Chapter 2: The Tower of Thirst

  After-images dissolved into the murky red night of the goggles. Red hued menus popped up on hexagonal displays. Selecting Cognitive Conga, Ronjah selected Synaptic Relay Records. From the long list of records he opened S_R_R_3037/AATR. The red intensified and then faded into a psychedelic dream as Ronjah felt himself fading away.

  "Reality is an eternal reflection. A reflection of the three core aspects of eternity” Tylagen whirled around in his heavy white cloak, shielding him from the perpetual snows of Glacia's Floreal season. A full cycle around Sekaia's sun had passed since the summons, nine long months of desperate preparation – yet the land's thirst only deepened. Every snow and dust-packed gust carried the scent of failing crops and the memory of last season's empty wells. The diverse group of Llcyrans had assembled on the plains of Glacia, where spring was in full force while Brumaire still peaked further south. The irsu twirled, kicking up the snow, forming it with his Rhasweaving, suggesting some truth in Adhran’s suspicions of mania.

  “We stand here in ceremony with me representing the archetypal head of Ora-Laho, the Father,” his grin was wide as the flurry of snow condensed into bricks. “Our prayers and our weaving represent the inherent essence that pre-empts form, the archetypal Everessence,” he gestured at Captain Yrena who blinked.

  Idris coughed, the sound thin in the glacial air. Her fingers, accustomed to the rhythmic pull of her Rhasweaving, twitched with a tremor she couldn't entirely master. Psyche, Essence, Nexus, the tenets of her faith echoed, a desperate mantra against the rising unease. Commander Itharaak Colrui's Rhasseeker senses hummed, a discordant melody of tension vibrating from Seinjath Akuun and, more acutely, from Eilajynth Almia. Almia's gaze, sharp as winter ice, swept the sparse delegation, a barely concealed sneer twisting her lips at the empty seats. Her very posture exuded a cold contempt, a silent challenge that prickled at the skin of every delegate, save for Tylagen and Akuun. A subtle discord pulsed in her aura, a hidden note Itharaak's senses snagged on. Despite the knot in her stomach, the Aedlaan captain stepped forward, her voice a fragile reed, yet resolute, stirring a phantom ache in Itharaak's chest—the ghost of his late daughter, Herka.

  “I sing for our youth

  And I sing for our bold

  The longing of the hearth

  Waits under the stars

  And the cold of our wanting…”

  As Idris sang, her songweaving wove glyphs into the air, their glow pulsing with the rhythm of Aedlaan’s tides, a prayer to the Everessence. Tylagen gestured, shaping the snow into brick and glass, imbuing the structure with her song’s longing. “From the snows of Glacia, I craft the symbol of our salvation, the Tower of Thirst!”

  The Seinjath and Eilajynth joined in, their Artuls unwinding as telekinesis lifted Tylagen’s bricks. In three hours, the tower—a hollowed, transparent obelisk—stood complete, its sharp angles and ornately carved glyphs gleaming under Glacia’s pale sun. The delegation climbed the ice-brick steps, led by Chief Thoddaus Brava and Sarisha, their honor guard flanking the group. Drones buzzed overhead, streaming the summit to Sekaia’s G-DAW.

  Inside, the lobby’s expansive design—snow-brick pillars and four ice elevators—reflected D’varoh’s industrial reverence to Ora-Laho’s three aspects. Almia opened the ice door, her fangs glinting as she smiled. “Shall we begin negotiations?” Sarisha and Akuun ushered the delegates into the sleek, glassy interior, its angular geometry blending with fine carvings.

  Tylagen guided the elevator pod with a flick of his wrist, expending three strands of Rhas—a trivial cost for a Sorcer of his skill. The tower’s floors, above and below, would house dorms, labs, and a sorcer academy, a testament to the Nexus of unity. The delegates settled around a round, transparent ice table, warded by Idris’s songweaving. The snowy loungers were soft, but the table hummed faintly, resonating with the delegates’ rising emotions.

  Chief Thoddaus spoke first, his tone courteous but firm. “Glacia remains neutral, bound by our ties to the Fey elves. We host this summit, but we cannot leverage our influence.” His words rankled Rokuud, whose fingers tightened around a pendant, a silent vow to his fallen brother, blessed by the Everessence.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Rokuud leaned forward, his green irises flaring like embers against the stark black of his sclera. “You do our Khan much disrespect, Chief,” he bit out, the words laced with a raw fury that tightened the air. “Our razorbeaks gnaw on dust, our mobile cities throughout our land sit like monuments to ruin on the scorched southern steppes. All this while Xelryia feels but a dip in their industry. D’varoh hoards the Audenuitch’s lifeblood, and you expect us to beg for what is rightfully ours?” His hand clenched around the pendant at his throat, a testament to the Khan’s unyielding ambition for the contested Haeydlaic Territories, where D’varoh’s mines and settlers still encroached.

  Akuun’s eyes narrowed, his caution steadying the room. “The lives of your people are vital, extensions of the Everessence’s form. But D’varoh’s furnaces power our Root province’s forests, our mines. An earthquake looms, and we must prepare.” His cautious gaze flicked to Tylagen, signaling their shared proposal.

  Tylagen’s grin softened, his eyes gleaming with prophetic clarity. “A solution, born of the three aspects. D’varoh proposes a multi-nation project: moisture collectors, wind-driven and graviton-stabilized lattices woven with windcatcher and qanat wisdom, built in Yghastia’s southern steppes near the Haeydlaic Territories. D’varoh’s graviton-guided harvesters, Aedlaan’s condensation mastery, and Yghastia’s desert engineers will draw water from the air itself, with unmatched efficiency. In return, we offer fifteen percent of our water—for one season.”

  Yrena’s boots tapped the floor, sending ripples through the table. Idris's voice carried the salt of Aedlaan’s tides, urgent but steady. “Fifteen percent? Our ports dry, our children thirst. You’d have us labor for your empire while our coasts fade? We need more to survive.”

  Rokuud bared his fangs. “And the Haeydlaic Territories are Yghastia’s by right, despite D’varoh’s settlers and mines. The Khan demands them, or there will be no accord.” Seth’s voice was steel, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of defeat, Almia’s shadow looming large.

  Almia’s eyes narrowed to glinting slits, fixed on Rokuud, a wolf scenting blood. The very air around her thinned, biting cold seeping into the warmth of the room—the subtle chill of her willcrafting. “Careful, Chieftain,” her voice purred, a silken whisper that nonetheless sliced through the tension. “My shadows know of northern enclaves, built on foundations of sand and lies, where Frost Worms are bartered under guise of craft. Would you truly see D’varoh’s blades turn north from borders struck from past accords?” Her words, aimed with surgical precision, struck Rokuud alone. His face, already etched with strain, drained of all color, his eyes widening in stark comprehension as he grasped the unspoken truth – Almia knew Yghastia’s war plans. Rokuud stiffened, shocked at Almia’s perceptiveness. Across the table, Yrena’s breath hitched, a sharp gasp. She felt the sudden, crushing weight of Almia’s threat, a visceral sense of danger, though its true target remained obscure to her. Her existing resentment for Almia’s raw power flared into a bitter heat.

  The table vibrated, Idris’s songweaving amplifying the tension. A low rumble shook the tower, a tremor from the Audenuitch’s geostrata. The delegates froze, drones faltered in their orbits. Tylagen’s grin vanished, his eyes burning with the psyche’s vision. “Ora-Laho speaks,” he whispered, raising a hand. Rhasweaving flared, and the tower’s walls shimmered, projecting a vision: cracked steppes, trembling mines, and Aedlaan’s receding tides. “The earth stirs, and thirst will not wait. Find unity, or the Everessence’s form will judge us all.”

  Yrena’s breath caught, her duty to Aedlaan overriding her fear of Almia. “Aedlaan will join the collectors, but only if D’varoh shares twenty percent water now—enough for our coasts and Yghastia’s cities.”

  Akuun’s eyes narrowed, his caution steadying the room. “Fifteen percent, and the collectors serve all. Let us not tempt war, Eilajynth.” His stoic tone tempered Almia’s menace, urging the accord forward.

  Rokuud’s jaw tightened, Almia’s threat chaining his resolve. “Yghastia agrees, but the Haeydlaic Territories’ contest is not settled.” His voice was steel, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of defeat, Almia’s shadow looming large.

  Almia nodded, her wolf-like gaze unwavering, her secrets intact. “Then we have an accord. Let it be signed.”

  Tylagen clapped, the sound like cracking ice. He drew a sheet of paper from his cloak, its surface shimmering with latent Rhas, and produced three identical copies for the nations. “And this is the embodiment of Nexus, the path that through our walking binds the two previous aspects of our Lord,” he intoned, his voice a prophet’s command to Ora-Laho. He wove five strands of Rhas, tracing a glyph of unity that flared across the papers, rendering them near-indestructible. As he sealed the pact, an Aurora Borealis erupted above the tower, ribbons of light dancing across Glacia’s sky, a divine sign of the Nexus. Drones captured the spectacle, and locals flooded the G-DAW with images, hailing it as Ora-Laho’s blessing. The delegates signed, their hands steady but their hearts heavy with distrust—Almia’s shadow looming over all but Tylagen and Akuun, who stood unshaken.

  As Tylagen carefully folded the enchanted accord and its copies, a hairline crack, thin as a spider's silk, snaked from the very center of the transparent ice table, unseen by all but him. It spread slowly, deliberately, a silent testament to the fragile peace that now held them. The drones whirred, broadcasting the moment to Sekaia. The delegates rose, faces etched with relief and fear, Almia’s hated presence a specter in their minds. The tower stood as a symbol of fragile hope, but the tremor’s echo and Almia’s hidden knowledge promised earthquakes and secrets yet to surface in D’varoh’s future.