The White Witch sat, cold and brooding, in a chair discreetly hidden by an unfortunate oversight in architecture that left a visible support column in the corner of the royal audience chamber. Despite being out of view, nothing could disguise the aura of malcontent oozing off of her, and all the seats around her for half a row and column were avoided like the coming of a winter storm.

  For the few people who recognized who was giving off such malevolent annoyance, it very well might be.

  The meeting taking place on the floor wasn’t overly crowded, consisting of several representatives from the House of Nobles and a single delegate from the House of Commons. All the ministers concerned with foreign affairs were present, such as the Ministers of Trade and Commerce, Cultural Affairs, and…War. Every diplomat from the dwarven and demonic lands was present, the elven diplomat was in attendance, and the beastkin representatives were conspicuous only because of their absence.

  The two diplomats from World’s End were, frustratingly, missing.

  That left all the peoples of Humanity accounted for. As always, there was no hint or trace of the littlest people: gnomes or halflings.

  Halflings did not have the temperament for politics. They were a simple, homely people, which did not mean they were stupid or lacking intelligence. Only a fool would think the halflings could not govern themselves. They congregated in small, close-knit communities that had all the makings of a proper society, including programs to help the elderly, sheriffs, and an elected mayor.

  But they concerned themselves more with the joy of living day to day, working hard in the fields and coming home to a home-cooked meal, much more than they cared about what went on in the world at large. Beyond their borders was a scope too grand. They were content to let others rule, so long as they were allowed to live.

  Which was exactly what the White Witch wished for them. She was quite fond of her own kingdom’s little pockets of halfling communities, such as the Eastshire farthing on the border of Serenity Forest. Let them grow deep roots along with their potatoes and pipe weed, leaving the troublesome matters of ambitious strifemongers amongst the humans and demons to the king.

  For the gnomes…they had all the inconvenience of a busybody with an inquisitive mind and loved sticking their noses where they most likely didn’t belong. They simply didn’t have the capacity for politics.

  As in: they were on the verge of extinction following the great disaster and destruction of their homeland, and it had taken the last few hundred years to build back a viable population. Even now, some two and a half centuries after the blight, gnomes were mostly relegated to a nomadic, wandering lifestyle, desperately searching for a place to fit in.

  Not so easy in this world of theirs.

  Something the nobles of her kingdom failed to understand.

  The White Witch found it regrettable that she had to attend this hearing. There were many other things she wished she could focus on, such as that magnificent scale she paid a princess’ ransom for sitting in her lounge. But she found she had no tolerance for incompetence, and her grandson’s court was…severely lacking.

  Even now, some up-jumped son of a duke she’d never bothered to learn the name of was not-so-subtly threatening treason. Those around him were agreeing, all the while the king ignored their barbs disguised as dialogue, bored and disinterested.

  Did the fool not see they were planning to defect? It seemed that, so long as the upstarts did not try to take any of his lands, he was content to let them wander off and try to establish a kingdom elsewhere. They became too greedy, too fat, drunk on their own power. They attributed the peace and prosperity her kingdom enjoyed to things they thought were under their control. They wanted more, and when the kingdom refused to give it to them, they thought they’d take it into their own hands.

  She scoffed.

  The world would chew them up and not spit them out.

  Envisioning a “forward colony”? An “expansion to the kingdom?” A place for “opportunity and prospective riches?”

  In what lands?

  Did they not know new settlements such as those, pioneered by adventurers in the wilds, took time, above all else, to establish?

  These idiots were thinking in the line of decades when they needed to be considering generations.

  The first five years alone would be an all-out war against the native spawning zones. Little to no sleep every single night with dedicated guards, soldiers, and logistics. Monster spawning zones did not change overnight, and no farmer wanted to sow and reap where a bloodthirsty creature could appear by his bedside at any moment in the middle of the night.

  Did they have an army she knew not of?

  Where were they planning on getting the resources to fund, build, and feed such a venture?

  Perhaps the king’s disinterest stemmed from the belief that such a fool’s errand was doomed to fail before it began…but the White Witch knew better. He simply had a severe case of shortsightedness. If it wasn’t biting him on the nose or the ass, it simply wasn’t his problem.

  And yet she couldn’t bring herself to hate the boy.

  Eventually, the nobles ran out of steam and talk turned to the next topic.

  Monster movement.

  The emissary from the dwarves, an older female entering the final decade of her tenure, stood up. The White Witch would miss her when she was forced to retire. Humans felt insecure and became touchy when somebody from a different race held a single job longer than their entire lifespan. Though, she knew the good woman would stay in Horizon for many more years to come, if not to train her successor, then to enjoy the luxuries her kingdom provided.

  Moira Lumberlog.

  …an unfortunate name, but there was no accounting for dwarven sensibilities.

  Moira was good at her job. As expected of somebody firmly rooted in their position over the last 41 years. She’d been liaising with the humans for longer than the current king had been alive.

  Perhaps she should have been a bit more direct in her words, something the dwarves were known for, but was not advisable for somebody in a diplomatic position.

  The king nodded boredly as she spoke, clearly uninterested. A poor decision. The White Witch could hear the frustration in Moira’s words as she delivered dire warnings to deaf ears.

  Thongral Ironsledge was “King Under the Mountain”, not “Lord Above It.”

  There was a reason Deepholme was covered in snow year-round, bound by a state of never-ending winter, even now in the blistering heat of midsummer. And it wasn’t simply due to the elevation.

  [Froljnar the Frozen] roamed the lofty peaks of the Frostrim Mountains. Few were the people who didn’t know the Titan was the reason for the range’s name, not the other way around.

  But her grandson, the current king, could not seem to care. From his perceived lofty position, the monster did not live in his kingdom; therefore, it was not his problem.

  Fool.

  A level 1500 [World Boss] was never “not your problem”.

  Even if it lived in other lands, the smallest display of its power had cascading, oftentimes catastrophic effects.

  Such as the dire warning Moira was delicately trying to present. Several “offspring”, if that’s what monsters spawned from the will of another monster could be called, had been spotted. While most likely not the same high level as their parent, they were likely in the 12 to 13 hundreds.

  Fortunately they were not hostile, even to people stupid enough to approach them.

  Unfortunately, their very presence summoned winter.

  And they were heading toward Lakeridge.

  A human city. In human lands.

  If the king waited until they crossed over the border before he decided they were now his problem, it would be too late.

  The White Witch listened, she watched, she understood.

  ?

  Deepholme’s giant problem could wait, for now, as it wasn’t the only disturbing news troubling the kingdoms at large.

  The ambassador from the demon lands made a grand display of showing that the treaties between the humans and demons would not be shaken, despite a looming war for succession. Demons, quite like humans, were ruled by a monarchy. Unlike humans, their crown was not always inherited through direct blood. Demons valued strength above nearly all else, and there were many who believed the strongest should rule. Though it would never work in the human lands, somehow demons seemed content to follow whoever installed themselves as king or lord, so long as they were strong, and they were powerful enough to depose whoever occupied the throne before them.

  The ambassador made grand but empty promises of continued peace and cooperation, and the White Witch had to fight hard not to laugh.

  She had nothing against the rather aggressive race, but she knew better to trust the words of a politician against the actions of a bloodied warrior. A note was made, and several more spies would be sent out to the demon lands to collect “interesting tales”. If there was a new “dark lord” rising, she would need to know about it.

  A war between humans and demons would not be kind to her people. As a whole, humans lived less than half as long as any other race and consequently did not reach the same high level. Not to mention that, as a rule, demons were larger, stronger, more magical, and superior in every other way.

  It was simply humanity’s sheer numbers that overwhelmed their foes, throwing meat constantly into the grinder.

  The White Witch hated that analogy despite it so often being true.

  As it stood, her armies numbered in the tens of thousands, possibly hundreds, and that was ready to march, not active conscription or muster.

  The demons likely had a fraction of that, being able to call upon 20, 30 thousand soldiers at best.

  But those soldiers would overwhelm the humans even when outnumbered one hundred to one.

  Such a fight would be disastrous for her people.

  ?

  Nothing new came forward from the elven lands, which was a relief because it was expected. Nothing new ever came from the elves, who tended to think and operate in centuries, and a human life was but a flickering candle quickly snuffed by a gentle wind. Long were their lives and long were their memories. Perhaps that was why, as a race, they have not forgiven the gnomes for what they did to their beautiful forests.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The Everbloom, as always, was beautiful and precious in its timeless state.

  The Evergloom, as always, sought to eat, erode, destroy, and disfigure said beauty.

  But for now, it was contained, though the worry was that containment was failing.

  The White Witch wondered if said “failure” was truly imminent, or if perhaps the first sign of real change would not be seen until her great-grandchildren had great-grandchildren.

  ?

  A noise from the chamber’s entrance heralded a late arrival. Seeing as the guards did not immediately jump up to repel invaders, the newcomers were not wholly unexpected. The king waved a hand lazily to allow them to approach, but it was not until they reached the center floor that the White Witch saw who they were.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Your Majesty, this humble one begs forgiveness for his tardiness,” a low, smooth voice oozed with practiced charm. Flattering in all the right ways, yet nearly undisguised in its disdain and insincerity. Another wave of a hand saw the wolfkin, one of the ambassadors from the beastkin lands, rise and take the podium.

  “While matters, too small and inconsequential to speak of here, have unfortunately delayed my timely arrival, it is with great pride that I relay to you such grievances are trivial, beneath one such as yourself, and altogether forgettable. They will be resolved in no time. From Ala Vista, everything is well.”

  “He’s lying.”

  Her eyebrow twitched.

  The White Witch found it hard to brood when she had three “guardians” watching over her. Following her around, looming like the shadow of a great, immovable mountain.

  It made her feel small and petty.

  “I agree,” Moeldywn sighed. She knew better than to doubt one of The Three. “But tell me why you think so. I’m curious if it matches my reasoning.”

  She paused.

  “And if you’re going to join me in the slow, agonizing death by boredom, at least sit next to me.”

  The three shadows vanished as the [Retainers] they were attached to repositioned themselves.

  “His smell,” said L’menia, sitting to her left.

  “His tone of voice,” said Lethia, sitting to her right.

  “His posture,” explained Layalee, sitting next to the tigerkin.

  Moeldywn nodded as she digested those few words. As expected of high-level [Retainers] in service to a dragon.

  “I noticed a strange magical aura around him,” Moeldywn stated. “It’s faint, but traceable. It isn’t something he cast himself, and it’s possible he isn’t aware…but I doubt it. It’s very subtle. Something like that has to be planned. It’s coming from…a ring? Something he’s wearing, I’m certain.”

  “Very good!” L’menia praised. “Mistress would be proud.”

  Moeldywn decidedly did not react as if she were a child having her head patted.

  “Which makes one wonder, what’s he hiding?” Lethia mused. “And why?”

  “I don’t understand and it makes my skin crawl,” Moeldywn muttered as her eyes narrowed. “We’ll need to keep tabs on that one.”

  “Shall I make a note of it?” Lethia asked.

  Moeldywn nodded but tossed the elf a glance.

  “I thought you were leaving my service?”

  “Can’t,” Lamenia said in her high, ethereal voice. “Not in your service to begin with.”

  Moeldywn rolled her eyes. Nobody else dared to treat her so informally. That was part of why she loved these maids. Practically nobody dared call her by her name, yet these three wouldn’t even use her title.

  As for the beastkin ambassador…he was worrying for all the same reasons the elves weren’t. The beastkin lands did not govern themselves like a typical polity. They were democratic, after a fashion, though they were not a true republic. They did not have any kings, queens, or emperors, at least not in title or function.

  What they had was a sort of dynastic ruling clan-heads and merchant royalty comprising a central council.

  Twelve seats were at the beastkin table, but each was obtained by different means.

  Some passed down, family to family. Others voted on by those it served. One or two were even bought and sold as one family rose to power or others fell to ruin.

  Though no one single ‘kin could claim to rule any other, each person at that table, and their families to a surprising degree, had a sizable chunk of influence and power.

  There were probably many things to be said about such a method of governance, but “quiet” was not one of them.

  ?

  At last, Moeldywn could stand the tedium no longer and left the audience chamber, her mind adrift with possibilities and questions. Mostly of the “why” variety, and that could be further narrowed to “why now?”

  Though special mention could be said for the beastkin representative.

  Why would he need an artifact of misdirection and subterfuge?

  Such things were rarely viewed in a good light once they were discovered. Especially in a position where trust was so necessary. Moeldywn could not guess what he was hiding.

  Or perhaps she didn’t want to guess. Such methods were employed by impostors and doppelg?ngers. That ushered in a whole new series of “whys”.

  Why would someone want to impersonate or replace an ambassador?

  At least the demon situation was easier to understand, even if it wasn’t any better for her mental health. Young upstarts tried challenging the throne at least once a decade. Usually, they’d be soundly defeated, with little more than a metaphorical slap on the wrist (though they always left physically bloodied) and sometimes a few pointers on how they could improve.

  Demonic culture was weird like that.

  The problem was that Moeldywn knew the current demon king. Igor Wrathchild. He was “young” for a demon, probably middle-aged without considering levels, having been one of those powerful youngsters during the Age of Upheaval. With the help of many powerful heroes, he threw down the last tyrant and imposed himself as king. Moeldywn had a pleasant working relationship with the man, even if she considered him a touch violent.

  And if somebody managed to overthrow him, surely they would be a lot worse.

  Humanity as a whole, not just the humans, could not afford to be at war with demonkind. If a “dark lord” rose up, his generals and horsemen would soon follow.

  ?

  Perhaps, though, that led credence to another intriguing rumor to reach her ears.

  “Lethia, what do we know about the appearance of a [Saint]?”

  “The Church has kept her existence well hidden. It’s possible they don’t want to announce her arrival if they aren’t certain she’s a true [Saint].”

  “Speculate?”

  “Our sources in the Bastion say she mysteriously appeared about a week ago. She’s young, disoriented, and constantly spouting nonsense. The Church is worried. Either she’s mad, in which case nobody wants a raving lunatic [Saint], or she’s telling the truth.”

  “And what dangers do the truth hold?” Moeldywn asked hesitantly.

  “She’s claiming her name is Brandy, your highness. That she’s not supposed to be here, she’s from another world. Madness. There haven’t been any Visitors since the gods escorted their souls personally, during the Age of Upheaval. Scans put her as level 1, she’s an elf, and her name…Eluna Brandywine.”

  “Goddess save us,” Moeldywn cursed. A reincarnation of the greatest healer the world had ever known? This sort of problem was exactly her pay grade.

  “Layalee, see if you can arrange a visit.”

  “Yes, your highness.”

  Meliastraza’s [Retainers] were the only people left alive, perhaps except for the dragon herself, who could pick Eluna Brandywine out of a crowd. Level 1, disoriented and perhaps delusional, it was Moeldywn’s duty to get to the bottom of this and resolve any…issues.

  Moeldywn wanted to curse further. It made a certain amount of sense, Brandywine reappearing. First, Meliastraza roars, then the mountain over Deepholme moves, and now unrest in the demon lands.

  What were the gods playing at?

  Was peace too much to ask for?

  One simple century of boring, uneventful peace?

  Midsummer was supposed to be a season of celebration. Not the herald of doom.

  …it was also supposed to be hot. Which it currently was, though Moeldywn was privileged and skilled enough with magic to regulate her own temperature.

  Something a whole town, let alone a region, couldn’t do.

  Something needed to be done about those [Frost Giants] before they wandered into Lakeridge and froze the lake over.

  ?

  Moeldywn’s wandering feet took her to the middle terrace garden. She had many gardens installed over the years, and this one was a “garden” just about as much as a jungle was “a place to find trees”.

  An alpine forest. She planted a forest.

  In her youth, when she was still inexperienced and learning in magic, she paid an egregious amount of money to have several elves transplant trees native to their remote northeast region, where wild [Nightsabers] roamed. She then learned to mold and shape the climate of this small section of Horizon to mimic those lands.

  As such, it was several degrees cooler in these woods than anywhere else in the capital, dry with very low humidity.

  A favorite of a certain blasted cat.

  A low growl made Moeldywn stop in her tracks, and despite her grumpy mood, a small traitorous smile wormed its way onto her face.

  “Midna,” she said, as if the beast could understand her, “You’re looking lovely today.”

  “Mrrrrowwwww.”

  Whereas a kitten making the same sound would be light, high-pitched, and cuddly, Midna’s mewls of affection were low, bass, and curdling. They sent a shiver up Moeldywn’s spine every damn time.

  Despite the goosebumps, Moeldywn approached the gigantic cat fearlessly. Meliastraza’s mount was intelligent, and she was a friend. Though it pained Moeldywn to admit it, it took the better part of 20 years to get the cat to show her anything other than her tail.

  Nowadays, Midna sauntered up to the small ex-monarch and pushed her head against her body affectionately. Moeldywn had to brace herself to not be bowled over, as the cat’s face was larger than her torso. Standing at her full height, Midna was just as tall as two of the three [Retainers] accompanying her.

  “Aww, what a sweet girl!” L’menia cooed, reaching into her inventory and pulling out a biscuit.

  Midna looked torn between getting scratched under the chin (as high as Moeldywn could reach and the cat would not bow her head lower), and getting a yummy treat. Eventually, she got her fill of scritches and licked up the palm-sized biscuit with a single swipe of her rough tongue. Suddenly, nothing else in the world mattered, and she plopped herself down right in the middle of the carefully curated path to eat, ignoring everything else.

  Moeldywn rolled her eyes.

  Still, the cat was there, which meant she was feeling lonely. She only showed herself to those she knew and trusted. The damn beast knew [Stealth] and she wasn’t shy in using it. If she wasn’t in a socializing mood, Midna would either climb a tree to nap, stay hidden to observe people passing by, or hunt some poor, unfortunate maid.

  Thank the goddess she never did anything to any maid she managed to corner and pounce on, but she had frightened at least half of Moeldywn’s staff. She was simply playful and mischievous.

  So very much like Meliastraza in that regard.

  “Say, Midna, want to hear something interesting?” Moeldywn asked. The cat’s ear flicked in response.

  “Your owner’s back in the area,” she said nonchalantly. Midna instantly stopped licking her paws and turned her head fully to stare at Moeldywn. While it was the cat’s best way of showing sincerity, having those large, luminescent eyes staring at her, unblinking, was mildly terrifying. Moeldywn sat down next to the cat, resting her back against the cat’s middle, and scratched her mindlessly.

  “You’d like to see her again, wouldn’t you?” Moeldywn asked. A low, pitiful mewl replied.

  “I wonder where she’s gone,” Moeldywn said wistfully. “And where she’s been.”

  “I’d like to know why she vanished in the first place,” Lethia sighed, crouching down dutifully to rub Midna’s belly.

  “We do know where she’s been,” said Layalee. The others turned to stare at her. She shrugged. “At least in the last few weeks.”

  “Elaborate,” Moeldywn demanded.

  “She visited Horizon not four or five days ago.”

  “And you didn’t think to mention this before?”

  “To be frank, your highness, you read the reports too,” the hulking [Retainer] sassed with her hands on her hips. “Remember the ‘traveling [Archmage]’ that showed up at the academy with rare and ancient magic? Or the fact that somebody accessed her vault? You know Etiole’s is connected to the system. Nobody can fake their way into an account. And if that wasn’t proof enough, how about the rumors of a gnome buying out all the skewer stands in the Hawker’s Alley, on the same day a gnome also buys out all the food from stands in the harbor and the Trade District?”

  “Uggghhh,” Moeldywn groaned. “Why didn’t we bring her in while we had the chance? How can we make sure to capture her?”

  “I doubt posting guards at the entrance to Horizon searching for any entering gnomes would be able to stop her,” mused L’menia. “You know as well as we do that she won’t do anything she doesn’t want to do.”

  “Besides,” Lethia pointed out, “It isn’t like we were prepared at the time. None of us knew she was in the city until after all those reports, and those are several days old. It’s just as likely that she’s left again. We have the usual contacts scouring the streets, your highness.”

  “I’m tempted to use a system [Yell],” Moeldywn grumped. The [Retainers] looked visibly startled.

  “That may be a bit drastic, your highness,” Lethia cautioned carefully, dropping into a respectful tone. For all that they were comfortable with the old queen, she was still a system granted [Royal] and [City Ruler]. They had certain privileges that most classes did not. Such as the ability to amplify their voice to be heard by every ear inside the city, no matter how distant, no matter how deaf. It was generally used in times of extreme peril if her life was actively being threatened.

  Not something to be used lightly, certainly not to summon a wayward dragon.

  “Give us a few more days at least, please,” begged L’menia.

  Layalee, however, seemed amused.

  “You’re all overthinking this,” she said in her high, squeaky voice. “It will be easy to lure her into the castle the next time she returns.”

  “Oh?” Moeldywn asked, her tone one of pure disbelief.

  “Yes,” Layalee smiled. “Simply instruct the guards to invite any gnome entering the city to see the gardens. For one, the gardens are free to enter anyway, so it isn’t going to cost you anything. For another, gnomes are curious and love to see new things. Maybe have them throw in a visit to one of your art galleries if you think that’s better. Make something up if you have to, use food, promise puzzles, be mysterious. No gnome, Meliastraza included, can resist the intrigue of a good adventure. And once she’s in the castle…you have her trapped.”

  The others stared up at Layalee, looking smug and satisfied. Why didn’t any of them think of that?

  “Damn.”