It’s troubling, but there was never any lie about the threat of mass migration. The first mermineae are far closer to reaching the tunnel than we were told; only a day’s travel at most. The only respite was how split they travel.

Grímr flies low, keeping the ground just within the range of my thermal sense. The mermineae hold an almost constant fifty metre separation from one another as they travel. At first, I thought this was a good thing; if they aren’t densely packed, then there can’t be too many of them, right?

That couldn’t be any further from the truth.

We travel above for an hour, but they just never seem to end. By the time we reach the other end of their numbers, we must have travelled almost ten leagues. How many hundreds of thousands are there?

I was worried Forvaal amongst them would burn us out of the sky, but other than freezing at our presence, they never reacted to us. We dove and snatched three mermineae during our flight, but not once did their surrounding kin attempt to help them.

It is fortunate for us, but it’s still shocking to see the lack of effort they put into saving their brethren. How is a race like this, that cares so little for one another, able to unite enough to travel such a long distance together?

None we interrogated knew anything about the tunnel being sealed. Either the information didn’t travel fast enough, or they have been given no reason to stop moving. It would be nice if it has remained sealed. I’m not about to be complacent, though. Until we get some form of confirmation that they have lost their route through the mountains, I’m going to assume the path is open.

But… what do we do?

I doubt flying along and burning any mermineae I see will be an effective use of my time. I’m more likely to bring those Viisin down on me than I am to put a dent in their advance.

Should we go looking for the other Beith mercenaries that are supposed to be wandering around the Euroclydon’s Hunting Grounds? But we have no idea where to start. Even when we had the directions from the clergy, it had still been tremendously time consuming to find them. One group we still weren’t able to find.

Even if we had more strength at our side, we would need to hold the tunnel so that it couldn’t be reopened. I doubt Spenne or any of the other Beiths we find would sit still on guard duty for long. There’s a reason they’re not waiting around back in the pact nations.

I cast my gaze over the plains, hoping for some idea to hit me. My eyes fall on the Titan, resting in the heights of the Alps. I shake my head. Reasonable ideas, not suicidal ones.

We fly without purpose for a few more minutes before I give in and voice my idea.

“What if we lead the Titan to the tunnel?”

Grímr jerks, hard. His wings tilt upward and catch enough drag that I’m sent rolling over his head. A swift jet of flame halts my momentum and I pull myself back on top of Grímr. It’s surprising how quick I can stop myself when I’m incorporeal.

He readjusts his flight before he can fall into a downward spiral. “Are you mad? We were lucky the creatures down in that cavern didn’t crush us the last time I went along with your plan.”

“It worked then, didn’t it?” I ask. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I really don’t have a better plan right now.

“The Titans are on a level far beyond anything comparable. An attempt to manipulate one would be insanity.”

I know that. I know how devastatingly dangerous the Titans can be. But I’m just trying to throw ideas out there. Everything else we’ve come up with is simply a variation of ‘find more Beith’ or ‘massacre the merminea’. Neither of which is all that helpful now that we know the existence of the Viisin.

Spenne, apparently one of the strongest Beiths, couldn’t kill one, despite the unbelievable power he’d thrown into his attack. How many more of these are hiding amongst the mermineae? The only relieving aspect of the Viisin is that they can’t hide like the rest of the mermineae.

I assume.

Eldest Ember, I hope they can’t pretend to be normal mermineae.

“Then what can we do?” I snap. “Would you rather we go find their god and say her believers are trying to run?”

That’s a far worse idea than trying to bait the Titan. I’d much rather deal with something that pays me the same attention one would a bug than the being venerated from fear.

I huff in annoyance, lay back, and stare up at the sky. The line between the moon and horizon hasn’t changed. Much to my relief, it seems my first assumption that the line was a tear created by some Titan was wrong. Well, I don’t know it isn’t for sure, but it hasn’t opened wider in the time I’ve been in these plains.

The line distracts me every time I look at the moon, that I’ve never really noticed that the orb approaches far too close to the Eternal Inferno to be normal. I swear it used to be twice the distance at its closest. Is the moon getting closer? What happens when it hits the Eternal Inferno? Will Eldest Ember be okay?

If she joins the Eternal Inferno, then who will look over the lands? Who will burn away the darkness? If that were to happen, I can’t imagine what horrific future awaits.

It’s taken something like three or four whole years to get this close. If we have the same time until they collide, then that is ages. I’m sure Eldest Ember will save herself in time.

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I snap my head away from the moon. Enough with thoughts of terrifying possible futures.

Huh. What else besides Kalma are the mermineae scared of? Revontulet and centzon.

“Grímr!” I jump to my feet, nearly tumbling off his back again. I really should get back around to practising my balance. “Go back to the Dead Forest.”

“Why?” he tilts his head back at me.

“The centzon! The mermineae are absolutely terrified of them. Almost as much as they are of Kalma. If we can talk to them, it’s possible we could have them fight for the tunnel.”

“And let another race learn to reach our side of the Alps? A race that scares the one we already have a problem with?”

I drop again. I hadn’t considered that. Of course, we can’t just tell them there is a way across the mountains. How do we know they won’t do the same as the mermineae and add another problem for the people back home to deal with?

Do we even have a reason to believe they’ll want to attack the mermineae? They might even consider them leaving the plains a good thing.

No, we still know nothing about them. The only thing we know is they enjoy skinning mermineae alive, but who knows if that’s actually true. What we need now is information. With little other option, finding where they live and learning anything we can about them might be our best bet.

“I still think we should go,” I say. “We don’t have to tell them about the tunnel, but gauging their thoughts might give us something to work with.”

Grímr hums, unconvinced.

“It’s this or the Titan idea.” If he’s going to be this resistant, I just have to force him to agree.

He tilts his head back at me, giving me a dirty glare, but he changes direction regardless.

I hate forcing him like this, but we’ll get nowhere otherwise. Grímr lets indecision cloud his judgement too often. I noticed it back in the caverns, and it’s showing itself now. When there are no good options, he becomes overly passive, like waiting around will solve everything.

Actually, that’s unreasonably harsh of me. He wasn’t indecisive when it came to staying by my side. He hardly took a moment before he gave up the opportunity to return home. Without Grímr’s speed, it might take me years to find a way back across the Alps.

I still need to test whether the avian hunters will attack me if I make my bird form look bigger.

It’ll be at least a week before we reach the Dead Forest. By the time we return, the entire swarm of mermineae will have entered the tunnels. It’s frustrating, but we have no way to prevent that. We can only try to limit any more passing afterwards. If the centzon turn out to be trustworthy, it might even be worth sending them down. If they wipe each other out, all the better.

For now, I have a lot of time on my hands. I need to get back to improving my control. My physical flames have been an incredible asset so far. They aren’t all too strong. Any decent application of strength will break through them, but the utility they provide is impressive.

I can throw myself around with jets, carry things, and make an adequate wall against the decay eyes of the Forvaal. More physical creations like the cinder chains were alright for tripping mermineae up, but they break far too easily for my liking.

I’d like to improve my control, as I’m sure it’ll increase the solidity of my flame, but like my efforts to compress my fire, I’ve hit a wall. Nothing I seem to do or practice seems to allow any progress. There’s something I’m missing and until I find out what that is, I’ll be stuck.

So, instead of wasting my time, I turn my attention to the odd effects I’ve noticed recently. Primarily, how my flames still help Grímr gain air quicker even without bound mass.

I thought by pelting the underside of his wings with my solid flames, it would be like throwing a thousand tiny rocks at him. Not enough to hurt, but enough to push him upward. But there was still some effect pushing him upward after they’d lost their tangibility.

I take a loose strip of cloth from my pocket. Remains of the gloves my outfit used to connect with. During our travel, Jav was nice enough to repair much of the torso, but the full sleeves and hood were incorrigible.

Immediately, the cloth tries to fly off in the intense wind. I twist in my seat, trying to block the breeze with my body, but that makes very little difference.

I huff in annoyance and cast a spherical shell of physical fire around me. It’s not totally effective, but it’s blocks enough of the wind that my little strip of cloth doesn’t immediately fly off when I open my palm.

Despite my less than optimal testing conditions, I’m ready to see if I can replicate that unexplained lift effect.

First, I apply a tiny stream of physical flame to the underside of the cloth. As usual, I prevent the flame from eating at the threads of the cloth. It takes barely a thought these days to prevent things I don’t want from burning.

The cloth flutters in my grip, trying to fly off. Not at all surprising. It’s the same thing as pushing it with my finger, but testing it doesn’t hurt. I let the fabric settle before the next trial.

Stripping my inner flame to its normal state, I push it against the remains of my glove. At first, it blows up, away from the flame, but after the initial rush upward, it falls limp. Strangely, completely entrapped in my flame, it droops faster than in normal air.

What is going on? I’m sure I replicated exactly what I did. Using both types of fire, I try again, but get the same result. I groan in frustration as I try to remember exactly what conditions pushed Grímr higher.

“You alright back there?” the very object of my confusion asks.

I pocket the cloth, and twist to Grímr’s head, dispersing the shell as I do.

“Grímr, do you mind if I wrap you in fire?” I might as well make sure the conditions are as close as possible.

“…sure?” he says, but the hesitance and confusion are clear.

I don’t hesitate, sending out a massive ball of fire beneath us. My inner flame rockets upward, consuming all of Grímr’s impressive wingspan in a blazing pillar. There is some lift at the start, but it doesn’t give us much height.

“Uh… why are you doing this?” Grímr asks.

Was it just luck the first time it happened? I’m about to pull back on the flames when I notice Grímr isn’t flying straight anymore. He’s gradually angling downward despite his wings remaining horizontal.

Grímr notices after I do and, in a panic, beats his massive wings. That seems to let him balance out his flight, making space from my flame at the same time, but as soon as the fire engulfs his wings once more, he’s falling again. He Is forced to flap his wings to stop from losing altitude.

Grímr gives me an annoyed glance, and I quickly extinguish the pillar. This isn’t the same effect as I witnessed back during our escape, but it is definitely interesting. Could I drop birds out of the sky by covering their wings? It’ll at least make their flight difficult.

Now that I think about it, I wasn’t consuming the air when I gave Grímr a boost. Could that make a difference?

I cover myself once more and hold the cloth out in front of me. This time, I prevent my inner flame from eating the air as it blows over the fabric. It actually flutters this time.

I check the shell in case there is a gust from outside causing it, but even a third try shows I don’t need to create the taxing physical flames to give Grímr a boost anymore.

Experimenting further, I find my flames don’t even need to touch the cloth to move it. A small application of heat below forces the air up and the cloth flutters almost as much as it does in the midst of my fire.

It seems almost contradictory that my flames seem to be more effective when they aren’t consuming the air.

What could I do with this?

“Hey Grímr, can I cover you in fire again?”

I receive a groan in response, but that isn’t a no.