In central Riln, the rainforest abruptly gave way to the salt flats in the north. Between the two biomes was a single valley. The southern slopes of the valley were green, with dark, damp soil and red rocks. The northern slopes of the valley were a dull olive color, with pale rocky mountains crowned with arid crags. Maeve looked down upon the liminal zone with wonder. It had been the first time she had flown so far north. Everyone knew that northern Riln was a lifeless waste.

A single dry riverbed bisected the valley far below. It slowly began to cut deeper by degrees, first into a brittle gorge, then into an ancient canyon filled with blue crystal spires. Maeve felt some apprehension as the canyon walls began to grow up on either side of her airplane. If something went wrong with her engine, the only viable direction was straight ahead, with no chance of turning or reversing direction. However, she had been assured that Bastion required a specific approach.

Suddenly the canyon walls opened up on either side and the riverbed fell away into an ancient waterfall. Where the dry river bent to the south, there was a huge plateau surrounded by crystal spires on all sides. The southern spires had mostly been crushed into pale blue fragments. The massive skeleton of a Dragon was draped over the escarpment, coated in a sheen of frost and dangling icicles.

It was in the center of the plateau where the new crystal tree had been created. The roots had burrowed deep into the stone, all the way to the base of the plateau, where they pressed against the riverbed with such force to lift the entire plateau dozens of feet into the air. Maeve looked down with wonder at the landing strip that was constructed on the riverbed. It continued straight into the darkness below the suspended plateau. Just ahead, near the escarpment, there was a small station with a signal officer.

Continue the approach, cleared to land.

Maeve sighed. She had a small clipboard strapped to one of her thighs with a detailed navigation chart. She entered into a traffic pattern that took her around the tree, slowly losing altitude and airspeed on each leg, until finally lining up once again with that terrifying landing pad which vanished into darkness. Thankfully, the runway, in the narrow space under the plateau, continued on to the far side. Like the opening at the end of a tunnel, it provided enough light to see the runway as her airplane slowed to a halt. On either side, thick blue crystal roots held the gray-black stone of the plateau fixed overhead. Hundreds, if not thousands of roots supported the ceiling, packed like reeds on either side.

A half a dozen soldiers rushed out and began to drag her airplane, by the tail, into an angled parking space beside the runway. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw layer upon layer of airplanes, hiding under a mountain. Soldiers patrolled with torches, crossbows, and sabers, in packs that resembled a formation of aircraft in flight. A storm sorcerer in dark robes approached, his face hidden behind an onyx mask.

"Lady Maeve," he said. "The Chief of Chiefs has been expecting your arrival. Please, follow me."

With subtle sorcery, he began to drift toward the ceiling. Maeve followed him up into a narrow chute of blue crystal between two roots, where the red stone had cracked and created a chasm. Within that chasm, as it expanded, an entire city had been built between two blue crystal faces. Bridges made from metal and wood spanned the space. The walls glowed pale blue from the light of sconces and brasiers. It was a tiny city in the rock.

The storm sorcerer led her toward the center of one face, through a slit leading to a vast vaulted chamber. Shane sat upon a throne made of blue crystal in the center. His herald Ionathan, the elderly Cleric of the Church of the Lady Ghost, stood at his side. To the left and right, the walls of the space sunk upward by degrees, layer upon layer of bookshelves, like tiers in a stadium. Bookshelves reached from floor to ceiling on the wall just ahead, and there were no ladders and no staircases. It was a library for storm sorcerers, perhaps a library for Shane himself.

High-ranking military men, bankers, industrial elites, and the obligatory gaggle of sycophants were arrayed before Shane beneath his dais. Dozens of workers carried crates filled with books into the structure, where white-clad librarians categorized them and shuffled about. Enormous white banners, bearing the blood-blue sigil of Shane's new administration, were suspended from the roof on either side of his throne, opening in gradual waves toward the door. A funnel for the eye, with Shane at the center, glowing as gold as sunrise, shrouded by the wings of his Light Elemental.

"Lady Maeve," Shane said, his voice amplified by wind magic. "Welcome to Bastion. Come, approach the throne. We shall speak in private."

Ionathan began to announce her as she approached: "Lady Maeve of Clan Caitria!"

The old man bowed slightly and then stalked off. Shane gestured, inviting her to ascend the dais. He was wearing a plum regalia that resembled the robes worn by storm sorcerers, but with more elaborate golden filigree. Maeve saw a thin wall of shimmering air appear around the dais, presumably to prevent sound from escaping, and she suddenly became aware that she could not feel Shane's wind magic.

"The first glider flight was successful," Maeve said with a shiver.

Shane nodded. "The upper limit is about five-hundred pilots. After that, keep making airplanes, but we also need a few dozen gliders. Summon all of the storm sorcerers in Riln, including the ones that survived the Battle of the Teeth."

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Maeve could not help betraying skepticism. "Slow down, I'm not as smart as you. You are talking about gliders and storm sorcerers. Those are two very different things."

"Let me start over," Shane conceded. "The two concepts are connected. We have reached the upper limit of the number of pilots that the Realms will support. One of our Knights was patrolling the southern edge of the salt flats and he flew into a cloud. His airplane frosted up and he fell out of the sky and died. Shortly after, a new pilot was able to be trained! In other words, a slot opened up for the new pilot. Imagine that there is a huge battle over the salt flats where many pilots die."

"You want to have trained pilots ready to learn draconic sorcery," Maeve interrupted. "Storm sorcerers, perhaps?"

"Exactly so. Put every storm sorcerer in Riln inside a glider and force them to learn three-axis flight," Shane said. "If they fall out of the sky, they will use storm sorcery to survive and try again. In theory they will be able to learn draconic sorcery very quickly, because of their experience with storm sorcery. We will have a stockpile of unused airplanes ready to take off and surprise the enemy with a second wave attack."

"And the airplanes for the second wave," Maeve began, "are below us right now."

"Exactly so," Shane said.

"I understand."

"The stairwells behind my throne lead to the private quarters. A suite has been allocated for you, as well as some handmaids. You are welcome to move your family to Bastion if you wish. It is, as far as I can tell, the safest location in Riln."

"Do you anticipate the battle will go poorly?" She asked.

"It is always good to have contingencies in place," Shane replied.

"As you say. If you need me, I will be in my quarters. It was a long flight and I need to rest."

Relaxed guards with crossbows escorted her through the barricades and murder holes in the hallways beyond Shane's throne. Her quarters were constructed from blue crystal, cut into the rock. The walls resembled some type of natural tissue. The surface thinned and then broke in places, leaving beveled, tilted-oval wounds in the crystal that revealed the layered red rock below.

The suite was complete with several rooms and, astonishingly, indoor plumbing. A jug of scented bath oil rested on the edge of a huge blue crystal bathtub. It was when she saw that bathtub that she became aware that the vast scale of Shane's throne room continued on through the rest of the structure. The roof was too high, and everything constructed from blue crystal was a little too big, as if crafted for Dragons.

Finally clean and smelling of lavender and lemon peel, Maeve began to explore. Upon the surface of the plateau, drowned in the sound of hammers and saws, thousands of civilians were busying themselves with the construction of a new town. Half-finished homes lined the neat blocks. Far above, in the branches of the blue crystal tree, her husband's men were building a new airplane factory, an astonishingly long building with a single assembly line, which took raw materials and produced an airplane fit to fall out of the tree and fly.

On the southern end of the plateau, a tavern rested right inside the skull of the Blue Dragon. The doorway and the beer garden were both packed so full of people that she could not enter, but there was a large, open window inviting her to fly through. On the second floor, she found an inaccessible wooden balcony overlooking the bawdy crowd below. A handful of storm sorcerers sat at the bar, and at the far end, she saw Shane, still wearing his purple regalia, sipping a tankard of ale.

She sat beside him. "Red wine, please!" she called out to the too-familiar bartender.

"I recognized your style of storm sorcery," Shane said.

"I don't doubt it."

The bartender set a goblet of wine in front of her. "On the house, Captain Maeve," he said. Then she remembered him. He was an airman from her days as a sky pirate, though she could not remember the man's name.

"Listen," Shane said.

He created a barrier of wind magic around them, though it was inverted, amplifying the sounds originating outside. For a few seconds, the general murmur of the tavern became an almost unbearable clamor, but then the barrier began to shift, and individual conversations came into focus, one at a time.

"I can't wait for the battle," one man said. "I'm certain I'll get promoted!"

"Come on girl, don't be like that!" another man said.

"Sorry smalls," a woman replied. "I promised to keep my legs shut."

"Did you hear what those bastards did to Silvervein in the north? The whole city ablaze, all the civilians burned to a crisp."

"Not only do the pilots get to fly, now they get the pretty girls too!"

"And how did the bitch with the purple hair convince you to come to this brothel of a city?" one woman asked.

"That foreigner said that I would be paid well," a younger woman replied. "She said I needed to save myself for the pilots who survived at least one air battle."

One after another, Shane snooped in on half the conversations in the tavern. Then the barrier vanished and the man took a sip of his ale.

"What did you notice? he asked.

Maeve shrugged. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Boys getting drunk and talking about their next promotion. I guess I do find it strange that the prostitutes will only service the pilots."

"And what are they not talking about?"

"I presume you are going to tell me?" she asked.

Shane nodded. "They are not talking about working or living in the north."

"I am guessing that Bastion has some sort of process for vetting civilians? Perhaps it is the result of survivorship bias. The people who might want to leave the country are not permitted in such a secure, military-style city."

"That's right," Shane said. "I spent a long time thinking about it. When an entire culture becomes obsessed with dissolving, with abandoning their land to live in another place, it can seem like an inevitable process, with its own momentum. How can you reverse the process? This has been the problem that has haunted me these past few months. This city is my latest attempt at solving the problem. In every nation, some people are going to be excited to live there. They are generally loyal and patriotic. I devised this city to provide a place for them. A place that inspires envy in those left behind."

"You want to replace one false dream with another," Maeve said.

"The alternative is worse."

"So then what's going on with the prostitutes?"

"Oh that," Shane said. "The Purple Dragon is trying to breed us like cattle."