Deep beneath the imperial city of Alabastris, below the beating of a quarter-million hearts, sequestered far beneath the cobblestone streets and glowing arcanotech lights, thousands of machines pulsed and hummed with stolen power, piercing the ley lines of Ilani’s heartsblood and drawing it up and away from the molten rock deep within Ayrgard in great pluming gouts of unimaginable power.

If the great essence engines that drove the capital and powered the Catacombs were unearthed, the common citizen of the Empire would consider them to be inconceivably massive, towers of stone, steel, and far more esoteric materials sunk hundreds, even a thousand, stride into the earth. The average person of Ayrgard would see such things and think of them as the palaces of the gods.

The Chosen would see them and be reminded of the skyscrapers of Tokyo, Shanghai, New York, Los Angeles, or Moscow. In Ayrgard, the capital’s essence engines and the machinery of the Catacombs represented feats of arcanotech engineering that would not be possible for a thousand years.

The deep corridors of those halls bristled with arcanotech weapons and autonomous golems that could slay the greatest warriors of the Empire in a single moment of unleashed annihilation.

The sole purpose of the tens of millions of tons of steel, stone, and magical materials that composed the titanic maze of tunnels beneath the soil of Alabastris was to prevent a single being from entering a single vault that lay at the bottom of that vast labyrinth of death.

Far above that chamber, in a perfectly cubic chamber measuring exactly seven stride by seven stride by seven stride, ten of the most powerful awakened in the White Empire spoke in hushed tones.

Within the room were eleven simple chairs and a wide circular table. On each wall of the cube, the stylized banner of the Imperial Church hung in prominence. No other decorations marred the surfaces of the chamber, save for hundreds of thousands of intricate runes that glowed dimly and pulsed slightly with power diverted from the great engines.

This was the warded chamber of the inner council of Alabastris, and the subject under discussion by those within the chamber was the eleventh seat which sat empty. 

Senior Confessor Jonas Ebrahim’s seat.

Any person familiar with imperial politics that witnessed the gathering of the occupants of the chamber, which, by design, had no name, would find the presence of those within to be incomprehensible compared to the public political landscape of the Empire. Many of these men and women were known to be bitter enemies who hated each other with a passion that bordered on the murderous.

There sat the Imperial Regent, Alain Strassman, a tall human with brilliant blue eyes and blond hair that had begun to show streaks of platinum, said to be descended from one of the very Brothers of Alabastris.

Next to the Regent sat Patriarch Bernek Carthane, leader of the Church of Heleyl. These two men were known to be political rivals, as the Regent was not a religious man. The two had participated in several shouting matches on the very floor of the Landsrat house. 

On Carthane’s right sat High Paladin Kellen Meier, imperial war hero, and Carthane’s personal guard. His presence was largely ceremonial, as the war veteran considered the matters of the council and the Will of the Brothers discussed therein to be beyond his ken. It was known in both senior Church and Inquisition circles that the Paladin considered several members seated at the chamber table to be dangerous heretics, mad dogs that needed to be put down.

Across from them, leaning against the arm of his chair and sipping from a cup filled with expensive wine was the high elf Lurien Riegen, who most simply knew as the Imperial Shrike, second in command of the Inquisition, and an Inquisitor and Vulcanist of the sixth weave. The Shrike was considered to be the most proficient and terrifying torturer in all of Austrvost, rivaled in all the world by only the Black Iron Widow herself, the centuries-old court interrogator of the dark elf kingdom hidden within the Depths.

Next to the Shrike sat Evryn Grendel, known as the Lady of Cinders, head of the Inquisition. Grendel was a Pyromancer of surpassing power and secretly a master of the forbidden hybrid element of Ash, the combination of Flame and Wood that consumed the caster’s life force to create awe-inspiring offensive enhancements. Even less well-known was that the Cinder used ritual magic to bind the life force of “executed” heretics to her own in order to power her forbidden magic.

To the left of the Shrike was the matrix Forgemaster Yoren Vischer, greatest arcanotech engineer of the Empire, and likely the only mortal being in Austrvost that understood even a tenth of the functions and magical science employed by the machines surrounding the inner council’s warded chamber.

Seated next to the Forgemaster was the half-elf Archmagus, Oln Weirwind, who unilaterally spoke for the Collegia Arcana of Alabastris, and was known to have mastered no less than five elements or hybrids. Weirwind was considered to be the most knowledgeable sorcerer in the Empire, and other than the Summer King of the mongrel elven nation of Greenbough, perhaps the continent.

In addition to these imperial luminaries were two Prelates of the Church of Heleyl, both of whom were considered second-class citizens in the council’s meetings. The Prelates largely kept their mouths shut and voted along with Carthane. Their mere presence in the council chamber granted untold status and privileges.

The final member present, seated next to the empty chair of Senior Confessor Jonas Ebrahim, was Adelvyrn Aurynborn, a cousin to the Goldblood clan of dwarves that called the Empire home. If the Prelates of the church were second-class members of the council, Aurynborn was the red-haired stepchild that had elbowed the door open and refused to leave. The dwarf had earned and spent a vast fortune to learn the most precious secret of the council, then leveraged it as blackmail to be allowed a seat at the table. One would be forgiven for assuming the dwarf would’ve met a grisly end soon thereafter, but the Merchant had proven so resourceful and ruthless that the cabal had begrudgingly decided to allow his continued presence. For now.

Confessor Ebrahim’s empty seat had originally been a concession among the council, as the senior Priest shared the Imperial Regent’s bloodline, and he had proven zealously loyal to both the Church and the Empire. His instability was noted among the more perceptive members, but it had largely been passed off as the tendencies of a fanatic.

But now, the fanatic had stolen a holy relic and annihilated an imperial city. 

“I understand our last contact with the darklings through the Seeing Matrix was on the Vylornes coast?” Carthane asked.
“Indeed. They progressed north along the coast, past the Front,” the Forgemaster Vischer responded.

“And I presume we know how Ebrahim was able to seize one of the Doom?” the Lady of Cinder asked.
“The same way you or I would. The fool bastard was implanted with a Locus the day before he sat in that chair,” the Forgemaster pointed.

Several of the council members unconsciously scratched at the scar where their ribcage had been split open to allow the Locus to be seated next to their heart. The relic magitech device allowed the council members to access the deeper levels of the Catacombs, protected them from the automatic defense systems, and gave them authorization to operate the Holy Relics forged by the Brothers in the Age of Wonder. The Locus also had the added benefit of containing a tiny imitation of the Doom that could be remotely triggered to detonate with enough force to destroy both itself and nearly anything within a few stride. The only place this particular feature could be engaged was from the Vault of Rest, at the bottom of the Catacombs.

Ebrahim’s obliteration in the detonation of the Doom meant that his Locus could not be retrieved, and only added to the damage the fanatic had done to the remaining Wonders of the Brother’s lost age.

“What about the ranger, Larken?” the Lady of Cinder asked.
“Slain. The Seeing Matrix lost track of his papers the day after the darklings fled north. We think the Huntsmaster’s barbarian woman killed him,” the Forgemaster replied.
“What will we do about him?” the Shrike suddenly asked.
“Nothing,” the Regent interjected before the others could speak. “Killing him now would make him a martyr.”

“Wha’ ‘bout the other thing?” Aurynborn asked.
“We think it’s just interference,” the Forgemaster paled and swallowed, almost imperceptibly.
“You’re lying,” the Shrike smiled.
“What ‘other thing’?” Carthane looked across at the dwarf.
“The Matrix ‘s picked up somethin’ else. Like li’l ripples of… somethin’... across half o’ Austrvost,” the dwarf grimaced.
“You exaggerate,” the Forgemaster hurriedly spoke up.
“Mayhap so, but it’s fuckin’ big as shite all the same,” he scowled.

“So she has awoken,” the Archmagus whispered.

The room was silent, save for the sound of several intakes of breath.

“We don’t know that,” the Forgemaster quickly rebutted.

The half-elf sorcerer smiled grimly.

“Nevertheless, preparations must begin. The skystrikers must be assayed and the remaining Doom placed within. The Catacombs defenses must be inventoried and tested,” he lectured.

“We must prepare for the White Beast to return to finish what she started,” he whispered.

The hovering black plane appeared in front of each of them, visible only through their connection to the arcanotech device nestled below their hearts, it’s quicksilver tendrils threaded into their nervous systems without their knowledge.

“Oh. Oh, no,” the Forgemaster’s horrified whisper echoed in the dead silence of the room.

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