Lady Ysolde Calwin's private office rose high above the fractured streets of Nondicci's Commerce District, an enclave of preserved opulence amid surrounding decay. The chamber was adorned in relics from a more elegant past—Pre-Rift navigational charts framed in gold, rare woven tapestries whispering forgotten sea routes, and sculptures so old their names had long been lost to time. Wisps of incense curled from silver dishes, mingling with the scent of old parchment. Beside a stack of ledgers inked in Ysolde's careful hand, a softly humming relay stone pulsed with blue light—part of Liam Passart's hastily rebuilt long-range communication network. It flickered beside an archaic fax terminal, which still gave off residual warmth.
A hiss of static broke the stillness. Sigils across the stone pedestal lit up as the voice of Merchant Guildmaster Kareth Valen filled the room.
"The spice routes through Alseron are gone," Valen said grimly. "Caravans vanish into ash and fog. The monster hordes are spreading fast—creatures once ordinary, now twisted by something foul. My couriers report wolves with bone-white hides that shimmer like obsidian, and herds of deer that move like one body, eyes hollowed, breath steaming black."
Ysolde remained calm, folding her hands atop a lacquered armrest.
"That's the seventh region reporting corrupted fauna. Nondicci included. We're not trading in coin anymore—just in rations, iron, and rumors. And the vaults groan emptier each week."
"And yet your city still stands," Valen said, a note of grudging respect. "Not bad, considering half your council's made of blades and secrets."
Ysolde didn't flinch.
"Blades don't feed a city. Secrets, though… might keep it breathing."
A pause followed.
"You've heard about Derathaine, then?"
"Yes," she answered softly. "Three nights ago."
Valen's voice dropped into a graver tone.
"It wasn't a siege. No warning, no demands. Just smoke and screams. The upper ring's gone. And the archives… scorched to the stone. Witnesses say something walked through the fire. Something like a god."
Ysolde's eyes narrowed.
"Or a lunatic who found a Rite he didn't understand."
"Is there a difference anymore?"
"To the dead? No," she replied. "To those of us trying to keep cities breathing—it matters greatly."
From the corner of the desk, the fax machine clicked loudly. A fresh sheet fed through—schematics detailing reinforced corridors, filtration nodes, and geothermal chambers beneath Nondicci's surface.
"You'll find a copy on your terminal," Ysolde said, lifting the page. "Tier One of the underground refuge is operational. Liam Passart's constructs are holding—for now. If Kavareth still has engineers, put them to work."
Valen whistled, low and impressed.
"This isn't a shelter. It's a second city. Adaptive shielding, geothermal intake, water drawn from fractured underflows…"
"A last city," she corrected him. "If the surface fails, we'll need more than prayers and heirlooms."
"Do you think your people will accept a life underground?"
"No," she answered, "but they'll survive. That's enough."
"What about above ground?"
Ysolde moved toward the glowing relay stone.
"We're reopening a secured trade route. Salvage-armored transports. Automated walkers with mounted repeaters. Liam's machines will escort the caravans. No more horses and hope. We trade under steel now, not faith."
Valen let out a dry laugh.
"You're militarizing trade."
"I'm preserving it," she snapped. "Begin organizing shipments. Tomorrow, we map safe zones and clear the route."
"The southern ports are worse," Valen muttered. "Frozen solid. In midspring. Mana storms overhead. And the ocean's dragging in icebergs—massive, inscribed with glyphs older than the Rift. We recovered relics from one, but… they're humming. They whisper. We sealed them underground."
"Keep them sealed," Ysolde said at once. "Any relic that predates written memory is cursed by default—especially if it sings."
Valen paused.
"You remember the Arathen Line?"
"Fortress city. Thought abandoned since the Rift."
"Not anymore. Its towers lit up two nights ago. Beacons burning bright. Someone's there. And they want to be seen."
"Any banner?"
"No crest. But the beacons pulsed in threes. Your mage-friends might know what that means."
Ysolde's voice was tight with unease.
"I'll ask them. We can't afford new gods—or those pretending to be."
Valen sighed.
"You sound tired, Lady Calwin."
"Good," she said coolly. "That means I'm still sane."
Another pause followed. Then Valen's voice dropped to a near whisper.
"One more thing. We intercepted a message from Iryss. No arcane signature. Just ink—coded. Pre-Rift technique. It mentioned something called the 'Twelfth Gate.' Ring any bells?"
The silence that followed was long and cold.
"Only in nightmares," Ysolde murmured.
"Then we'd better keep each other awake."
"Agreed. Maintain weekly contact. If Kavareth falls, we want a record."
"And if Nondicci falls?"
Ysolde's eyes hardened.
"Then burn every word I've ever sent you. And forget my name."
With a final motion, she pressed a sigil on the crystal relay. The line went dead. The fax hummed once more, storing a copy of the blueprint behind enchanted wards.
Alone now, Ysolde stared through her window at the fractured skyline. Her voice, low and grim, was meant for no one but herself.
"We build beneath the bones of old empires… because we know the sky no longer protects us."