Arlette Faredin paced back and forth inside her room. Inches away sat the door to the outside world, but she could not bring herself to open it. On the other side of that door waited the two-headed beast known as Responsibility and Expectations. So many ways to fail. So many ways to let people down. She wasn’t ready to face such a monster this early in the morning, but her readiness didn't matter much these days. Each morning the burdens of her position would eventually force her out that door; today would be no different.

As she did every morning, Arlette stopped pacing, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Her right hand moved up towards her throat, her fingers encircling a small stone trinket that hung around her neck. The small carving of a leaf was rather crude and disproportioned, but she didn't care. It was one of the only things from her first father that she had left, and she had vowed long ago to keep it on her at all times to remember him and all he had done for her. Tracing its lines with her thumb helped pacify her fears and she felt her connection with his spirit grow, even half a world away.

Her soul calmer than before, Arlette's morning ritual moved to the next phase. She could do this, she told herself over and over. She'd already done it every day for the last five years, she repeated to herself. She was right, and she knew it. Everything was going to be okay. Her band of mercenaries was growing in number and stature. The men and women under her command respected her and followed her lead. There was talk of another expansion. Things were on the upswing. Her mind no longer a roiling sea of worry, Arlette looked at the door, just several paces away. It beckoned, inviting her to venture out into a world of endless possibilities...

She still couldn't do it. Swiftly marching over to the side table placed by her small, uncomfortable bed, Arlette snatched up a large flask of liquor and poured several gulps down her gullet. Her throat stung as the liquid courage cascaded down her esophagus. A calming warmth perfused her body. Now she was ready. Tucking the flask into her tunic, Arlette Faredin opened the door and entered the hallway outside to face whatever might come that day. Next time she'd make it out without the booze, she told herself, just like she'd told herself every day for the last five years.

"Boss's up!" a voice called as she descended the stairs at the end of the hallway and entered the dining area of The Dancing Jaglioth, the low-cost inn where she and her crew had lodged. Arlette spotted a rough-looking group of about twenty men and women sitting across the chamber. Making her way through the small maze of rough wooden tables and crude benches, Arlette sat down with the group — her group — to a smattering of "Hey, Boss" and "Morning, Boss". The overall ruckus was quieter than normal, and a quick glance around quickly revealed why.

"Where's Jaquet?"

"Left early," replied Lilybeth Ozalan, a large beastwoman and one of her best Feelers. "Said he was going to 'scout the battlefield'."

Arlette tried to hide her annoyance at her second-in-command's actions. By "scout the battlefield", Jaquet meant that he was going spend fifteen minutes checking out the area where the band was scheduled to serve that afternoon, and then follow that up with several hours of gambling away his life savings. She wondered how many times he would suffer the same fate before realizing the folly of his actions.

Jaquet might not have been present, but all other twenty members were there, merrily eating breakfast. With a discerning and critical eye, Arlette inspected her subordinates.

"Telephus, clean up that stain on your coat. You too, Olaf. Lilybeth, your tail's a mess. Make sure you wash it before we head out today. Puck, I told you to fix that strap on your chest piece days ago. If it breaks in battle you'll be a liability to everybody in your squad. Go find a shop if you have to. Our shift isn't until this afternoon so don't tell me you don't have the time."

"I told you she would notice," Lilybeth's squadmate Basilli Inciar said while a bunch of others chuckled. He held his hand out across the table, palm up and open. "And don't think I didn't notice you trying to hide it under the bench. Now pay up."

Lilybeth's triangular ears folded down onto the top of her head in dismay as she reluctantly fished out a bronze coin and handed it over to the smirking man.

"Thanks for the assistance, Boss," the ponytailed soldier teased as he saw his leader's displeased look.

"This isn't a joke, Basilli. First impressions matter, especially since this is our first time in Zrukhora. One day, people across the world will recognize the Ivory Tears as a band to respect, but that will not happen if we do not first respect ourselves. I will not have us looking like a bunch of dirty vagabonds."

"But we are a bunch of vagabonds," Basilli remarked with a mouth full of food.

"That's not the point. What's important is that we look presentable. Look at it this way: you've heard the talk. The magistrate here is prone to making sweeping judgments based on the silliest of things. If we show up looking like a bunch of homeless beggars, he's going to take one look at us and decide that we don't warrant having our contract renewed, or worse he'll just throw out the contract we have right now. The money is too good for us to let that happen. This is our chance to really move up in the world, and I'm not going to let it all fall apart from something as stupid as a stain. We need this."

"All right, all right," Basilli consented, waiving his hand dismissively. "Still feels weird getting told to be clean from somebody just barely more than half my age, though."

"Sounds like you want to challenge her to a duel so you can take her spot," a gleeful Lilybeth chimed in.

"Woah, slow down! I didn't say that!" her squadmate replied, leaning back from the table in alarm.

The members of the band who'd been around the longest cracked up at the brown-haired man's sudden reaction, while some of the more junior members simply looked confused. Seeing the puzzled expression on her neighbor Akiva's fair face, Lilybeth leaned over.

"Back when this garoph's ass of a man joined, about three years ago, he challenged Boss to a duel for control over the group," she explained to the elf. "Said he couldn't stomach taking orders from a nineteen-year-old. She beat his face in so hard he couldn't speak for a week. I think he cried, too."

The rest of the table exploded with mocking laughter.

"Oh, like any of you have done better!" Basilli retorted with a huff. He turned back to Arlette. "Speaking of the magistrate, some messenger came by earlier. You've been summoned."

Arlette went stiff at the news. "What?! Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Must have slipped my mind in my old age," he said with a cheeky grin.

Arlette shot him a glare, but decided that arguing with the man would be a poor decision for the moment. He was a capable Observer, on the whole an important contributor to the band in a fight, but his true talent lied in arguing, negotiating, and wheedling. She was convinced that the man could talk his way out of his own public hanging, if given the chance. To engage with him on his chosen battlefield would be a waste of time, and time was suddenly something she couldn't afford to waste.

Arlette wolfed down her breakfast so quickly that she could barely taste it, not that she was missing much. The food at The Dancing Jaglioth was filling, but that was about the only good thing that could be said for it. Bargain inns such as this usually had to made sacrifices somewhere if they wanted to stay in business, and the dining experience was where this establishment had chosen to make its cuts. Such was the life of an up-and-coming mercenary band. Maybe one day, when people spoke of the Ivory Tears in the same breath as the Shields of Sardona and the Scions of the Black Dawn, they'd have the funds to stay someplace nice. Sadly, that day was still far off.

Her hasty consumption completed, Arlette stood up. "You all know where to be," she said as she turned back towards the stairs. "Don't be late. I'm going to go deal with the magistrate." A chorus of assents came from behind her as she hurried back upstairs.

Up in that hallway hung a small polished bronze mirror. The reflection was poor and misshapen when compared to glass mirrors, but glass mirrors could only be afforded by the richest of the rich. The fact that there even was a mirror here was impressive. Perhaps she'd have to raise her opinion of the inn slightly.

Within the mirror Arlette saw the figure of a young woman of slightly above-average height. Intelligent light-brown eyes stared back at her, set above a refined nose and lips that seemed stuck in a perpetual frown. Her fair skin might have led some observers to assume that she was an upper-class lady, but several battle scars, including a large one that ran from above her left eye down through the top of her nose and ended on her right cheek, debunked such ideas.

She ran a hand through her turquoise hair, which fell down to her chin with a part slightly to the side. It was hard to find a balance between practicality and looks, and this was the best she had been able to find so far. Anything longer or more complicated made it impossible to manage on the road and a possible liability in battle. Anything simpler and she gave up any hint of style. That was fine for her comrades, but as the boss, she needed to look better. First impressions and all that.

Her face clean and her hair combed neatly, Arlette determined that this was the best she was going to look if she didn't want to be later than she already probably was. Without hesitation, she headed back down the stairs and left the inn.

Myriad sights, sounds, and smells assaulted Arlette as soon as she stepped outside. The streets before her bustled with activity, with people of all ages and races rushing to and fro. The Ivory Tears had only arrived in the city the day before, so she hadn't really witnessed it too much herself, but from what she understood, this was an everyday concern.

Zrukhora was the preeminent boomtown in the entire continent of Nocend, and perhaps the entire world. Just a decade ago, the city had been but a small town on the northern border of Kutrad. North of the border stood the Krekard Mountains, the northernmost boundary of the kingdom. The foot of those mountains marked the farthest north anybody had settled in all of Nocend. The mountains beyond held nothing of value, their rocky slopes covered in nothing but snow and ice almost year-round. Furthermore, nobody, no matter how strong or skilled, had ever ventured deep into the mountain range and returned to tell the tale. This had been the edge of civilization. Then they'd found the ore.

At only just over four hundred years old, Kutrad was the youngest country in the world, but, thanks in part to a ruthless strategy of environmental exploitation, it was by no means the weakest. The country thrived by exporting materials to other countries in Nocend, especially the Republic of Eterium, the commercial powerhouse of the continent. It had started with lumber, but eventually expanded into stone and minerals as deposits were discovered around the land over the centuries. By the time Zrukhora had been founded just half a century ago, ore exports made up over two thirds of the country's income. Such exports were half of the reason such a young country could call itself the equal of countries centuries older.

Then, one day five years ago, a team of surveyors had discovered a vein of gold in a nearby mountain. Then another of silver. Then a third of iron. Over the next few years, it had become apparent that there was more valuable ore buried in the nearest mountains in the Krekard Mountain Range than in the rest of the country combined. People stampeded to the area in the hopes of getting a slice of that pie, and the result was the city of Zrukhora as it was today: a surging metropolis filled with over four hundred thousand people and only room for a quarter of them.

The city was in a constant state of construction on a level magnitudes greater than anything she'd ever seen, and she'd seen a lot of cities in her young life. The only parts that were complete were the large stone walls that ringed the entire area, complete with a north and south gate. Protective walls always were finished first, their massive forms raised from the earth by high-level earth-manipulating Observers. Such experts were rare and charged absurd rates for their services, which is why governments tended to employ them only for the most vital projects. Inside the wall, an ocean of tents filled every area what wasn't already taken by the steadily growing collection of wooden houses, the vast majority of those who had immigrated to the town having no other choice for their living arrangements. Moving inward from the tent sea and through the confused mass of roofs and walls, one came upon the inner city wall, which at one time was the town's original protective fortification, and finally at the center stood a large castle. Word was that the first action of the current magistrate once he had arrived several years ago was to evict all of the original townspeople from the center of the town, raze their homes, and begin the construction of a grand fortress for himself to live in.

It was this very same magistrate that she had been summoned to see. Arlette was not looking forward to the experience. Rumors abounded concerning the man's poor judgment and paranoid flights of fancy. Exaggerations, surely, but she highly doubted that he had summoned her for anything good.

The rattle of chains broke Arlette from her thoughts, a scowl working its way onto her face as she watched a line of slaves trudge by. Faced with a fledgling nation of few people and a multitude of trees, the founding nobles had decided to solve their manpower problem by importing slaves from the few other nations that engaged in such a practice at the time, giving them the bodies they required to extract maximum profit from the land. Centuries later, Kutrad was the only nation that still widely practiced such a barbaric system. If the pay weren't so outrageously good, Arlette would never have considered taking a job in such a hideously backwards society.

This train of beaten-down people looked to be a delivery of new slaves. She could tell by the faint traces of despair on their faces. Those who had been slaves for a long time no longer had the capacity for such emotions. Each and every one of them had probably been rounded up from a village somewhere, their freedom stolen from them by slavers who didn't care who they hurt as long as they received their coin at the end. She'd heard rumors of periodic "homeless hunts", where those without a place to stay were ruthlessly hunted down; they were the perfect slaves, since nobody would miss them. Nobody that mattered, at least. The noble houses buying the slaves didn't care where they came from. All they cared about was that they had more people to feed to their mines, replacing the last slaves that had fallen somewhere deep inside, never to get up again.

At the end of the procession came a wagon, its contents mostly obscured by a cloth roof. Arlette saw a glimpse of shackled leg through a gap in the covering and gritted her teeth. There was only one reason a slave would not be forced to walk. Whatever poor person sat in that wagon was headed for a fate far worse than the mines. He or she would likely be sold to a brothel, forced to spend the rest of their youth debasing their body for the pleasure of others. The thought made her soul tremble with rage. By the spirits below, she hated this country. She hated that she could only watch even more.

The walk to the central castle took longer than she'd anticipated because she had to push her way through throngs of people, but soon enough Arlette found herself face to face with a very bored clerk in the castle's entrance hall. The woman looked down her nose at the mercenary from her elevated seat, as if she disapproved of her very presence in the chamber. Eager to get the entire ordeal over with, Arlette identified herself.

"You're late," the clerk sniffed. "His Grace has a very busy schedule and does not appreciate tardiness." She pointed to a guard standing by several chests and racks which lined a side door. "Disarm yourself with him and wait in that room. Your audience will begin shortly."

Arlette nodded and walked over to the guard, who looked at her with a grain of curiosity while holding out his hand. Reluctantly, she unbuckled her longsword from her belt and handed it over the man, who tossed it onto a nearby stand. She hated being unarmed. It almost felt like being naked.

"And the rest of it," the guard said, holding his hand out once more.

Arlette grumbled, reaching into her cloak and pulling out several long, sharp daggers and handing them over as well.

"And the ones strapped to your ankles."

Arlette's eyes widened in surprise. How did he know?

The man chuckled knowingly as Arlette bent down and removed two smaller throwing knives from her under her pants. "You're not the first mercenary I've had to deal with. Crazy buggers, the lot of you. Bet you'd hide one in your anus if you could find a way to keep from cutting yourself."

Arlette gave the idea a moment of consideration. The idea of walking around weaponless was anathema to her at this point in her life. She ate while armed, slept while armed, even bathed with at least one sharp implement within arm's reach. A place didn't have to be a battlefield to be dangerous. In fact, in her mind court was far worse than a battlefield. At least on a battlefield you knew who was on your side.

Now fully relieved of her wide range of stabbing and slicing tools, Arlette sulked into the waiting room, sat on a fancy-looking plush chair, and waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Slowly the sunlight from the room's window crawled across the room. It had been over two hours since she'd first entered the waiting room, and not a soul had shown itself. This was a test, she knew, or a punishment. Perhaps both. Nobles lived for these petty displays of power. She tamped down her aggravation, reminding herself over and over just how important the imminent cash was. She'd been through worse than some uppity ass trying to jerk her around.

Finally, the door opened and she was beckoned back into the hall. A quick walk with a cadre of guards later, Arlette entered a large gaudy room lined with silver and gold. Gigantic mirrors hung on the side walls, their silver surfaces reflecting the metallic shine in all directions. The seemingly infinite reflections seemed to warp reality and threatened to make her seasick. That wasn't the only aspect that was nearly vomit-inducing. The entire room was a display of wealth handled with the subtlety of a war hammer. Sure, the sheer amount of precious metal involved in the room's construction was immense, and the expense required to create mirrors so large was mind-boggling, but the entire effort reeked of desperate overcompensation.

Sitting on a throne in the center of the hall was the source of that overcompensation: a tall, sour-looking individual that could only be Cadfael Maddock, third son of the Maddock house and ruling magistrate of the city of Zrukhora. The man seemed to pay no attention to her as she entered, but that was to be expected. Standing and sitting around the room were people of all types, from wealthy merchants looking to curry favor with the court to attendants moving about on their duties to over a dozen stationary guards dotting the chamber. Arlette walked forward into the empty middle.

"Arlette Demirt, leader of the mercenary band the Ivory Tears," a voice proclaimed loudly.

Without a word, Arlette bent down onto one knee, bringing her right arm up against her chest, fist on her heart, while simultaneously wrapping her left arm around her back and placing her left fist on the center of her spine. She kept her head down, eyes on the floor, and did not move.

A minute passed in silence, then another.

"I have to say," Cadfael said, finally breaking the silence, "I had thought you would be more impressive."

Another minute passed in silence as Arlette remained motionless and unresponsive. Several soft snickers graced her ears, but she did not react. In Kutrad, commoners were not allow to address nobility before being given permission to speak. This oafish waste of air had been hoping that a foreigner like her would be unaware of local customs, most likely so he could deliver a humiliating punishment of some sort and establish his dominance. Arlette knew better, and would rather die than let that happen.

"How... interesting," the magistrate eventually said. "You may speak."

"I am honored to be in your presence, Your Grace," Arlette responded immediately, still keeping her head down.

"Mmm," the man dismissively grunted in reply. "You are surely wondering why you are here. The simple answer is that I wanted to inspect somebody as... dubious as yourself. I will not have the jewel of Kutrad sullied by those who wish to do it ill."

"I'm afraid that I do not understand, Your Grace."

"No, a commoner such as yourself wouldn't. How old are you, Arlette Demirt?"

"Twenty-two, Your Grace."

"Do you not find it suspicious that a band of mercenaries, being the uncultured swine that they are, would willingly follow somebody nearly twenty years younger than leaders of other mercenary groups?"

"I-"

"Of course you do. Mercenaries are nothing more than ruffians who will do anything for coin. The very idea of them respecting you enough for you to lead is laughable. Add to this the fact that you are Gustilian, and it becomes impossible to believe that you are what you claim to be."

"I fail to see what my homeland has to do with anything, Your Grace," Arlette said, her temper slowly approaching a boil.

"Don't play ignorant, woman. We caught several Gustilians attempting to incite a slave revolt in this city just two months ago, and another group the year before. Gustilians have always envied the riches of Kutrad, and will stop at nothing to tear down our sacred institutions. They would even go as far as, say, assuming the guise of a mercenary band to worm their way into our security apparatus. Tell me, Demirt, why shouldn't I have your entire pathetic band rounded up and locked away this very hour?"

"Because this isn't Otharia, Your Grace. The whims of the powerful are not limitless here," Arlette said, her voice even and controlled. She raised her head and stared the man straight in the eyes. "And because you need us."

The magistrate's lip twitched. "We need you?" he asked with a disdainful glare.

"Zrukhora, beautiful and prosperous as it may be, is also dreary, cold, and far away. As the magistrate of this fair city, I'm sure you are well aware that you are currently paying ten times as much as most other cities for mercenary services. An enlightened and educated man such as yourself can surely understand that nobody would pay such an inordinate amount unless they absolutely needed to in order to gather the manpower they require. In fact, I believe that just half a year ago the rate was raised from only eight times the usual. Are you having trouble controlling such a booming metropolis, Your Grace? If so, it seems unwise to lock up a group of capable soldiers from all over the continent just because their leader hails from a country you aren't fond of."

"You impudent-" Magistrate Maddock began before pausing as a minister leaned over and whispered in his ear. Arlette noticed the vile man's eyes widen slightly in surprise before he caught himself. Had he really not known what his own city was paying for hired protection? Perhaps he was even more of a fool than the rumors claimed. After a short whispered discussion, the minister retreated back into the murmuring crowd.

"I will overlook your impertinence this time," he said with a glower, "but don't think that this is over. I will be watching you, and as soon as I have proof of your intentions you and your little group will find themselves in chains. Then we shall see just how long you can maintain that attitude. Dismissed."

Without another word, Arlette stood up and walked calmly out of the chamber and back to the entrance hall, collecting her slew of weaponry in a huff before leaving the castle behind, her mind filled with nothing but negativity. The moment she'd fully escaped the confines of the castle, Arlette pulled out her flask and gulped down a few more mouthfuls of much-needed alcoholic goodness. She'd heard tales of the man's incompetence, but had never believed them fully. Poor rulers were depressingly common throughout the world of Scyria, and she had assumed he was just another one of those. Such assumptions had proved alarmingly false. Declaring her some sort of undercover agent based on nothing but where she'd grown up? Was he daft?

Daft or not, many of the rumors made it plain that Cadfael Maddock was both petty and vindictive, which spelled trouble for her and her companions as long as they remained in Zrukhora. Using such sharp words had most likely ensured that he would hound her for the remainder of her time here, looking for any little reason to exact his revenge, whatever that might be. Still, what choice had she had? A mercenary boss who does not stand up for herself will find herself without a mercenary band soon after. Plus, the man had seemed ready to take rash action already. If she had not spoken, perhaps her entire band would be in chains already. She sighed. Life always seemed to find a way to torment her, no matter where she went.

"Now why’re ya makin’ such a sad noise on so fine a day, ‘mmmm?" a grizzled baritone asked from behind her. Arlette jumped in surprise at the sudden question, whirling about to find a large, rotund face grinning cheekily back at her.

"Jaquet, you bastard!" Arlette huffed. She lashed out at the man's shin with her foot, but he nimbly dodged with a speed and grace that defied his ample nature, shouldering a gigantic halberd all the while. "I should punch you straight in that humongous nose of yours. What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?"

"Why, I was just on my way ta investigate wha’ ‘appened ta our glorious leader," the large, six-foot three-inch man replied. "The others were gettin’ restless withou’ their shinin’ ligh’ ta guide ‘em."

"Give me a break. You were actually just looking for an excuse to gamble more of your life away. Don't lie to me."

Jaquet Delon opened his mouth and released a full-throated guffaw at her scolding, giving her a few overly-enthusiastic slaps on the back. "Come now, with tha money we're gonna make, wha's a little loss ‘ere ‘n’ there?"

"Don't be so sure about your income just yet. We have a problem."

Her second-in-command's smile disappeared in an instant, replaced with a seriousness that seemed near impossible from someone so jolly just a moment ago. "Let's ‘ead ta our station. Tell me as we go."

"Ya ‘ave grown so much, Letty. I'm proud o’ ya," her companion remarked once she'd told him the full story.

"Oh, stop it. You sound like you're my father or something."

"’t's true! Back when ya an’ I first formed this little group o’ misfits, ya shrank from these sorts o’ things. A few harsh words and ya'd just wilt away. Ya did tha right thing, standin’ up ta that bleedin’ fool. A mercenary's reputation is the most important thin’ they ‘ave."

"Yeah, yeah... It's just that we spent all that time and money traveling up here, and now there's no way we get an extension past one term. It almost wasn't worth it."

"Don' worry ‘bout it. As long as we keep e’rybody on tha up-and-up, we should be fine. ‘e'll move ‘is sights to somethin’ new soon enough, an’ we can work with tha ministers. That's where tha real power lies ‘n this city, anyway. That idiot is far too busy tryin’ ta feel important ta actually govern."

"'Keep everybody on the up-and-up'?" Arlette repeated incredulously. "That's rich, coming from the worst of the bunch. Do you really think you can keep out of trouble for the next two seasons?"

Jaquet guffawed once more in response. "What's tha point o’ livin’ if you can't enjoy it? We're almost ta our station, so let's leave this fer another time. We'll figure this out, don' worry. We always ‘ave."

Arlette grumbled. "I guess..."

"Tha’s tha spirit!" he said with another hearty laugh and a slap on the back.

Their conversation continued for several more minutes until the two approached the north gate. Arlette had actually been surprised to learn that her band was assigned to the north gate right off the bat. The north gate was the more important of the two gates into Zrukhora, at least in the minds of those running the place; it was, after all, the gate where all the ore arrived after its long trip from the mountains off in the distance. She wished she had known this before lodging her crew in an inn all the way down by the southern gate.

"There you are!" came a familiar voice off to the side.

"Shouldn't you be at your post, Basilli? We need everybody giving their best today," Arlette reprimanded. She looked up at the wall several hundred paces away. The stone battlement stood over twenty paces high. She could see the Observers of the Ivory Tears atop the wall, standing directly over the gate, ready to rain death upon anybody foolish enough to try something stupid. A quick glance towards the gate proper revealed the Feelers, each guarding a city clerk as the city official processed the incoming material. Arlette could see their boredom even from so far away.

"You were taking so long that I was chosen to go see what had happened," Basilli said in his defense. "They recognized my superior qualifications for such an undertaking."

"More likely e’rybody saw a chance ta be rid o’ ya fer a little while," Jaquet teased with a mocking grin.

"Says the old man who's only good for drinking and losing bets against me," Basilli shot back. "I'll have you know that..."

Arlette tuned out the mostly-friendly argument and gazed back up at the Observers, wondering if she could justify joining them instead of the Feelers down below. Technically she was an Observer as well, but she'd be useless up there. If she were honest with herself, she just wanted to be up there to feel the spring sun on her skin. The weather was finally heating up and the sunlight felt refreshing after hours of being cooped up in that sorry excuse for a castle. It was such a nice day out, too.

Her head tilted back even farther as she gazed up at the bright blue sky above. Not a cloud to be seen. Just calming blue from one side to the other, except for that small bird way up high and slightly to the north of her. She squinted, lifting her hand up to shade her eyes from the sun's glare. What was that thing up there? It didn't look like any bird she had ever seen. Without another object up in the sky to give it scale, Arlette's mind leapt to absurd conclusions, her instincts saying whatever was up above them was a gargantuan thing, far bigger than any animal she had ever seen. She dismissed such a notion immediately, of course. The largest land-based creature in existence was a plaxis, a large, hulking herbivore that wandered the plains of Eterium. They could sometimes grow to be over fifteen paces tall, or so she had heard. Her first impressions of the object in the sky said it dwarfed plaxi by two, maybe three times, which was manifestly impossible. Behemoths that large only lived beneath the sea.

Suddenly a light bright enough to be seen against the sunny blue backdrop appeared at the front of the object and began to expand. Arlette stared in confusion at the sight for several seconds, her mind still unable to figure out what she was seeing, until suddenly one thing became clear: whatever it was, it wasn't expanding, it was getting closer with alarming speed... and it was headed straight for the north gate.

"Run! Run!" Arlette cried, but her pleas were for naught. As the lighting and shadows became strange, every person within a thousand paces of Zrukhora's north gate looked upward, but it was too late to escape. Blazing heat washed over everything, and Arlette Faredin's whole world went up in flames.