All around Lord Scieth, the air pulsated and hummed. From somewhere… or everywhere, there was a rhythmic whooshing sound, as if an enormous weighted rope were being twirled through the air in sync with the beating of his heart.

Beneath him, the deck planks of the Glory class dreadnought airship vibrated with each turn of the vessel’s room sized steam engine. The creak of wood and ropes as the vessel bobbed lazily through the air grew quieter with each second.

As he fell deeper into his meditation, the engine seemed to slow until it each turn of the ship’s massive dual propellers beat steadily like a gentle drumming. Finally the time dilation meditation was complete. He was alone with his thoughts and could try to hear -

The sound was subtle at first; so quiet, he was sure it was his imagination. Then, it began to grow. The whispering had returned. Scieth had been in the Prophetess’ attunement chamber plenty of times before. When she communicated with her servents, he could often hear the whispers of many.

This was different however. First, he was suspended far above the ground, far from the black crystal lined chamber. Also, the whispers were not those of many of her servants, but of one voice. He strained, careful not to break his concentration. The voice seemed to be clearing, but the pain in the back of his head was growing too.

“Scieth…Your time approaches.”

Lord Scieth was thrown from his trance. His body sailed through the air until it hit the hard wooden wall, three meters behind him. With a loud oof, he collapsed to the ground and gasped for breath.

Suddenly, the gentle pounding of the ship’s propellers became a steady hum again. Wind whistled through the thick netting and J-ropes outside as their dreadnought continued on its course northward.

Scieth shook his head to clear the ringing. He had meditated and communicated with the Prophetess on countless occasions, but the conversations never left him feeling this way. He stumbled to his feet, feeling as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

When he was finally convinced he wouldn’t fall over, he shuffled to a nearby drink cabinet, grabbed a bottle of wine, a vintage nearly two hundred years old and from the supple hills of the Northern Tribes. One bottle of it was worth a ten year indentured servitude contract in the Alliance.

Scieth poured himself a glass and threw it back in one gulp. After a few more hasty swigs of the cool liquid, the pain in his head dulled and the whispers receded into memory. There was one thought that the wine failed to cool.

“Scieth… your time approaches.”

The words repeated in his head. It wasn’t what was said that disturbed him, though he didn’t understand the meaning behind it. It was who had said the words. For the first time in his life, it was not the voice of his Prophetess that had called him to meditation. It was… another. A deep, almost primal voice, and he was certain, that of a male.

His thoughts were interrupted as, through the deck plates, he heard a sudden shouting and trampling of feet. Moments later, there was a sharp knock on his door.

“Come in!” he shouted, angry that he had been disturbed in his weakened state.

A small man, likely the cabin boy burst into the room but quickly stopped and bowed low. “Begging your pardon sir,” he began, “and pardon the intrusion-”

“Out with it boy, before I burn you to a crisp for interrupting me!” Scieth snapped.

“Of fff cc course sir,” the boy stammered. “Lookout reports dragons, dead astern. Approaching quickly. Your presence is requested on the topdeck… sir, Lord, umm.” The boy bolted back out of the room.

Scieth’s stomach turned to lead. So, the stories of dragons in the southern hills were not just myth. For the first time in a long time, he was in real danger.

***

The slate grey walls of Trest, the capital city of the Alliance, loomed overhead. From his vantage point, they appeared to Jim to bend over him like a great tent top. Above and out of view, the day guard marched, or shuffled from what he could hear, upon the road width top.

He and Kalandra had been silent for hours. The hot sun had stolen away any wish for conversation. Finally, they had reached the northern gate. The five meter high doors were swung open, as was custom during the day, but only a token guard of two soldiers stood by. Jim could tell that this entrance was virtually unused. Patches of sand and debris covered the road so thick in some places, it could hardly be considered a path at all.

“Remember,” Jim whispered as they sidestepped to avoid a manza bush that had rooted itself deep in the center of the path, “Walk with confidence. If they ask us any questions, talk down to them. We’re supposed to be agents of the Prophetess.”

Kalandra opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it and nodded.

They were only a few paces from the guard now and could see the pair looking at each other nervously as they stepped in to block the entrance.

“Welcome to the city of Trest,” the taller of the two began.

Jim froze, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t actually thought of what to say.

He cleared his throat and began, “I… I mean we, are priests of the uh… Prophetess and uh…”

The two guards glanced at each other, confusion written on their faces.

Then, Kalandra spoke up. Her voice was louder than her small figure would have had him believe. “You will step aside in the name of our queen!” she bellowed. “I and my initiate are on a tight schedule and will not be slowed by unkempt specimens such as yourself.”

Jim stared in wide eyed shock at Kalandra. “Initiate? But-”

“Silence!” she shouted.

The taller of the two guards pulled at his collar attempting in vain to straighten it. “If you’ll pardon me, maam,” he said, “All travellers through the north gate must show papers. I -”

“How dare you!” Kalandra screeched. Both guards snapped to attention. Her voice was like a glass of ice cold water to their worried faces. Jim was still staring in disbelief. Kalandra was undeterred and continued, “Agents of her grace do not ‘travel.’ We move with purpose on her most holy assignments. And now, our assignment lies within the poorly maintained walls of your city. Step aside!”

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The shorter guard began to step backward, but the leader stood his ground, though his knees appeared to be knocking together. “Please ma'am,” he begged, “It’s only my duty. With the war on, we -”

“You do not know war yet, little man,” Kalandra interrupted with an icy growl. “But, you will. I will consume your body in flame, in Her name.” To emphasize her point, Kalandra held out her hand. A small flame lept from somewhere behind the open gate, likely a cooking fire or lamp, and formed a small ball above her palm.

A sharp exhale escaped the taller guard’s lips followed by a small squeak. Quickly, he backed away. Half panicked, he squealed, “Your entrance is granted. Welcome to the city of Trest. I...I hope your stay is…” he didn’t finish as he and the other guard retreated into the gatehouse.

Jim was still starting at Kalandra as she extinguished the fire and gently nudged him forward.

Her voice was back to its mousy hushed tones as she leaned in and whispered, “Close your mouth, Jim, or you’ll catch flies.”

***

Trest was bustling with activity. Even near the northern entrance, the noise of humanity was thick in the air. As Jim and Kalandra wove their way through the weblike streets of the ‘izatalan sector, also known as the Peasant Quarter, they were assaulted with smells, both good and bad.

Open cook fires burned, seemingly without care for safety, in front of sagging clay and wood buildings. The welcoming aroma of walnut, river seed, and other plants common only to the green delta region filled the air. Dirty children, dressed in rags, darted in every direction, laughing and playing while others carried buckets of water in large buckets or bags of food.

There were even a few food carts on the slightly less filthy streets. More affluent ‘izatalans, that is to say, ones that weren’t steeped in destitute poverty, crowded around the carts and shouted their negotiations at the merchant, who shouted right back.

Suddenly, there was a commotion.That is to say, a greater commotion than was typical. A small statured man emerged from the crowd at a sprint. His robes were girded up into a makeshift sack. As the man ran, a few pomegranates bounced out and across the ground. As quickly as they fell, a group of children descended upon them. When they dispersed, the fruits were gone.

The thief then turned north. Jim was nearly knocked aside as the man ran past him with a woosh. As he turned, he could feel Kalandra grab his arm and pull him toward the edge of the street. “What’s wrong?” Jim asked, stumbling backward.

“You don’t want to be the in the line of fire when -”

At that moment, there was a whistling sound. Two greyish streaks seemed to emerge from the crowd of buyers. There was a sickening squishing sound to Jim’s right. He turned to see the cloaked man face down in the street, screaming. One of his legs had been severed just above the knee. In the small of his back, a second large grey colored disk had planted itself.

“What in the shit was that?!” Jim exclaimed.

“Shh,” Kalandra scolded him. “We’re priests. We don’t shout obscenities.”

Jim lowered his voice. “Then I ask you again, what the shit was that?”

Kalandra grabbed his arm again. “We should continue. I’ll tell you on the way,” she said.

They began their trek again as men, as poorly dressed as the other ‘izatlan but much larger than most, ran past. Jim noted, they had the look of hired help, or thugs as most people called them.

The crowd fell behind them along with the noise and shouting.

“Those were pushculls,” Kalandra said as they turned the street.

“Can’t say I’m familiar with the term,” Jim said. “And I traded in Trest a few times in my sailing days.”

“I’m not surprised,” Kalandra said. “They aren’t legal, technically.”

“Go on,” Jim said.

“They’re discs made from pushstone,” Kalandra said with a shrug. “And since pushstone is made through a process that involves mixing black crystal with sand-”

“And since it’s illegal for the peasant class to possess black crystal,” Jim interrupted.

“Exactly,” Kalandra said, nodding.

They turned another street. The noise was dying down. Jim also began to see paving stones emerge from underneath the dusty sand. The buildings too looked cleaner, newer.

“Looks like we’re in the citizen’s quarter,” Kalandra said.

Jim continued, “Why would you make a throwing weapons from pushstone. The stuff is as heavy as concrete. Why not steel or some other metal?”

“Pushstone may be heavy, but it works really well for stopping runners,” Kalandra replied. She couldn’t see Jim’s expression behind his hood, but she assumed her answer wasn’t satisfactory.

“Since pushstone hovers above the ground at about one meter, and since it’s so heavy,” she said, grimacing as she did, “it stops just about anyone from running. It takes a pretty strong person to throw a pushcull though.”

Jim whistled. “Wow. Makes sense I guess. Those two guys were huge.”

Now, the smaller walls that protected the inner city were coming into view. As Jim and Kalandra continued to move inward, the condition of the buildings and the people around them was improving. Sufficiently well kept citizens walked the streets in light colored robes designed to nullify some of southern Ruin’s cruel heat.

Here, there were no merchant carts. Unlike the chaos of Rock Bottom, the streets of the Citizen’s Quarter were orderly. People moved in organized lines and occasional small groups, always careful to step sideways for city police, soldiers, or other officials. There was almost a military precision to the movement.

“You said you grew up in this city, right?” Jim asked as they turned down the main road leading toward the inner city.

“Yes,” Kalandra replied. “Not far from here, up this road.” She pointed toward the inner gates which were slowly growing as the pair drew nearer.

“It’s been a few years since my last stop in Trest but,” Jim hesitated a moment and then continued, “Doesn’t the place seem… I don’t know, happier?”

“What do you mean?” Kalandra asked.

“Well I mean, bloody thug stuff aside, the attitude here is almost, well, happy. At least compared to my last trip to Trest. Even the peasant quarter is doing well. I’ve never heard of merchants in that part of town.”

“Hmm, I think you’re right,” Kalandra said. “It seems, the conquest of the Federation lands has been very good for Trest.”

Jim’s face grew dark as he reached the same conclusion. “The capital of the Alliance is growing fat off the spoils of war,” he muttered. “While millions of refugees are streaming out of the conquered Federation lands.”

There was no reply from Kalandra. She either had nothing to say or didn’t care as deeply about it as he did. How could she? he thought. This is her home city. The Federation was her enemy before the Prophetess took her mind.

Finally, they reached the inner gate. A large crowd was gathered at the entrance as the guards, much better dressed and more disciplined, meticulously checked that papers of each person before letting them through.

Until this point, Jim and Kalandra had traveled unhindered through the city. People of every class were eager to avoid talking to agents of the Prophetess. Jim hoped the sentiment would continue as they encountered the inner guard.

Then, Jim’s blood went cold. Only a few paces ahead, a priest, a real one, was staring at him with his searching grey eyes. The jig was up.

***

The air was thick with black smoke as the dwindling armada continued to pour fire into the last dragon. A thousand meters below a dozen black trails streaked into the sky from the carcasses of fallen airships.The blots of blackened wood were lesions on the otherwise undisturbed sands.

Another piercing shriek sounded through the smoke cloud. “Fire you fools!” a familiar voice cried angrily. Lord Scieth turned to see his Prophetess. Throughout the battle, she had remained hidden, deep in the bowels of their Dreadnought. The vessel was by far the heaviest airship ever constructed. Its massive 100 meter long hull was caked in iron plates and its gunports, brimming with cannons.

Two of the three dragons had been felled by an onslaught of awakened fire and lightning mixed with hundreds of cannons from the airship armada. The third however, was proving more resourceful. “My queen, please return to the safety of your quarters. I don’t want to see your life in-”

Through the thick smoke, a familiar grey shape swopped down onto them. Scieth had just enough time to raise his right hand and send a fireball into one of the creature’s outstretched wings. The ball of superheated plasma sailed through the air and impacted against the soft under skin between the dragon’s side and wing joint. The creature roared in fury and beat its great wings. The gust sent everyone on the deck bowling backwards.

Scieth’s world spun for a moment as he tumbled into the port railing. He shook his head and tried to clear the ringing in his ears. Through a haze, he saw the figure of his prophetess silhouetted against the gigantic dragon Its fearsome claws dug into the port rails as it reared back to strike the lone prophetess.

Time slowed to a crawl as Scieth concentrated his last bit of faltering power to aid his queen. As he leapt to his feet, he saw her hand reach out and touch the furious creature. Suddenly, there was a slow tinkling sound, as if a mirror had been broken and was slowly falling apart. He looked up to see the creature’s black eyes suddenly glaze over.

Now, his energy was almost spent. Forced to drop from his meditative time dilation, he looked up. The dragon, who had been screeching moments ago, was silent. Its body was as stiff as a statue as it fell backwards. Its claws were still gripping the railing, but they slid around it as a hinge does on a pin. Its immense weight pulled the side of the airship to a dangerous angle for a moment, but then the wooden rail snapped, and the dragon plummeted from sight.

Scieth, confused, rushed to the side of the prophetess, who was weaving back and forth. As he approached, she fell backwards into his arms. He laid her down on the deck and looked into her eyes. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. Her eyes were not their signature white. They had gone blue. A piercing blue.

She was breathing heavily and her arms were blackened up beyond the sleeves at her armpits. He’d never seen her like this. It unnerved him and somehow angered him.

“My queen,” he whispered, “what is wrong with your-” he hesitated. “What can I do to help?”

“Take me below, son. They can’t see me like this,” she replied.

She had called him son on occasion in the past. Of course, Scieth knew he was born of her womb, but the Prophetess was anything but a normal mother. Never in his life had she shown him an ounce of affection. What little love he did receive was in the care of slave nursemaids as he was brought up in their care.

But, what he saw in her eyes, heard in her voice at that moment was not the woman he knew as his prophetess. It was just a woman. And there was something besides hatred in her voice. Something was terribly wrong with the prophetess.