The Wrathhowl flies two flags. Seven black shards on an indigo field. Each shard lit from within with two white stars. The shards orbit a black disk, itself spinning around another lonely star. The Table of Fifteen, the longest ruling organization since the Shattering. Below that, the much simpler Wolfpack emblem. A deep bloody burnt red wolf’s head on a crimson field.

Were that not enough to strike fear into the hearts of men and women across the Shards. The Wrathhowl fields more cannons than the entire Lincoln Navy combined, not counting it’s secret weapon, the housing for which warps the more traditional boat shape. The force of its firing engines, keeping it in a perpetual hover over the Lincoln docks, paints the world below in ultraviolet fumes. She dwarfs all other Skyships on the dock, and could almost fit The Kingfisher in the maw of her flaming wolf figurehead.

She burns fuel at a rate unthinkable to modern ethicists, the collection of which costs the Slave Towers many lives, and she is here as part of a diplomatic mission of course. Why else would such a ship be here, on allied, if uncomfortable, territory.

Mudge travels in his tiny ship, under the shadow of this beast, and looks up. Even his stout heart must surely blanch, though his face shows nothing.

“So, now that I’m all yours. You have some questions for me, Percy?”

Shrew’s lips tighten into a fine line. “I can tell we’re going to get along very well,” he says finally. “I will hold some of the more important questions for somewhere more private, but for now, why don’t you tell me how you came to Evergreen.”

* * *

We see the Kingfisher trailing Shrew’s small boat towards the dock. With Captain Thunder retired to her cabin under the watchful gaze of Patch, the ship’s medic, her lieutenants run the ship by majority vote. Molly, Artemis, Jonas, Lily and Wilhelm. It is a fractured and fraught democracy, with little common ground found between the disparate voyagers. Their chief concern is fuel, though repair works, food and water are all direly needed.

For now, in an unfamiliar city, and not enough coin to refuel, they settle on gathering information. A lot passes beneath the surface of a place the size of Lincoln town, and the crew of the Kingfisher don’t mind getting their hands dirty.

After tying up, they take their turns exploring the city, leaving a shift of voyagers guarding the boat, the officers stretch their legs. The City of Lincoln is a walled hexagon, situated on the lake so that the docks form one of its edges. It is split into sections, each one separated by wide roads which run from the center out to the corner points of the wall. While much of the city’s defensive structure is built from stone, its inner workings are a masterclass in woodcarving. Houses - not so much built but woven from wood harvested from the local plantations - line the streets.

Molly makes her way across the docks to the shipyard. Tireless workers cobble wood and metal together into the frames of skyships, the newer styles have less charm than her old Kingfisher, but she can’t argue with the market. They are smaller, cheaper, and only the hull is Livewood. The rest of the ship is made with standard lumber and Wolfpack forged steel. While the lumberyard sings with the songs of industry, Molly watches. Ships are being built or rebuilt, but there is no sign of Widowgas.

Artemis takes a walk along the bustling streets. The locals give him a quiet, respectful berth. His robes and features mark him apart, and he prefers it that way. He breathes in the city, following the faintest waft of burning sandalwood to the Temple district. The church is a beautiful thing, of curling vines and flowers. Light and colour. A shrine to Seth sits in the luminescence of a window fashioned from coloured Rezirian glass. In six smaller alcoves, quiet shrines sit to the remaining six Gods. Artemis makes his way to Azhure’s mirrored ravens, carved in obsidian and ivory. There he sits, and listens to the muttered whispers.

Wilhelm, ship’s Navigator, lets the wind take him. He strolls along the docks, letting the fresh breeze grace his withered body. With his patch and one eye, he looks like a pirate of old, limping between the skyships and sailboats. He feels the flow of people past him, and looks for a way forward.

Lily knows exactly what she’s looking for, and she finds it quickly, a sign hung on an angle just so, white pepperberries hung in the eaves, and a scratch placed half-hidden on the wooden door frame. The underbelly of a city is usually in plain sight, if you know where to look, and what to look for. Lily knows all the signs. She enters the bar, glancing around. She counts rings and bracelets, she listens for words not spoken. She spends some moments watching a group of minstrels rehearsing for the evenings show. She’s tempted, but she left that life behind, and she has a job to do.

Instead of splitting our story into so many pieces, let us follow Jonas as he limps his way up the stairs built into the docks, ascending to the second level. He works up a slow sweat by the time he presents himself in front of the Wrathhowl.

My prison.

“Officer Hellion Bloodhallow, of the Second Naval Infantry reporting in,” Jonas says to the Wolfpack soldier standing by the gangplank. “Run and find your alpha, little pup… this is above you.”

The Wolfpack soldier growls under his breath, but looks down, bowing his head sharply as Jonas flashes something glittering gold and red from his breast pocket.

The pup swallows whatever response he was going to make before giving a crisp salute. “If my lord will just wait here. I will see if the Captain can see you now.”

Jonas nods the nod of a man accustomed to deference, and waits patiently, though it’s only a few minutes before the guard rushes back. “Admiral Blitz is ready for you,” he says, gesturing Jonas onto the ship proper.

We might see the hint of tension around those amber eyes, if we looked closely enough, as the Admiral’s name is announced, but Jonas is committed.

The Admiral’s office tells a story of a man not yet grown into the prestige of his rank. A palatial cabin for any sailor, the space is largely empty, with only a desk in the middle and finely polished shelves along the edges. A blood red narrow rug lays out of place on the polished wooden floor, stained almost black.

The Admiral himself stands beside the desk, arms crossed over his broad chest. His hair is tinged more gray now than when last Jonas saw him, but he still wears the same bushy side-burns and full moustache.

“Commander-” The Admiral looks up and recognition flits across his eyes. He turns to the guard who showed Jonas in and barks. “Leave us.”

As the door shuts, the burly admiral draws a whisper-thin rapier from his sheathe and levels it at Jonas. Jonas had seen the Windblade in action years prior, back when Admiral Blitz had gone by Captain Feathersword, a name that sent fear through the Wolfpack’s enemies. It seemed to shimmer in the firelight with divine energy. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t bury this in your heart, Blackwater.”

“Teresa-” Jonas’ low voice is cut off by the whistle of the sword moving. It slices upward, leaving a gash running up his cheek. A drop of blood spatters Jonas’s overcoat as the Admiral turns, he seems to deflate as he sheathes his sword.

“She deserved better than you, Jonas.”

“I know. She knew it too. That’s what we fought for.”

“You should have fought harder,” Blitz says, turning to his dresser and sliding out two heavy glasses.

“You seem to have done alright out of our loss,” Jonas says with a bitter edge, “from Captain Feathersword to Admiral Blitz in six years.” There is a crunch of glass breaking from behind Blitz.

“When your daughter gives her life to stop the half-breed’s revolt, the rewards come as thick and fast as the condolences. What are you doing here, Jonas, and how can I get you to leave?” He turns, holding a single glass filled with rich red wine. The second glass lies in shards and fragments.

“I need Widowgas,” Jonas states plainly.

“No-”

Jonas growls, his fists clench tight. “You’re denying me?! I took the fall for her. The only reason you’re not in prison as the father of a war criminal is because of me.”

“And giving Widowgas to another war criminal would go so well for me? No, it’s not that. I can’t.” Blitz stiffens, and in an instant Jonas sees the battle is lost.

“Why not? Can you at least organize the funds? Believe me, I don’t want to be hanging around whatever operation you’re running here if I can help it.”

“You won’t be able to purchase the ‘gas. We’re stockpiling it.”

“What? What in Vhaere’s name for?”

“There’s trouble brewing between the Faerie folk and the locals. We’re… protecting it.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“You and I both know the Table wouldn’t send a warship like this to a job like that. There’s something else, isn’t there.”

“I’m not at liberty to say. I’m a soldier, Jonas. I follow orders. Just like you used to.”

“I’m still a soldier, sir,” Jonas fills the word with invective. “I’ve just found someone who’s orders don’t make me feel like a dog. We’re wolves, Alec, this,” Jonas gestures to the formal uniform, the stark cabin, the knots of rank on Blitz’s shoulders “this is just another leash.”

“Spoken like a true revolutionary. Ironic how quickly they turned on you, with rhetoric like that. But as effective as it might have been on my daughter, you’ve come to the wrong place. This is bigger than you and me. I can’t give you the ‘gas. We need it.”

“How much does a ship like this burn?”

“Enough. But the issue isn’t flight. It’s-” Blitz looks to Jonas, ruby eyes narrowing. “Your old friend is on board. Testing an experiment of his.”

“An experiment?” Jonas’s ears prick up. “You mean-”

“I can’t say more than that. But, son-”

“Don’t you dare call me that,” Jonas spits.

“You don’t want to be around here. Whatever life you’ve built for yourself, take it away from Evergreen and hold to it.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Maybe so,” Blitz says. He drains the Heartwine in one long gulp, and drops the glass carelessly on the floor. It shatters with a clear ringing sound. “Don’t come back on board. Some of my men remember your face, and not kindly.” There is a knocking before the door opens a crack, a crisply uniformed soldier poking his head in.

“Sir, I heard-”

“Yes, my mistake. Dropped my glass. It can wait though, please escort Mister Bloodhallow back to the pier. He has important business to attend to, then send someone for the mess.”

Jonas fumes silently, but lets himself be led away, his cheek stinging slightly. The guard, a good dog, doesn’t ask questions. Behind him, the Commander slouches in his chair, a heavy weight on his shoulders.

* * *

“A courtesan, huh?”

Shrew looms awful well for a man of such small stature. Mudge sits, hands manacled by a loose iron-link chain to the heavy wooden table in front of him. The table is well made, by his eye, sturdy and heavy. He’d have better luck breaking the chain than moving it. The outer walls of the cell were carved with patterns of leaves and roots, while the inside was sparse. A simple wooden cell with a single door, set flush with the wall where Shrew’s partner, a stern looking woman stands with arms folded.

“That’s right.” Mudge tips his head at the woman, who glowers at him. A lost cause.

“Because you’re just that good.”

“I’m a Builder, Percy, what we lack in magical ability, we make up for in ingenuity. If you want to put me to the test, you’ll have to undo these.” Mudge jingles the manacles meaningfully.

“Ingenious, and creative, that’s the Builder’s way,” Percy says, tapping the table in a lazy rhythm. “Except, it appears, when generating believable falsehoods?”

“And what? You’d be more inclined to believe me if I told you it was a family heirloom? Or that I won it from a mysterious hooded stranger in a game of Two-Hand? How about this, I tripped over it in the latrine.”

“You live on a skyship, Mister Mudge, you don’t use a latrine.”

“Point. But, I’m not always on the ship.”

Shrew runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “There’s no need for this silly dance. I really have no time for you to just be antagonistic for the sake of it. You seem a good enough sort, why mess me around, just because I’m a lawman? Who does that benefit? I want you on my side. This situation is bigger than the two of us and the roles we are expected to play.”

“You catch more bees with honey,” Mudge says, gesturing to his sparse cell.

“Yes but are you a bee or a wasp?, and do I just need to catch the bee, or do I need to kill it? I don’t know, Mister Mudge. I have too many questions. Bombs are exploding in the forest, the Faerie are rightly angry, and I need answers.”

“Bee. Wasp. What if I’m the honey?” Mudge says with a chuckle. “You’re not going to kill me. I heard your little speech on deck. A leap of faith, right?”

Shrew waits, as Mudge looks him over. Weighing his options.

“If I tell you the truth, I want a guarantee that you’ll release me.”

Shrew chuckles. “No, no I won’t give you that much.”

“Fair enough. I could be a murderer,” Mudge’s eyes glint, and Shrew crosses his arms, unimpressed. “I’m not in the business of doing favours for lawmen,” Mudge says finally. “You made a leap of faith, and as far as I know, one good turn deserves another. But I want something from you. Food.”

“Your last meal?”

“Let me make the jokes. The Kingfisher’s stores are dry. Deliver a month’s worth of mixed rations and bring back a signed receipt from Kendra Stoutheart and Rico, her apprentice. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“And how am I supposed to trust you? What’s to stop you from lying to me again, I need something, Mudge. Some show of good will, I can’t just keep making leaps of faith.”

“The emerald came from a cavern behind a waterfall in Faerie country.”

“That’s-”

“That’s not all the information, by the way. You supply my men, I’ll give you all the juicy details, and how about this, you can tell me what you know as well.”

“Where in Faerie Country, do you have co-ordinates?”

“Yes.”

“…Damnit Mudge, Fine. But not a month, that’s crazy, one week.”

“Two weeks.”

“Deal.”

* * *

Outside, far from Mudge, Jonas and the rest, in a half-forgotten corner of the deep forest, a reaction begins. It is a chemical, mechanical thing. Not magic or malicious. An intricate machine begins to strike at flint. It ticks, the flint failing once or twice, giving us time to look up from the roots where it is carefully placed. A colossal Livewood tree towers above, bigger than any tree could have possibly grown on old Arden. In it’s trunk, the diameter of which is enough to send even the most stout-hearted arborist into a hot flush, is carved a relief. Carved is the wrong word, really, it is grown. Sculpted from the bark itself. It is ancient, and worn, and hums with a deep resonant power. The sculpture shows Seth, beetle-God of the growing things, bestowing gifts upon the Faerie Folk. He grants them trees, rivers, animals and power. The sculpture is ages old, before the Shattering, before the rise and fall of the Saints.

Then the flint strikes. Explosion shatters wood, and the carving is no more.