Flames-on-the-Coast, or as the majority of the land-walking world knew it, Central City, was a unique metropolis. A city-state in all but name, and built on the ruins of a lost city rumored to have angered the sea gods in antiquity (but was actually destroyed by a magic battle between two huge monsters in a nearby cave next to a crystal), the population soared over the past decade to reach an estimated two and a half million souls (on land anyway, in the waters of the bay, it was another matter entirely). It was considered an isolated and small city by the rest of the world, but strangely, it had the political power to shape economic and social policy for most of the rest of the world.

Edging a forest that contained meat-hungry and deadly creatures and poisoned ground, plants, and skies to the east, impassable mountains with permanent snow storms to the north, a desert hundreds of miles deep to the south, and the tempestuous Bay of Tileson with choppy waters and uncooperative headwinds to the west, the city was a speck of industriousness and teemed with humanity on an otherwise wild and untamed tapestry of land. Other cities in other parts of the world were more human-friendly, human-wrought, and were less geographically isolated; they boasted interconnected highways, bus terminals, and trains-- if spied from the air, most other cities had traffic that flowed to and fro, like blood in the arteries of a giant circulatory system.

Central City stood alone. Sure, it had a massive harbor for ships that braved the choppy waters of the bay, and an airport for planes risky or foolhardy enough to brave traversing over the sky-high, stormy mountains or almost endless desert and daunting forest-- imports and exports were a thriving, if costly business in Central. The average citizen enjoyed luxury goods from the rest of the world at a high cost; New Haven rugs from the South Continent and wines and fruit from the Azure Archipelago were displayed in upper-classed houses as a sign of wealth and status.

Small farming towns dotted the periphery of Central for a hundred miles, sprouting from a highway that led through in a half-mile-wide corridor of the forest and to an eventual neighboring city that was thousands of miles away-- connected by two-lane roads pitted with debris and potholes. The smaller towns within a couple of days' drive were considered by most to be subsidiary towns— vassalages and tributary towns that in truth acted as a bread basket for the veracious maw of Central's hungry citizenry.

Mostly Central stood alone in that it had the highest per capita magic-born —or parahumans as the humans say— species in the world, and was the headquarters of the Conclave. The human citizens of Central City had knowledge of the Conclave but had no idea that roughly thirty percent of their friends and neighbors were parahumans, and the magic-born kept it that way. Humans tended to be fearful and violent creatures when faced with uncertainty. History proved that if humanity had a target to blame big or small ills for, they’d do it, grab pitchforks, and start pyres.

The Conclave was the ruling body, according to itself, of all magical people and beings of the world. But if one of the handful of ancient dragons who were sleeping in the mountains or the world-eating serpent who was said to be buried under the desert sands were asked, they would surely disagree.

In previous eras, most of the different species kept to themselves and avoided others. This, according to a few of the most powerful at the time, led to conflict and strife that could have been avoided if avenues of communication were open and rules of engagement were maintained. Those powerful few banded together and created a governing system in which problems could be addressed and rules could be forged. After a while, a new and different powerful few saw the merits of diplomacy and also joined. And thus, the Conclave was born.

The Conclave had a ruling council of seven high permanent appointees. There had been other chairs for other beings in the past, but some fell away to slumber the rest of their eternities away, some had been lost to time, and others had just lost interest. It was the way of immortals to only stick to things that kept their attention and no one with any self-preservation would willingly force the issue.

The High Archmage held the first seat and regulated the mages. The Archmage was headquartered at the University.

Mages were unique-- if an average human wanted to and was of a rare few who had the predisposition for it, they could join the ranks of parahumans with grit and study. The University was a center of collectivized knowledge, at least on paper, and every human who was discovered to have basic mana generation was forced to enroll as a student. After a few years of highly rigid, regimented, and extreme study, most graduates found work doing small magics and simple cantrips for aristocratic families or government agencies. Few became actual casters, as the ability to cast even the most basic of spells was regulated to only a few families. Mages had an additional internal parliament whose seats were fought over in cut-throat elections. Their parliament decided who was the High Archmage, and the current High Archmage had held her seat for two centuries.

The second seat was held by the Dominant, who controlled the Pack Council that ruled on internal matters and ruled the shifters. The shifter population mostly lived in the city's surrounding towns, using the wilds to have space to run with their packs. As a result of land ownership and opportunity, the Pack Council monopolized the supply of food. Shifters were born-- not bitten as some humans thought-- so their numbers were fairly consistent, if on the higher side of a population census. Shifters, if asked about by any of the other paras, were good at the three f's, and were treated like the shameful, backwoods cousins of the magic-born world. It was a fair opinion. The further a pack got from the borders of civilization, the less civilized they quickly became. It was common for the Pack Council to have to police and wipe out any packs who strayed a little too close to lawbreaking and rule-bending.

The third was held by the Herald of Blood, who ruled both mithrans and the sanguinas. Known as the derogatory appellation of "vampires" by humans and others, mithrans were a magic-born blood-drinking race who could all trace their ancestry back to one mythical ancient monster. Sanguinas, however, were created by mithrans. Much strife was had between the two factions, as mithrans consider themselves superior as creators. Sanguinas considered the mithrans as slavers and life usurpers. Neither mithrans nor sanguinas could be distinguished from each other by anyone not of their species.

The fourth was for witches, sorcerers, and shamans-- all shunned as lesser, wild magic users by mages-- who derived a voice on the council from the Crone. They were the most human-like magic born and the breeds that hated humanity the most, due to encountering prejudice from mages. They were the ones most affected by human conflicts— mage hunters were rare, but witch hunters happened every decade or so, and were usually backed by a silent mage family.

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The fifth was for the kin, also known as the Shining Ones, whose representative on the council was the only known Sidhe King in Central City. He had a long-held kitsune proxy who spoke on his behalf, as it was mostly against his nature to draw attention to himself in such a public way. Although the most magically significant, the Shining Ones were the fewest in number, topping the world's population at [redacted]. They did not like being remembered, having done major workings in the past to hide in plain sight, but they did like having a say in what the others were doing. The seat was seen as a double-edged blade. All kin viewed the Sidhe King with pity and gratitude-- someone had to sit in the seat-- but being publicly outed surely made his court less hidden. The Shining Ones' seat also championed the voices of all others who did not have the numbers or the power to hold a seat for themselves.

All denizens of the ocean nations were represented by an ambassador. It was the sixth seat. It rarely ever had someone present. The sea folk did not care about the happenings on land unless the happenings on land affected the sea. For instance, if a human company were to pollute the waters of the bay, a representative would be present to issue a complaint. If a ship capsized and there were living survivors, the representative would be present, if only to collect recognition for the rescue, or to chastise the survivors for attempting an ocean crossing during unfavorable conditions. Sometimes, for trade issues, the representative would make an appearance. Most times, the seat stayed vacant, and no one in the Conclave wanted to issue offense to the mighty ocean nations by removing the seat they had awarded in ages past.

The seventh and last seat was for a human representative. Although everyone else had magic and might, history showed that humans had numbers and the pragmatic, cold-hearted, and ruthless ability to throw lives away in wars for pyrrhic victories and lay waste to everyone involved, including themselves— which was problematic for those peoples who used humanity as a food or mana source. In the past decade, humanity had clawed its way to a seat at the table, using rapidly advancing technology and its unfettered ability to wage bloody and abhorrent wars on other continents. Unsurprisingly, the other heads of the council viewed the humans as, at best, little more than violent children, and at worst, idiotic food.

The Conclave itself met in a large building with echoing marble halls, in a centralized location in the city. The building looked like what a king would call “too much for a palace”. The hallowed atmosphere inside was of power held and power taken. Guilded crown molding and priceless artworks littered every available space. People of all ilks rushed to and fro, like busy little bees currying favor with their queen.

It was quite ostentatious and considered a gaudy over-built monstrosity by almost everyone sitting at the council table in the main hall. The human and the mage favored it. Six of the seven seats were occupied.

"I don't even know why we are here." A nasal voice said. "We haven't seen any indications that anything has gone awry. All satellite imagery comes back normal. Data centers haven't reported any unusual activity. Can someone explain to me why we were called in today?"

Almost everyone at the table was irritated at the tone the nasal man used. No one had to answer him, and no one at the table was his subordinate. He acted like they were, but that was the problem with the mayfly species. Everyone at this table, including him, knew the other seatholders could kill him rather quickly, but the man knew several treaties would be destroyed if anyone dared. While in this chamber, if he did as humans do and died, nukes would get launched. He used this as leverage to be an asshole. Because he could.

A different man who had a snarl on his face said, "Last month, wards set on a secure location were triggered. A few ancients were concerned that a portal had opened and let through an unknown entity."

"But nothing happened. If an entity did make it through, we would know about it by now, surely.” The nasal man said.

”We haven’t seen anyone use the gateway since those asshole elves a few decades ago.” A brutal man who had a brutal face said absently.

A chiming voice belonging to a beautiful woman with long red hair, keen eyes, and fox-like features chuckled, ”It’s been three hundred years, you old fool.”

”Still, the elves were the last. And they shattered it. No one else can use it, more’s the pity. I remember there was this garden planet…”

Interrupting the expected segue of the doddering, old, and unusually ugly man, another voice that held a whisper of death said, ”Nonetheless, the wards were triggered. I was told by my progenitor that an ancient evil may appear. He said he had felt it before in the days before the ancient city fell.” The person who spoke looked like an open and welcoming grave at a beautiful cemetery.

”But nothing happened.” The nasal man rebutted. He pointed at the papers on the table in front of him as if anyone in the room actually cared about what they said.

”Not yet, at least. Hadrian, have you heard anything from your King? Or is he still pretending he’s an average human lawyer to pull fairy tricks on the masses?” A young-looking woman with bright eyes and shiny hair said. She stirred a drink with the wave of a finger.

”He is currently mentoring a new Lord in the city. Wooing them, possibly, I don’t know. Hopefully, he is grooming them to take my place so I don't have to interact with the rest of you anymore. But he has no interest in anything that’s not the new Lord currently.” The red-headed lady said while rolling her eyes. "Don't use that word."

”A new Lord in the city? We haven’t had one of those in a while! A century at least!” The ugly man said.

She rolled her eyes again, this time with loving exasperation and with less regular exasperation, ”The only new Lord we’ve had in millennia has been the one who pissed off the king and was killed almost as fast as he appeared. That was.. 700? 800 years ago?”

"That aside, the meeting was called for us to make everyone else aware that the ancients think that things are changing. A few of them are worried that the balance we've achieved and the peace that we or our forebearers have fought for may be in jeopardy." The snarling man said.

"Nonsense." Nasal man spit. “Alarmist nonsense peddled by the scared.”

"Ancients got to be ancients because they didn't disregard warnings or sage advice. Usually, when someone tells an ancient something bad is about to happen, the ancient listens and lives." The pretty younger lady said while sipping her drink.

"Me and mine will never be ancients. We aren't worried about living for the next thousand years. Only the next fifty is what we actually care about. If you have something for us to shoot at, interrogate, or attack, let us know. Until then, if the idea of some impending ancient evil gets out to the masses, you'll have a mass panic on your hands and rioting in the streets. So, maybe don't make an announcement or anything. In fact, until you know specifics, don't even bring it up to us again." The nasally man didn't realize how much the room had cooled in his direction. It was never warm to begin with.

"That's ridiculous. Of course, we aren't going to worry the flocks. Why even let them know?" The man who whispered like death said. "But, my progenitor will be investigating, so if the streets start running red with human blood when one of your kind gets as irreverent with him as you get with us, don't say I didn't warn you. He also mentioned that after moving his funds to a human bank, a vast amount went missing. You should probably be reminded every millennia or so that your kind will only ever be food to him."

“And how will you stop him if he goes on a rampage?”

”I am a mithran. I’m old. But I am no god. One of your small suns wouldn’t kill him if he chose to test it. I plan to do nothing and watch it happen.”

”Fuck.”