and if he wasn’t being metaphorical, it means that we will eventually be dealing with someone so old that their perspective and sense of time might be incomprehensible to us.”
The room grew quiet at that.
“And can we expect continued contact?” Bannister asked. “Now that Varthiel has almost certainly returned home, what next? What action will this Dominion take?”
Schlager steepled her fingers and considered the question. “If I had to guess, sir? Sarnath will not wait for us to come to them. From the way Varthiel spoke—his sense of protocol, the emphasis on intelligence gathering, the rank structure of their military—I’d say their society is highly rational, even ruthless about pursuing its interests. I suspect we’ll be hearing from them directly. Soon.” She paused, weighing her words. “If the Dominion’s first move is to send in their version of a black-ops reconnaissance officer to investigate, it suggests a pragmatic, almost clinical approach to engagement.”
Bannister nodded. A slanted half-smile crept across his mouth. He understood the type. “Cold bastards, in other words.”
"Yes, sir," Schlager agreed. “It’s my estimation that they will want to retake the diplomatic initiative as quickly and efficiently as possible. We got the sense from our guest that they really, really don’t like being on the back foot or taken by surprise. But that doesn’t mean they’ll move recklessly. They’ll want to preempt us, but on their own terms. We should be prepared for a formal overture to open relations and probe for weaknesses. What form that overture will take, though, is anyone’s guess.”
“So they won’t turn hostile? You’re sure?” asked the Attorney General.
Schlager shook her head. “They’re not stupid. If Varthiel is any indication of how they think, they're stone-cold rationalists—proud to the point of arrogance, sure, but not so proud that they allow it to cloud their judgment. Varthiel has seen some of our military hardware in action, and he’s going to tell them all about it if he hasn’t already. When he does, they’ll recognize a fight with us would be suicidal. It’ll kill them to admit it, but admit it they will, at least among themselves. So, they’ll come at us from a different angle.” She shrugged slightly. “I’d expect the unexpected, sir. And if you want my professional advice: don’t blink first.”
The Secretary of State cleared her throat. “There’s also the matter of the dwarfs. It seems that Ghalrak Dramz has been corresponding directly with his high king the whole time, ever since he got here.”
Bannister’s composure didn’t waver, but some of the others audibly gasped. This was a huge breach of diplomatic protocol.
“Go on,” Bannister said.
“Sir, the High King of the Under-Realm wanted Ghalrak to pass on to us a message to give to you. He wants to meet you—in the Dwarven capital of Thafar-Gathol.”
Stunned silence sucked the air from the room. For half a dozen heartbeats, neither Bannister nor his cabinet offered a word.
“It’s actually a shrewd diplomatic move,” the Secretary of State grudgingly acknowledged. “By inviting you to his capital city, he’s forcing your hand. Either you accept and risk the unknown or rebuff him and risk looking fearful—or worse, disrespectful.”
The head of the Secret Service reddened. “Absolutely not!” he said. “The security concerns alone make that a nonstarter. We have no idea how large that city is, who lives there, how many people are there, or how to ensure the security of the president. We have no idea where to even begin!” The man’s face was crimson all the way to the ears, and Bannister could almost hear his blood pressure spiking. “We don’t have maps, we don’t control any of the assets. We’d be trusting their security, their support, their everything. We’d be at their mercy!”
The Director of National Intelligence, silent until now, cleared her throat. “He has a point, sir. We know next to nothing about Thafar-Gathol, aside from the fact that it's big. For all we know, the Dwarfs’ idea of hospitality involves a trial by combat.”
Bannister almost smiled. “The worse for them, if it comes to that.” The attempt at humor barely registered. “We don’t have the luxury of declining. If we don’t respond to this invitation—if we show them that we can be cowed by the specter of the unknown—we risk painting ourselves as the junior partner in any future negotiation. Worse, we risk ceding all diplomatic initiative to the Dwarfs, or to anyone else in this world who’s watching. We also run the very real danger of giving offense. None of those are risks worth taking. There is simply too much at stake, and the fact of the matter is that we cannot afford to pass up a potential trading partner and ally. There is still so much about this world we do not understand, and we should not delude ourselves into thinking we are invincible. They use magic here. Actual sorcery. The implications of that alone…And we still have no idea what its limits are or what it could be used to do for us, or against us.”
The Secret Service chief shook his head, jaw tight enough to crack the enamel of his teeth. “I still advise against it, sir. But if you’re intent on going, we need to minimize exposure. That means no press, no public itinerary. We’ll have to vet every member of the delegation individually. And even then, it’s a crapshoot.”
Bannister’s mouth twitched, the hint of a smile returning. “That’s why you’re the best in the business, Martin. But this is necessary. I need to see if their capabilities live up to the hype before I agree to anything with these people. I want to see if they truly possess the capabilities they claim to have. Do what you can to the best of your ability. Get the Pentagon on board, too. I want proposals for how we harden the trip. We’ll treat it like a state visit to Moscow in the dark old days.” He let that hang a moment, then pivoted to his Secretary of State. “Let’s get confirmation from the Dwarf king directly, and demand ironclad guarantees of security and safe passage. Publicly, we’ll say we’re ‘reviewing the invitation with great interest.’ Privately, prep the negotiation team and start mapping out every possible angle.”
Around the room, pens scratched to life.
Bannister turned to his Secretary of Commerce. “Remind us again of what we stand to gain from trade with the dwarf kingdom, if everything they’ve told us about themselves so far is true.”
The Secretary of Commerce cleared his throat and dove in. “The Dwarfs claim that the Under-Realm has industrial capacity on a startling scale. We have firsthand documentation of their output—both from their own delegation and from direct observation in San Diego—suggesting they operate a quasi-market economy with state oversight. They’re not just miners, Mr. President. They’re vertically integrated from resource extraction to finished product, and they have an industrial base that could, in theory, rival anything out of the peak of the Industrial Age.”
Bannister kept his face blank, but his mind was running a mile a minute. “What does that mean in plain English?”
“It means, sir, we’re not dealing with savages. We are dealing with a highly organized, highly industrialized, and remarkably efficient state. And if our preliminary analysis of some of the items observed aboard their ship holds up, they’ve developed processes for refining, alloying, and—yes—magical augmentation that rival or even exceed anything we’ve seen out of the modern world.”
“Are you saying they can outcompete us at our own game?”
“I’m saying that they have developed their industrial base to a level that reminds me of our own during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. They’re not turning out nuclear submarines or fighter jets or anything like that, but they are churning out armor, weapons, machines, and all kinds of manufactured goods, not to mention huge quantities of precious stones and processed ores. This is a double-edged sword—on one hand, if we’re not careful, they could flood the market and drive down the prices of things like gold, steel, and silver. But the upshot is, whatever trade deal we strike, they have the logistical machine to meet it.” The commerce secretary checked his notes and flicked his gaze toward Bannister. “If we can negotiate favorable access to what they’ve got, it’s an order-of-magnitude advantage for American manufacturing. No more shortages of rare earths, for one thing. We’d get cheaper and better steel, sturdier infrastructure, and quite possibly the revitalization of our own industrial base, perhaps even using Dwarf techniques and know-how if we can get them to share it. We might even get new forms of energy to exploit, if half the rumors about their ‘Hearthstone’ tech are correct.”
“And what do they stand to gain?” Bannister wasn’t in the mood for cheerleading.
“My guess? Access to our technology, first and foremost. Specifically, our electronics, our communications, and, above all, our data infrastructure. The dwarfs have metallurgy, ore processing, and refinery on a mass-productive scale, but they are centuries behind in anything involving microchips or digital processing. They’ll want computers, Mr. President. They’ll want the internet. And, frankly, they want what every other industrialized nation wants, too—consumer goods, pharmaceuticals, and agricultural products. Especially agricultural products. If their entire civilization is below the ground, it stands to reason they have little surface agriculture to speak of—everything has to be either imported or grown, possibly using some sort of hydroponics or even magic.” He shook his head. “Christ, it feels weird saying that. Anyway, I suspect they’re dependent on trade for anything that can’t be mined, grown, recycled, or manufactured underground. And from what we’ve seen, that includes just about every basic crop, aside from mushrooms and things like that. I think they’d happily purchase as much of our produce as they could get their hands on.”
One of the scientists in the meeting cleared his throat. “Speaking of Hearthstones, we’ve been doing extensive analysis on the one the Dwarfs gave to the mayor of San Diego when they first got here. So far, it’s unlike anything we’ve ever encountered before. The stone seems, in a way, to almost be alive. It has a crystalline structure, but it’s not inert. It draws energy from its environment, everything from heat, vibration, and even ambient electromagnetic fields; it soaks it all up like a sponge. We can’t tell how it collects the charge or how it stores it, but we can say definitively that the process is not chemical. It holds a steady output, and every time we try to drain it, the thing recharges itself.” The scientist’s voice, measured and cautious, betrayed a nervous awe. “We still can't access or even figure out the actual mechanism that makes it work. The dwarfs can, but we can’t.”
Bannister leaned forward. “Show me.”
The scientist slid a compact steel box onto the table. Inside, cushioned by foam, a golf-ball-sized orb shimmered. The thing radiated a subtle warmth and pulsed gently with multi-hued opalescent light.
“We’ve tried direct current draw, laser ablation, even neutron imaging,” the scientist said. “Nothing works. Every attempt to stimulate a response has failed. We can’t even get it to make a beep on our monitors using the most expensive scientific equipment available, but the dwarfs handle them as easily as replacing a lightbulb.” Envy colored the man’s voice. “We have physicists and materials scientists on it around the clock. But so far, I’m afraid we have made very little progress.”
A Cabinet member, the HHS Secretary, muttered, “Suppose it’s a Trojan Horse of some kind? Or some sort of spying device?”
“That thought has occurred, sir,” the scientist admitted. “But it’s been kept in a Faraday cage since acquisition, and there’s been no sign of anomalous emissions. It just... sits there.”
The room settled into silence, the barely-audible hum of the hearthstone becoming, for a moment, the only thing living in the background. Bannister’s finger hovered just above it, feeling the proximity heat against his skin.
After a moment, he snapped the case shut. “Continue the analysis. If you need more resources or specialists, you say the word, and you’ll get them. I want updates twice daily.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The sooner we get trade deals and diplomatic relations up and running, the better,” said the Secretary of Health and Human Services, a tall woman in an oatmeal suit, who had settled her hands into a steeple. “Let’s not forget that there’s another dimension to this. The pharmaceutical situation is deteriorating. Fast.”
Bannister set the case aside. “Go ahead.”
“We’re still coasting on pre-Event stockpiles, but we lost all overseas production and supply with the Event. There’s no pipeline, no shipping, no generic knockoffs to fill in the gaps. The big three here have ramped up to maximum capacity, but at best, we’re maybe a third of pre-Event output. Some of these drugs take six months to manufacture, minimum.” Her mouth tightened. “We’re already seeing shortages in antibiotics, antivirals, and cancer therapies, and we don’t have the resources or infrastructure to completely replace global supply. If we can get the Dwarves to trade us precursors—anything from rare metals to base chemicals—it could buy us months, maybe longer, before the system starts to collapse.” She shivered a little. “Sir, this is the one area where there is no margin for error. If the rate of infection and resistance increases just ten percent above current projections…”
She didn’t finish that thought. She didn’t have to. “We’re already seeing an uptick in prescription restrictions and rationing in the Pacific states, and unless something changes fast, it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”
“Its the same with fertilizer,” said the Secretary of Agriculture. “We’re not facing imminent starvation or anything like that, but most of the world’s commercial fertilizer was produced offshore before the Event, and even with the push to restart American processing facilities, there’s no way to bridge the gap in time. We’re collecting bat guano and kelp by the ton as a stopgap measure, but it’s not going to work long-term. I strongly recommend that if the dwarfs offer access to things like phosphates and nitrates, we take it. If their realm is as mineral rich as they claim it is, we should be able to purchase them relatively cheaply.”
Banister nodded grimly. “Noted. I assume the situation for things like electronics and other goods is equally dire? How long will it be before we are able to replace those things?”
The answer, as ever, was complicated. The Secretary of Commerce responded first. "Honestly, sir, computer hardware and higher-end consumer electronics are going to be a pain point for months, maybe years. The domestic production capacity for semiconductors isn't what it was, and rebuilding the supply chain is a logistical nightmare. Even with the CHIPS Act expansions, we were still importing a huge percentage of components, subassemblies, and rare earths." A pause, as the man checked his notes. "If the Dwarves can deliver bulk refined metals like tungsten, gallium, indium, and cobalt to restart our own industrial production, it’ll help. But tech will be a trickle until we retool for vertical integration. The consumer market will squeal, but we’ll get by. The bigger concern is military and communications hardware. Those can't wait."
“Agreed,” said the Defense Secretary. “If you will forgive the bluntness, sir, our entire C4I grid is still in the process of being physically rerouted. We’re consolidating and prioritizing, but when existing hardware breaks, that’s it. I don’t think I need to tell anyone how bad it will be when the first of our satellites starts breaking down or has a mechanical failure, and we don’t have the parts to fix it. And that’s just one example.”
“Do we have any other options?” Bannister pressed. “Anything we can do to buy time?”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“There’s scrounging from civilian stockpiles in the short term, and we’re already doing that,” the man allowed. “After that, I’d suggest we borrow or reverse-engineer as much of the Dwarfs’ advanced manufacturing capacity as possible, and retool it to replace lost production and supply chain shortfalls. If we have to, we’ll hotwire or retrofit their systems to suit our needs until we can get the more modern stuff back online. It won’t be pretty, but it’ll work. That’s what we’re good at.”
That was true enough. Bannister’s mind ticked through every war, every shortage, every hardship America had weathered and come out on top of. Knuckle through, grit your teeth, move forward. It had gotten them through crises before, and it would do so now, if he could keep the country from coming apart at the seams in the meantime. “Do it.” His voice landed on the table like an anvil. “Don’t wait for my say-so on every damned thing if you can see what needs doing.”
He could feel in his bones how much all this would matter in the months to come. Everything stood on the edge of a knife—things were not desperate yet, but they soon would be if decisive action wasn’t taken. It was utterly imperative that trade with the dwarfs, and perhaps the Dark Elves too, begin as soon as possible.
That brought another topic to his mind. Bannister steepled his fingers. “We have now come into contact with not one but two sophisticated civilizations since our arrival here. This brings to mind the question of how many others there might be.” He looked at Schlager. “Have we detected any further signs? Who else is out there?”
Schlager had expected this question and was prepared for it. “We’ve been systematically scanning this entire planet from orbit since a few hours after we got here,” she said. “And Ghalrak and his companions were nice enough to provide the XO of the Lexington with valuable intelligence on some of the other major powers that call this place home. We have detected signs of advanced civilizations on multiple continents. Take this one here, for example.” She pulled out another set of photographs. “These were taken in the heart of what should be an inhospitable desert. Instead, there’s a sprawling polity there, complete with what we suspect are temples, palace complexes, large, fortified cities, and agricultural fields—though how they’re able to pull that off is beyond me.” She handed one of the images to Bannister. “This is one of more than a dozen ziggurats in the largest city. We estimate it's half again as tall and half again as large of the Great Pyramid of Giza—and it’s sheathed in metal. Brass, possibly, or maybe even gold. But either way, I bet it’s impressive as hell when you’re looking up at it.”
“Jesus,” someone whispered.
Bannister set the photo on the desk and gazed down at it. It clearly depicted a steppe pyramid of colossal size, surrounded by a web of straight, processional avenues and circular plazas and, beyond that, a sprawling city cut with a grid of straight roads and canals.
“Population estimates?” he finally asked.
“Three to five million, minimum,” said Schlager. “Potentially much higher if the peripheral settlements are as dense as initial estimates suggest. Their agriculture is astonishing—they have terraced fields, canals, and more. Whatever they’re doing, they’ve figured out water efficiency in a way that's elevated it to an art form. It reminds me a little of a combination of ancient Mesopotamia or Egypt, with some Aztec thrown in there for good measure, if those three had survived and reached a higher level of sophistication. They even have—” Schlager glanced up, the corner of her mouth hitching “—giant feathered serpents. Or things that look like them, anyway. Satellite captured a pair sunning themselves on a rooftop.”
“Start observing them,” Bannister said. “All of them. But discreetly, and from a range. Use drones and high-altitude spy-craft, but under no circumstances let them know we’re watching. We’ve got enough on our plates already—there’s no need to rush into contact with anyone else until we’ve got a better handle on the ones we’re already talking to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There is also the question and possibility of American expansion,” added the Secretary of the Interior. “For the first time since the 19th century, there is a real opportunity here for us to push our borders outward, Mr. President—and to do it without displacing anybody in the process. If we can identify uninhabited island chains or landmasses, we could set up outposts or forward operating bases for resource extraction or trade, without needing to consult with any power who actually lives there. We could take physical possession of resources, expand our economic footprint, even establish military bases if needed. And with our population density, we’d have no trouble emptying the bucket if we wanted to start new settlements. It could be the single biggest land expansion since Alaska, only without the need to buy it from anyone else. We could even grant homestead claims and revive the concept of the frontier. Imagine what that could mean for national morale as well as our economy.”
“I concur,” piped up the Secretary of Defense. “It’s a blank slate out there, and every day we hesitate, potential foes gain the initiative. We must define the outer perimeter of American interests before rival powers can box us in or beat us to the punch. It is imperative that we begin conducting surveys of potential sites immediately. We’ve already covered all the different resources we’re facing shortages or potential shortages of. If we can’t trade for them, let’s look for them ourselves. I’ve already taken the liberty of ordering my people to draw up a preliminary list of potential candidate sites, which prioritizes key resource targets based on our current and projected supply chain vulnerabilities. You’ll have it on your desk within hours.”
Bannister had to admit both men had a point. He drummed his fingers on the desk. “And if I give the order to proceed, what then? Walk me through what you have in mind.”
The Secretary of Defense leaned forward. “Phase one should be recon of the selected sites and establishment of local dominance. That means control of airspace, coastlines, and major river junctions. Once that’s done, we send in prospecting teams and surveyors, then follow with construction and settlement—military at first, then civilian once the area is safe. All of this, of course, is contingent upon the area in question being uninhabited. If it turns out any or all of these places have indigenous inhabitants, then we make peaceful contact and try to set up trade relations. We need to make it clear to the public and to any other power who may be watching that this is not a campaign of global conquest.”
The Secretary of Education cleared her throat. “We should also consider the appeal of all this to young people. We face the very real threat of economic woe if our issues, or at least the most urgent ones, are not dealt with quickly. If the economy nose-dives, young people—high school grads, college students, people in their late teens and early twenties—will struggle to find opportunities. If you decide to proceed with this idea, Mr. President, I suggest creating a special…exploratory corps, or something like that, for young people to participate in. It’d mean regular pay, adventure, the ability to go out and see a whole new world. Once the expansion zones are reconned and deemed safe by our military, we could send in these youngsters to kick-start any expansion projects we have in mind. Let them play a role in shaping America’s future, have the opportunity to build their own homes and stake claim to their own plot of land. It could do a lot to stave off unrest and beat back the sense of helplessness that’s crept into the country since the Event, or at least channel them somewhere productive. We could turn the next generation into pioneers again.”
Bannister immediately liked the idea. “An excellent thought,” he said, nodding. “I’ve always believed that young people carry this country’s hopes and survival in their hands. Yes…yes, the more I think on it, the more I approve.”
He looked at all three of them. “Get me a three-page memo on everything you three have suggested by tomorrow morning, and that list of sites too,” he ordered curtly. “I need a detailed outline of implementation steps, realistic cost projections, and a preliminary communications plan to sell it to the elecorate. Make it practical; I don’t mind if you have to brainstorm some ideas on the fly—just get me a solid draft. You’re absolutely right—if we don’t take action now, someone else will seize the moment. Have our media team craft the entire narrative as a jobs program, but let’s make sure to highlight the thrill and opportunity that come with it. We need to redirect the news cycle away from all the panic over shortages, even if it’s just for five minutes. Let’s give people something to look forward to instead of being consumed by their own worries.” He smoothed a hand through his hair. "Now, what next?"
It was nearly midnight before the Cabinet meeting dissolved. The President left them to their own trailing conversations and, alone, retreated into the hush of the residence, steps measured, fighting the knots of exhaustion in his neck. He crossed the silent halls—the Secret Service agents keeping their distance, blending into the woodwork—and found himself in the solarium, the city below him a tapestry of sodium arc and LED glimmer that blocked out the light of foreign stars.
He pressed his palm to the cold glass. His reflection looked back: the trench-cut lines, the hard, weary eyes with crow’s feet gathering at the corners.
His eyes flicked to the picture of a woman standing on a nearby shelf. In the photograph, she was standing with a younger, smiling version of himself on a boat in the open ocean. Bannister recalled that trip with perfect clarity. A trip to Hawaii for their second anniversary, the year before Keira was born.
He hadn’t let himself miss her in months. Not really. There wasn’t time for it. Like many men, he dealt with grief by throwing himself into his work and the distractions it offered. But now, with the very real fate of his country on his shoulders, Bannister was hit by a sudden pang of longing so sharp and so intense it stole his breath away.
He let his forehead rest against the glass. Out there, beyond the parade of Capitol columns, he could picture the river winding black through the city, could imagine the tides tugging at the new coastline where it met the new world’s razor edge. Jazz music floated up from somewhere a few blocks away. Kate had loved jazz music.
He missed her. That was all, and it was everything.
What would Kate have to say about all this?
You know exactly what she’d say, you old fossil, Bannister thought. She’d tell you to grow a spine and to stop feeling sorry for yourself. There are more important things at stake than your own self-pity.
Bannister took a deep, cleansing breath and used all his military training to master his emotions and regain control of himself. Kate’s death was an old wound. It would never heal, but he had come to terms with it. He accepted it because there was no other option. He had loved Kate with all his heart, and now Kate was gone.
He closed his eyes, let the city drift from focus, and counted five long, slow breaths. The ache in his throat wasn’t going away. It never really did; he’d merely gotten better at pretending. There were practicalities, anyway—always another problem, another briefing, another demand for the President’s attention. He could mourn on his own time, on the rare occasion he had any.
The door creaked behind him, and Bannister turned, expecting a staffer or one of his security detail. Instead, he saw Keira, awkward in her pajamas and standing barefoot on the marble tile.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Bannister asked.
She shook her head. There was a set to her jaw he didn’t recognize in his daughter—a kind of sharpness that seemed both adolescent and very old. She crossed the floor and went to stand next to him.
For a minute, they watched the city together.
“I saw the news,” she said eventually. “Is it true?”
“Yes.” Bannister’s reply was curt. “It is.”
Keira’s eyes went to the picture he still held in his hand. “Were you thinking about Mom?”
Bannister was silent for a moment. “Yes.”
“You think about her a lot, don’t you?”
Another pause. “Every day.”
“Me too.”
Silence reigned between them.
“What was she like?” Keira finally asked. She’d asked that question many times before, but Bannister always answered it. Keira was only a small child when Kate died and had little memory of her mother.
“She was…” Bannister’s eyes went distant for a moment. “She was funny. Clever. She could out-argue a Supreme Court justice and make you laugh while she did it. She believed in all the things that matter—honor, service, seeing things through. Not just for herself, but for everyone.” She was the best part of me, he added, but only to himself. And the best part of me followed her to the grave.
“She’d be proud of you,” his daughter said. “You’re handling all this craziness about as well as anyone could, Dad. Better, even. The way you’ve managed to keep things on a somewhat even keel without the whole country descending into hysteria is remarkable all by itself. You’re going to do fine.”
Bannister grunted. He’d always felt ill at ease with praise. Nothing he’d done over his long career of service to his country was in the pursuit of glory. What Bannister had done—what he continued to do—was never about being liked or remembered. He’d just wanted to leave the world in better shape than he’d found it. Maybe that was foolish; it certainly wasn’t rewarded often. But it was how Kate had lived, and in his mind, the only way worth living.
He shifted his arm around Keira’s shoulders and squeezed. She leaned in, eyes distant, and together they stood in companionable silence.
“Did you eat?” Keira asked. “I know your meeting ran late. You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She grinned. “Liar.”
As if on cue, Bannister’s stomach rumbled.
“I’ll heat up some pizza,” Keira declared. “Want a Coke?”
What Bannister actually wanted was a rum and Coke, emphasis on the rum. Getting plowed, forgetting all this crap for just a little while, was tempting as hell. But he couldn’t function the way he needed to if he was dealing with a hangover, and the crap would no doubt have gotten worse while he wasn’t looking at it.
“A Diet Coke,” he said.
Keira padded to the kitchen. Bannister followed, his mind still knotted tight. He thumbed his phone as he crossed the tile, stepped around a stack of folders, and opened his inbox. A hundred unread reports since six o’clock. He let them pile up. They weren’t going anywhere.
He watched his daughter sling a slice onto a plate and nuke it. She spun around with the microwave’s whir, propped herself against the counter, and folded her arms tight. She looked so much like Kate that it made his heart clench.
A few minutes later, the microwave dinged. Keira took out the plate, popped open a can of Diet Coke, and slid both across the counter to him.
“You’re going to go, aren’t you?” she asked, voice soft.
“To Thafar-Gathol? Yes.”
“Can I come with you?”
He promptly choked on his food, spluttering and coughing. “Absolutely not! This isn’t some vacation, Keira! The risks are—”
“—manageable,” she cut in. “Isn’t that the whole point of every dinner-table lecture you’ve ever given me? Risk is part of life. Calculated risk is what you do. I am not some porcelain doll, Dad.” There was no anger, just a deliberate, practiced calm. “You’re taking diplomatic staff. And scientists. And advisors. Why not take a teenager who is both shockingly well-versed in fantasy politics and, incidentally, reminds people you have a human side?”
Bannister glared, the napkin still pressed between his thick, veined fingers. “You’ve never even been out of the country,” he said.
Keira watched him over the rim of her coke can, expression unreadable. “Dad, you’re smarter than that. Think it through. I’ve read every memo you’ve written about ‘winning the narrative.’ What makes a betters tory: Iron President braves a new world, or Iron President brings his only daughter to meet the Dwarf King? It humanizes you to the Dwarfs and makes you look gutsy at the same time.” She set the can down. “I can handle myself. And you know it.”
It was the “and you know it” that really twisted the knife, because she was right. Bannister had raised her in a way that made sure she could defend herself. He’d signed her up for martial arts at age six, knowing it would be the only place a child like Keira—tall, awkward, bookish—could learn to control her limbs and her temper. He’d dragged her to the gun range at nine after a rash of home invasions in their northern Virginia suburb, and taught her how to shoot. He’d insisted on summer camps each year that had less to do with pool parties and more to do with outdoor wilderness survival training.
But the risk—God, the risk—was so great. If something happened…Bannister didn’t even want to think about it.
He leaned back against the kitchen counter, waiting for his pulse to even out. “Keira, I can’t just— It isn’t safe,” Bannister said, voice low, “This is not a photo op, and I will not be going into a controlled environment. We’re going into the unknown, literally.”
Keira reached for the pizza box and slid another greasy slice onto her plate. “It wasn’t a controlled environment when you went to Afghanistan, or Iraq, or to any of those two-dozen ‘classified’ places you won’t ever talk about,” she said. “But you went anyway, because it mattered. And you trusted your team to watch your back. I’m part of that team. We Bannisters stick together.”
It was actually closer to three dozen, but Keira didn’t need to know that. Bannister picked at the cheese that had crisped to the plate, every nerve in his body fighting to keep from shouting. He had seen a lot of young men and women cut down before their time, and each one had hurt. All of those brave soldiers had been someone’s son or daughter…but none of them had been his.
He closed his eyes, counted one, two, three, and then opened them again. “You’re the last piece I have left of your mother,” he finally said, and in his voice was something Keira almost never heard. Uncertainty. Vulnerability. He couldn’t say Kate’s name, though. It hurt too much. “If something happened to you…Christ, Keira. I wouldn’t survive it. Do you get that?”
Keira nodded, eyes locked on his. “I do. But I need you to get something too, Dad. I’m not going to be President. I don’t want to be. But I am your daughter, and that means I’m already a target by default. I’d rather be with you, where I can help, than stuck in some safe house, watching the news and waiting to see when and if you come home.”
Keira’s words landed like a punch. Bannister felt the weight of them settle in his chest. She was right, and he knew it, and that stung more than any insult or smart-aleck comeback ever could. Keira was a target, no matter which nation’s soil she stood on. He caught himself glancing at her hands—steady, not trembling—and the set of her jaw, so much like her mother's when she dug in for a fight.
The urge to protect her warred with the knowledge that she’d never forgive him for hiding her away. She would resent it, maybe forever. He remembered the way she’d handled herself when, during a state tour of Eastern Europe, party had come under attack by partisans from the newest iteration of the Red Brigade, and the way she’d kept her head when half the adults around her had lost theirs. How, when the bullets started flying, she’d remained calm, manned a radio to keep communications up and running while the Secret Service engaged in a ferocious gunfight, and even applied a field dressing to a wounded member of the detail using a scarf she’d torn up herself. She’d told him later, “I only remembered what you taught me. That if you stay calm and focus on the next thing, you’ll get through it.” Which was more or less what Bannister had always hoped for and always tried to teach her—but that didn’t make the memory any easier to live with.
He couldn’t keep her safe in the world they came from; why would this new one be any different?
Dammit, Kate, he thought, you’d know how to talk her out of this.
Or, he amended, maybe you’d be the one to talk me into letting her.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, hard, just shy of grinding cartilage, and spoke through gritted teeth. “All right. You make your case to Martin. If he clears you, I’ll consider it. That’s not a guarantee, Keira. I’ll consider it…but I won’t promise anything more than that. But if I decide to let you go, you’ll follow his instructions—and mine—to the letter, without so much as a whisper of complaint, no matter how ridiculous they might seem at the time. That means a lot of non-negotiable ground rules, and no exceptions. You will defer to me, to Martin and to the Secret Service on everything. We will decide where you go, where you don’t go, who you talk to, and who you don’t. If I say it’s time to leave, that’s it. End of discussion. And under absolutely no circumstances will you go wandering off on your own.” He put extra gravel in his voice. “Do I make myself clear?”
Keira smiled, that secret, almost mischievous smile that reminded him so much of her mother. “Got it,” she replied, and Bannister could tell she was already gearing up in her head for the adventure.
Weariness overcame him and he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Go to bed, Keira. It’s late.”
Keira, still perched on the edge of the counter with her legs crossed at the ankle, eyed him over the rim of her can. “I will if you will. You need your sleep too, Dad.”
“I gave up on sleep when I was elected, along with other such luxuries as privacy, quiet, and regular meals,” he said sardonically. Bannister reached to the counter, pinched a chunk of crust from the pizza’s edge, and chewed thoughtfully. “I still have matters to attend to.”
Keira just smiled. She set her can down, hopped off the counter with a practiced grace, and padded over to kiss his cheek before heading out of the kitchen. Just before leaving, however, she turned back to him. “Dad?”
He grunted. “Hmm?”
“I meant what I said. You’re going to do fine. I love you. And for the record: Mom would be proud of you.”
She smiled and was gone before he could reply.
Bannister waited until her footsteps faded, and he heard the sound of her door closing. He thought back to when Keira was little, back when they could spend evenings together like normal people. A nice quiet evening with his daughter, maybe a movie and some popcorn…he couldn’t recall the last time he’d been able to enjoy that. Certainly not since the Event—no one could go an hour without somebody needing something, or some new existential crisis clawing for his attention. Tonight wasn’t different.
He thought of the mountain of paperwork still on his desk and sighed. Perhaps tonight I can actually make a dent in it before I lose the ability to keep my eyes open.
After all, he thought, there’s a first time for everything.
*****Zhi-Khara, the Serpent-Realm of Ti-Amatu*****
Hersaccs, High Priest of the Cult of Sesstra, blinked and opened his eyes. Not that it made much difference—they were milky and covered with cataracts, but that was the cost you paid when you lived as long as he did. At nearly eight hundred years old, he was ancient even by the standards of his own people. His scales were mottled gray with age, and it took two of his personal guard to help him up from the pile of silk pillows that served as his bed so he could take hold of his staff. He didn’t get to his feet, though. The Ti-Amatu didn’t have feet—their bodies ended in a sinuous, serpentine tail that began just below the waist. Hersaccs grasped the staff—which was both a symbol of his office and a weapon for a mage-priest such as he—and croaked, “I must see the King. Now.“
Ordinarily, rousing the King at such an hour was unthinkable. But Hersaccs, by virtue of his high office and the fact he’d known the current King from a hatchling, didn’t need to play by the rules everyone else in the realm did.
The guards bowed from the waist and hurried away to obey. Water was brought for the old priest to drink, then they helped him dress in the heavy, ornate garb of his office. Upon his brow, they placed an elaborate headdress made of fiery red gold in the shape of a brilliant, shining sun and adorned with red and orange gemstones. It trailed a mantle of scale-shaped golden plates that draped about his stooped shoulders, and around his withered frame, they draped a flowing robe of crimson fabric woven with threads of gold. They didn’t bother with a breastplate or sword. Even blind and ancient, Hersaccs was the most dangerous and powerful mage in the realm.
When all was in readiness, Hersaccs rapped his staff—which was topped with a softly glowing sunstone—on the flagstones, and the two guards hoisted him into his palanquin. The old mage-priest closed his eyes to ride out the jostle and lurch of the journey. The palace was only a few hundred spans away from the Great Temple, but at his age, even that short trip left him exhausted and made his stooped back ache with pain. Still, there was no time to waste—Sesstra the sun god, in his divine mercy, had given Hersaccs prophecy, and it had come to him in a dream so vivid he still recalled every detail.
The palace was built on a natural rise in the living city. Hersaccs felt the pulse and rhythm of Zhi-Khara all around him: the lapping sound of water in the aqueducts, the sticky buzz of insects, the smell of incense wafting from almost every house. Hersaccs folded his four arms over his chest as his party moved toward the city’s core—toward the one chamber, the one presence, that justified all the labor and violence and faith of every subject in the kingdom.
Once they moved beyond the palace causeway, the palanquin-bearers conveyed Hersaccs along a winding, meticulously tended path that wove through gardens ablaze with color. Bursts of orange lilies, indigo vines, and petaled lotuses competed in unruly splendor in the pre-dawn light. Between the beds, artificial streams cut by ancient hands converged in a series of step-down pools—miniature lagoons rimmed with obsidian tiles, each home to schools of shimmering fish.
The palanquin came to a halt at the mouth of a grand portico, where two immense doors of cast bronze, each carved with the writhing image of Sesstra in his aspect as the Celestial Serpent, barred the way. The guards posted there didn’t dare try to challenge the High Priest or bar him from entry. At their signal, the doors swung open on titanic hinges that groaned like tectonic plates. The resplendent hush of the gardens fell away, replaced by the cool hush of the palace complex.
The outer palace was a labyrinth of corridors teeming with scribes, servants, guards, and other personnel needed by the machine of state. Hersaccs’ palanquin passed by armories filled from floor to ceiling with weapons, libraries stacked with dusty scrolls, kitchens where servants were already at work making the day’s morning meal, and dormitories where many still slept. The inner palace, where the royal residence was located, was separated by another set of enormous doors. These, too, opened without need for a verbal command from the High Priest.
King Zassaliss was still asleep in his ornately furnished personal chambers when the rap on the door came. Hissing with displeasure, his forked tongue snaked out as he cursed and bestirred himself.
He was large and powerfully built, with a broad, sculpted chest and muscular arms that rippled with strength and power. Each finger on his four hands ended in a long, curved claw. Even without his kingly raiment, he was fearsome-looking indeed, and his slit-pupiled yellow eyes glimmered with intelligence. His hood, like that of a cobra, flared out as he yanked the door open.
When he saw Hersaccs and his guards, the King’s outrage at having his sleep interrupted instantly vanished. Only something of dire import could compel the old serpent-man to come all the way here at this hour.
“My king,” Hersaccs rasped. “We must speak.”
Zassaliss nodded, and the guards bore the priest into the room and set the palanquin down.
“What has happened?” he asked warily.
“O King,” the priest began. “Sesstra, in his grace and benevolence, has spoken to me through a dream. I have been given a vision, a sign of things that are and a warning of things that have yet to come to pass.”
Zassaliss stiffened. The sun god did not give prophecy lightly, and never for any but the most important of reasons. Surely, if Hersaccs spoke the truth—and he always did—this was a matter of supreme urgency. The King inclined his head and motioned for the guards to withdraw before seating himself coiled on the thick-padded dais near the palanquin.
“Speak, then, old friend,” the king said.
Hersaccs recounted the vision in a rasping whisper like dry scales rustling together. “In the dream, I saw a great bird—an eagle of tremendous size, dreadful, and terrible, and unimaginably strong. Its eyes were aflame, and its talons were swords, and its beak was made of iron. In its clutches it held lightning, and when it spread its wings, they enveloped the whole world.”
The priest continued. “And then Sesstra bore me aloft like a bird, and I flew far away, across oceans and mountains. There, beyond the place where the sun sets, I saw a realm unlike any before, vast beyond measure, mighty beyond imagining. I saw towers that stretched to the heavens, and ships of incredible size, and weapons that can level entire cities to rubble.”
Zassaliss felt the chill begin at his nape and descend, scale by scale, through the coils of his massive body—a sensation as physical as it was spiritual, and one he despised. The King of the Ti-Amatu was not accustomed to fear, and yet the old priest’s words slithered inside him like a venomous parasite. For a moment, Zassaliss simply stared at Hersaccs. The venerable High Priest, blind as a newborn, gazed somewhere past the king’s right shoulder, his sightless eyes glassy with the afterglow of prophecy.
“What does this mean?” Zassaliss finally asked, his voice a hiss that barely concealed his unease. “Are we threatened by this realm, or is what you say merely a vision of distant splendor?”
Hersaccs held up a finger. “It means,” he croaked, “that a power unlike any known to us has arisen, far beyond the reach of our maps and history. Whether they intend us harm, I cannot yet say. But their coming will upend all that has ever been and all we have ever known. For good or ill, a time of monumental change is upon us, my king. The gods reveal such visions only at the turning of ages.”
Zassaliss recoiled, just slightly—an involuntary gesture that Hersaccs, even sightless, took note of.
“Do you know the name of this eagle?” Zassaliss demanded, voice tight.
The old priest’s tongue flickered in thought. “The vision named them not. But their banners, their language, all that they are is utterly foreign. They are not of any realm we know, nor the spawn of a long-lost colony.”
Zassaliss shuddered, the hood of his neck rippling in agitation. “It is impossible,” he muttered. “No realm can reach so far across such distances. No foreign realm can reach us here—the desert has ever been our greatest and strongest wall.”
“And yet,” Hersaccs said, “If the Sun Lord has shown it to me, it must be so.”
“And what would you have me do?” the king asked, an edge of frustration creeping into his tone. “Sit here and wait like a rhinox before the the butcher’s knife?”
The priest’s smile was thin. “This prophecy is a warning and a gift from Sesstra. He has sent it to us so we can prepare. The world will change whether we wish it or not, my king. Better to be the hand that shapes the clay than the vessel shattered by the kiln. And mark my words well, for they come from the lips of the divine: the eagle will come. I know not when, but soon.”
“How will it come?” pressed the king. “What signs will herald its arrival? How will we know?”
“Where else can an eagle come but from above?” asked the priest in kind. “It will descend to the sands of Ti-Amatu from beyond the clouds, on wings of steel and pinions of fire.”
“Then I will send word to every border tower and fortress, every guard patrol in the kingdom to watch for this sign,” Zassaliss said. “When the eagle comes, we will be watching for it.” His four hands clenched as he continued. “I will not be the last of my line to sit upon the Hooded Throne. I will not let the shadow of this eagle’s wings fall upon my people. If Sesstra has willed it, then we shall meet it head-on, and we shall see which of us prevails.”
Hersaccs felt his scaly heart swell with pride. This was what made Zassaliss a king worth serving, he thought. For many monarchs, kingship was viewed as a birthright, a privilege. Zassaliss, by contrast, understood that a king should put his people first in all things and live and rule for them rather than for his own power and glory. “As you will it, so shall it be,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I will ensure the proper rites and incantations are carried out.” The Temple had to make offerings to Sesstra to thank the god for his benevolence in showing Hersaccs his vision, and clarity could be gained through the spells and rituals the members of his priestly order were trained to carry out.
Already, Hersacss’s mind—as sharp as ever, despite his age—was running through the myriad tasks he had to oversee. He needed to order the apprentices and neophytes of the Temple to prepare the scrying pool and begin assembling the most trusted of his priesthood to begin the holy auguries. They would employ every spell, enchantment, and ritual known to the Temple to try to divine greater certainty from the vision. In the stars, in the movement of planets, in the interpreting of flocks of birds and the reading of entrails, shards and pieces of the future might yet reveal themselves. These and many others, Hersaccs hoped, would provide clarity on some of the many, many unanswered questions his dream had left him with.
For the first time in centuries, the old priest felt unbearably pressed for time.
