Queen Isabella Ligin.

17th of Septara, 1492.

Galar, Capital City of Ligin.

18:00

***

Mack Ronald. I daresay he was worse than Titus Zlock. The Storm King may have been unbearable and uncompromising, but at least his overbearing stature made one intensely aware of his place on the board. Mack, however, was a fresh face from the same guild; far more reasonable, but almost as unreadable as the Elven Devil himself. And he'd been following me around like a lost puppy ever since Amun's sweeping aura plagued the peninsula months ago, changing everything.

His excuse was that his work with the Bodhi Tree's paladins was done. While true, his words were just that - an excuse to get closer to me in an attempt to keep an eye on Toril and his order. Unluckily for me, they were off in the skies doing gods knew what, leaving the newest tattle hound of Stellaris Garrison with me yet again, standing on my terrace as if he belonged to my court, gazing up at that undying tempest with a placid expression.

It had been a constant since its appearance. Forever looming above Ligin, occasionally breaking with a gray curtain of heavy rainfalls and constantly streaking with lightning. That was it. No abnormalities other than its eldritch appearance; no sense of mana. Its shape was round, almost like an egg, surrounded by a torrent of whipping clouds as dark as the night sky - the eye of a storm made visible. Only now did a sphere of blue drift from that eye and arc in our direction, dispersing into a great deluge. But unlike last time, those 15 beings descended with no thunderous crashes, only an almost sonorous stream of soft crackling. They appeared as if they were floating. Hanging, rather, by incorporeal, hardly perceptible tendrils of rippling air filled with a sparking brilliance that suggestively resembled wings. The phantasmal wings of tempestuous angels.

Their armor seemed heavier than before, with even the half-helms of the clerics and the 'Y' slit in the dames' helms sealed behind wedged plates that glowed with the cobalt energy. The monks appeared like mummies with their wrappings, inscribed with oaths, orders, and sigils that glowed with the same brilliance as their eyes, forever hidden behind those charcoal-hued fabrics. The largest of them were those hooded knights of his. They were as domineering as statues and often stood as still as them. With their helms - assuming they had any - masked behind skeletal visages of cobalt energy that glowed in the peerless shade of their beaked hoods, only the inscriptions inlaid on their fabrics gave any notion to their identities, much like the engravings on the dames and cleric's helms and the monks brow stitchings.

Given such a nature, we'd never seen their countenance, besides those recruited from the highlands. And so, the one to land beside Toril was the object of everyone's eye, for he was no highlander.

Zane Cooper was Toril's second. The only Knight of the 5th Order to date, denoted by the lightning-fueled laurels encircling his youthful head. He looked at us with the same piercing eyes as the beast Toril landed on, a beast that seemed much bigger and more lethal than before. And his frame was just as radiant in comparison, holding a divine neutrality reminiscent of his master's, making him seem far beyond his years. Yet, young, he still was. His brown skin was untouched by the scars of war, and the zeal of untested faith was hidden deep in those cobalt-blue eyes, albeit tempered with levels of discipline I've rarely seen. Such things would improve, though. As would his better attributes, such as his stature. At around 190 centimeters, he had the bulk befitting a paladin of his caliber. And with the undying touch of his master, he would maintain it far longer than others.

Drawn by the tremor of footsteps, my eyes were pulled over Toril's shoulder, where more agents of his legion were appearing, each more unique than the last. And that applied to much more than their dresses. Like Toril, they wore exotic tunics with a quilted pattern and metals inlaid on the yoke, with a strip of similar metal running down the left side of the torso from the collar to the sternum. They all wore large belt buckles with varying designs. Some had the markings of paladins, while others had the crossed swords of fighters, yet even they differed, with some having crossed spears in the background and others boasting arrows. And though I couldn't see what was on their backs, their cowls were secured by mantles depicting a black wolf with tempestuous eyes, held in place by varying pins. One set of pins I recognized immediately. It was a raised gladius, wreathed in laurels. The symbol of Amazonia's children, represented by three sworn sisters. Yet another group I recognized by their massive statures, comparable in height to the barbarian in Amun's troupe. The Rain Men. But of them all, it was a cleric of the order who stepped forward first, stopping beside Toril with a salute as if to highlight the name etched into her half-helm.

"This is our Crypt Keeper," Toril said after our greetings, motioning to the cleric. "Those of her station are civil officers, working with both the living and undead citizenry for everyone's benefit."

"I see." I nodded to her, veiling my trepidation over the prospect of living among the dead with a turn. "If you would follow, the others are gathered in wait."

The range of footsteps behind me was all I focused on as I entered the chamber. It was all I could focus on, for their vibrations varied from the thunderous quakes of Toril's Order and the rockfall of steps reverberating from the Rain Men to the hardly perceptible air vibrating off the levitating wizards. Never had I felt such a range of tremors in my castle- in my city. Given their anxious breaths and shocked gasps, my court knew it.

They were standing around our old round table as I'd left them. An old thing with a raised dais at the center and nooks for each occupant, carved by an artisan for my great ancestor, the first king, and his court, now changed like everything else. Since that day not long ago, a crystal could be seen at the center, linked by metallic conduits to similar crystals set before each member of my court. At times, they relayed news. Other times, like now, it emitted an illusory map of the kingdom in the center, complete with surface features and annotations like the smaller maps surrounding them. That was all there was in this room of rulers. No brass horns, jesters, or bards to cater the mood to any onlookers or eavesdroppers. Such things were found far below and abroad, in their cities and in their domains. And so when my court met eyes with Toril, Cota, Samson, Teofila, Ash, and Bazzric Baal, they all felt as cramped, crowded- insignificant as a mouse before a griffon. Just as I had.

"You'll have to forgive me for the lack of pleasantries. We Agents value unfiltered brevity." Toril smiled apologetically as he settled before the map, not like a diplomat, but like a general. "As a whole, Eotrom's conditions are simple. Everyone in your kingdom must vote to be uplifted, and there will be no tolerance for the unjust taking of another's freedom. That means no slavery."

"To become the Undying Tempest's first empire means that each of you shall be made equal, should you agree," Cota explained, stopping beside her Imperator. "Each territory or district will become a sovereign kingdom, free to govern themselves and yet uplifted with the knowledge and materials inherent to the First Legion. Please name your claims."

To little surprise, Tora Gid of the highlands cleared his throat first. He was a mountain of a man and just as stubborn as the saying, like each of his predecessors before him. Once sent to colonize the mountains some 8 centuries ago, they succeeded and learned to tame the native griffons 2 centuries later, beginning their petitions for independence that persisted to this day. And so his claims were obvious. And yet, there was a catch.

"Whether in the mountains or in the clouds, the Gid Kingdom will retain its nomadic roots, following the ways of the griffon. However." He turned his beady eyes across the court, eyeing my general in particular before setting his gaze on Toril. "We would like to make do with Sir Toril's proposal of our honorable war becoming an honorable tradition, using the undying boons he could grant us. Temporary though they may be."

"So long as my sovereignty over my land remains, I accept these conditions." I said to Toril, then shifted my gaze to Tora. "My land shall not engage in this tradition of yours. We shall know peace atop the clouds."

"As will we," said Countess Shauna Bilara with a soft harrumph, her comparatively tiny arms crossed over her chest in defiance. "We were a county of agriculture. So shall we remain."

"Likewise," chimed her counterpart, Count Ulric Undazil, staring deeply at the clouds beyond the balcony. "I foresee an era of commerce amidst those clouds. Not war."

All were expected answers, including mine. And so everyone's eyes, including Tora and Toril's, fell on General Rais Zuzag of the Margrave for the answer expected of him. The half-blue orc had been in my service for decades- since the day he was born, like all those in his bloodline who came after the blue orc who commanded the first king's army. Not then nor now could the Zuzag family ever imagine themselves doing anything other than protecting these lands- other than war. And so… "Never would I have thought the Margrave would become a kingdom." The General murmured, his gaze held on the lands represented before him. "But if we are to retain our roots like the rest of these counties." He continued, lifting his eyes to meet Tora's. "Then, an honorable tradition of war, you shall have."

A resolute nod from both Toril and Tora was the General's sole reply, prompting Tora to take her Imperator's place as he stepped back. "The final vote shall be tallied over the ManaNet by the end of week. The following time will have our Agents demarcating cities, establishing trade agreements, conducting cultural exchanges, and other diplomatic tasks to ensure the uplift goes smoothly. We estimate this shall take until the end of the month, wherein your cities will be lifted from the ground to take root in the sky. The surface will then be left to nature's will, save for places our Agents occupy. Chief among them are Mehu and Hlaugroth, in Chister County."

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With a wave, the map before us refocused to showcase the bane of my kingdom: the lawless zone stretching coast to coast between the Vrurian borders and our more civilized lands. At least in the east. While bordered by the Zuzag Margrave for 775 kilometers from the eastern coast to near the heartlands, the abandoned Chister County stood shoulder to shoulder with Khuld for over 1,900 kilometers. Being a realm of industry with only 4 cities separated by vast swathes of the untamed wilderness, they stood no chance of survival. While Mehu, straddled between Zuzag to the south and Khuld to the north, remained a perpetually contested land in the centuries since, Hlaugroth became a haven for the renegades and heathens who catered to the lawless seeking to trek through the dark forests of Vruria and those who returned with items of value.

"With your permission, we can rid them at once."

'With your permission.' Those words reverberated through my mind like ancient tremors, for I knew the meaning hidden within. And so, while I agreed readily, I paused as if in contemplation, for this would perhaps be the only time I could give orders or permission to those demigods of the Nox. So I relished it, regally, with my nod.

***

Mack Ronald.

***

This job I'd taken had proven to be difficult and filled with the unexpected. But now that I was over the hill, it was smooth sailing until year's end. A vacation amidst madness.

Well, it should have been.

It would have been, were it not for my career. The demands, the questions, and the ensuing few answers I could give my superiors ate at me as I stood on Queen Ligin's balcony, staring through the windows at Toril's Agents and her court like a lonely child desperate for attention. And so, it was no surprise that it spurred me forth the moment someone stepped onto the parapet, so high above the streets of Galar.

The one to step out was neither Queen Ligin nor Toril, however. It was Zane Cooper, striding dutifully to the edge of the parapet, his cobalt eyes hardly acknowledging me as they lifted to the turbulent skies, yet something within them spoke. Not to me, but to those unmoving statues and living mummies in the background. I startled as they moved, lowering their clasped fists from their sternums to take hold of their weapons and aim them high as Zane turned to me.

"The Agents have been sanctioned to clear Mehu and Hlaugroth in Chister County." He told me, adopting a knowing grin as his glowing eyes peered into my very being. "Considering this, Imperator Toril wishes to give you an opportunity to appease your superiors by allowing you to spectate. Please share your ManaNet signature."

I obliged, feeling more than chagrined about how much the Legions knew about seemingly everything and how callously they called it out. But then again, I could hardly be surprised, given these profound truths made so blatant to us comparatively primitive mortals. Not to mention, it could potentially be advantageous. Given the situation, it was worth a shot. "Rather than observe from afar." I began, adopting my boyish charm with an exaggerated stretch. "Maybe I can stretch my legs and tag along."

Though still a boy, there was no charm in Zane's eyes when he turned away to face the storm. "If you can keep up."

Looking up to those winding bands of gray and midnight-blue clouds flashing and roiling from the wings of tempest griffons, I rethought my choices and looked back to those titanic knights, statuesque dames, and mummified monks moving around me as if I were the unmoving one, petrified by my fading charm. There was nothing I could even say, and so I strode to the window I was standing at before. Not to eavesdrop on the Queen's court, but to study Zane adopting the Legion's morbid salute at the balcony's edge and lowering his head as if in prayer, brightening the metal laurels encircling his head as if he were the divine one.

They glowed first with the heat of fire, then with the cobalt blue of Toril's lightning, those laurels, charged like Leiptr alloy, given the way the lightning cascaded around him. They danced and sparked until they reached up to the sky and met a descending bolt, turning the crackling wreath into a solid veil of sparking brilliance that solidified into his statuesque armor. Those writhing tendrils of crackling, violet air spread from his back like wings that reached for the sky, latching onto the lightning or air itself to pull him gently off the terrace. Then the tempest came.

A gelid breath and roar of thunder silenced the city below as Zane's griffon descended toward the terrace from on high, dragging a calamity made manifest behind it like a chariot fit for a celestial. The castle walls groaned in protest as it swept past, thundering with lightning that made the windows rattle and my legs buckle from the haunting winds it carried. But these Agents of the Undying Night wholly submitted. They lifted their arms high, those knights, dames, and monks, and stepped off the terrace, allowing the undying tempest to sweep them skyward and be carried off into the night.

Activating my data slate, I too stepped off. Albeit through the castle in search of the transportation portal to return to the reservation. As it did every time I used it before, the device released a satisfying ping before saturating my field of view with illusions. Only these illusions made me privy to what was before unseen.

The map sent to me by Zane - or the shrunken skull on Zane's hip - showed Chister County and all it held within it. Resources, environments, enemies, infrastructure, ruins, and its two conquered cities, filled with war bands, slavers, and the uncivil, festering alongside the good civilized folk they trapped in such horrid lands and the Nonusian creatures pouring in from the dark forests of Vruria. A sore that remained out of sight and out of mind because of its sheer distance from the capital or reservation and the null traffic flowing through Vruria.

While many war bands and the like were spread throughout the wilds, the two cities of Hlaugroth and Mehu were 40,000 and 16,000 strong, respectively. And they had built quite a defense over the centuries. The Order of the Undying Tempest, on the other hand, was in its infancy. Yet the outcome was obviously in their favor; yet this new connection made me privy to what was obviously unseeable.

As if to prove my acknowledgment of that fact, the illusions multiplied without end, making it seem as if I had various perspectives of the Order, spread throughout the undying storm. Zane, marked as a knight of the 5th order, was both the focus of my scrying and the storm, floating high above the eye of the tempest, his phantasmal wings rising from his shoulders to sweep across the clouds, their charged, tendril-like appendages whipping and churning the storm into a more violent tempest while he raised his pole hammer overhead.

Bracing myself, I prepared for something to fall from on high to shatter the realms once again and stopped in place when Zane's pole hammer fell, and he became the lightning from on high. His weapon struck the air as if halted by a shield and thundered the realms silent, save for the very air cracking into a web of lightning that rained down like solid pillars of vibrant energy, crashing into cities and crumbling shanty towns, igniting forests or fields, and charging the Agents spread across the storm.

Aside from Zane, floating high above the storm, only those of the 4th Holy Order floated within at the eye, along the inner edge, where I presumed their witchcraft, prayers, and bardic inspirations were free to be carried by the sweeping winds. The knights, monks, and dames of that same order took up posts above the storm's screaming clouds, the 3rd Order below them, carried like debris in the winds to provide support from the skies for the 2nd Order, streaking like lightning from battlefield to battlefield and the 1st Order, fighting on the ground like we would. Only… gestalt.

Only the 1st Order was like the knights and paladins I knew, sluggish and burdened with armor, yet far stronger than they should have been otherwise. They fought with a fervor I'd never seen, fearless in the face of overwhelming numbers, using their unyielding strength, speed, and tenacity to unleash nature's fury. One knight lifted his claymore high, and the lightning responded, imbuing his great sword with a blue radiance that he swept around himself like a windmill, adding to the shower of steaming gore as crackling lightning rippled down a densely packed street. A knight of the 2nd Order nearby lifted his clawed gauntlet and plunged it through a wall as if he was reaching through a pouch, shattering it wholly to grab the screaming rogue on the other side as if they were a child. A quick flick of the wrist snapped the rogue's neck while lightning streaked from the gauntlet of the knight's free hand, dancing over those inside until his clenched fist triggered a grand explosion to send any traces of their existence flying.

Only the knight remained in the aftermath. The knight, the howling winds, and a sole fighter who seemed to be bothered by neither. She leapt high with a feral scream, her blade aimed at the knight's shoulder as she descended. Yet the knight stood statuesquely. Not because of his armor but because of the beast of cobalt feathers and fur sweeping down to grip her in its claws and flap its great wings once, twice, and thrice, rising into the sky until the fourth flap brought her thundering down beneath the beasts talons. Those beasts - those griffons of the tempest - were matched in speed only by those mummified monks, one of which I saw sweeping toward the ground at the whims of the storm. Charged with lightning from head to foot, he spun like a charged top, his leg outstretched to shear the limb clean through a tree trunk and smash someone to paste on the other side, where he skidded to a landing and leapt into the air once more. Like the knights and griffons, the tempest carried that monk dangerously close to a whipping torrent of bladed winds, divine arrows, and spells hailing haphazardly from the arms of the dames, holy tempests, and 3rd Order knights, who were carried by the winds to sway and dip around obstacles to reach their targets and detonate to devastating effect.

Devastatingly unsettling though they were, those things could be rationalized. Looking up at those of the 3rd and 4th Orders, however, was anything but rational. Their bolts and blasts did as storms did by decimating the lands, upturning forests, flooding lowlands, and igniting plains, all while doing what paladins, knights, clerics, and dames did by directing those calamities on the vile and wicked. Yet their great flashes of lightning were shadowed by the green-hued sparks spread throughout the storm entirely, born into existence by the 4th Order, lauding their skeletal visages over the battlefield with uncaring eyes until their thunderous voices boomed, and those blue-green sparks pulsed the dead awake. Then they too matched the speed of those beasts.

It seemed I had forgotten. Even with their seemingly indestructible armor and their raging storms, I had doubts they could take two cities so easily. Even if the inhabitants were weak or if they were fighting in the dead of a night storm, I deemed it impossible to accomplish so quickly. But I had forgotten. They didn't have to take anything. They only had to kill a few dozen, even without the lethal weather. Those few dozen would rise as undead and kill several hundred more. Then they would rise into a thousand. A thousand would make a thousand and a few thousand more; then cities would fall, nations would crumble. Lands would be inherited by the dead, unwelcome to the living entirely.

Such was the power of the Nox.

And now, the Nox had 11 Legions, each capable of waging war differently.

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