The fog curled away like mist beneath a sunrise, revealing not some throne room or holy plane, but…

  The Oval Office.

  Elmore stood dead still as the last curls of mist evaporated from his sleeves.

  The walls were unmistakable—cream-white with the presidential seal stitched in perfect symmetry beneath his boots. To both sides of the room were chairs and couches, and they were full of people. Armed people. Each of them radiating Aither in quantities so potent it made the air taste metallic. This wasn’t a room full of interns and advisors—these were killers, each carrying an aura of authority that screamed of leveled skill sets and honed purpose.

  These were not Level Ones.

  Elmore could feel it. A rhythm behind his ribs. An instinct. The kind of sixth sense that came from having danced around death too many times not to notice its boots on the carpet.

  At the desk—presidential, oak, grand—sat a woman he’d seen only once before. Loose tie-dye robe. Long silver-gray hair down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. Eyes like hollow wells that hadn’t yet hit bottom.

  Miss Dorthea.

  She looked up from a small teacup of something that steamed lavender, then gestured to the vine-woven chair across from her, which bloomed slightly as it finished forming itself into a seat.

  “Sit, sit,” she said, smile soft but alert. “I’m glad you decided to accept our invitation, Mr. Chief Elmore.”

  Elmore nodded once, jaw clenched. The chair creaked like bark as he settled into it.

  He let out a long breath through his nose, eyes locked on hers.

  “Alright,” he said, voice even, blunt. “Why am I here?”

  “I know you don’t like monsters and animals bein’ slaughtered, but that ain’t really a concern in my valley. My people don’t do that. That’s what the dungeon’s for. Keeps things… clean. Respectful. So, again—what do you want from me?”

  For the first time since he entered, Dorthea’s smile faltered. Her lips flattened just a touch, and her gaze sharpened like glass being flexed under pressure.

  “What do you know of my policies? Of international politics?” she asked calmly. “And more importantly… what do you know of the man lined up to take my place in a few months?”

  Elmore leaned back slightly in the living chair, its bark spine gently shifting with him. He held Miss Dorthea’s gaze for a moment longer before speaking, voice even, but edged with a careful honesty.

  “Well,” he said, dragging the words out like he was choosing each one with tongs, “I know you’re a big-time conservationist. Always had a soft spot for nature and the things that live in it. You haven’t cracked down too hard on folks with Aither abilities either, not like others’ve tried. You take more of a... hands-off approach when it comes to the Thrones. Let folks handle their own territories, long as they ain’t kicking over the wrong nests.”

  He lifted his hand and waved it vaguely to the side, as if brushing away fog.

  “Internationally, your standing ain’t great. Folks overseas see you as soft. Maybe too polite for the world stage. I’ve heard whispers. Some countries are sizing each other up again. Some might be looking for a war—internal or external, doesn’t much matter to them, does it?”

  He sighed and rolled his jaw, a crack popping in his cheekbone.

  “But truth is, I haven’t kept up with it like I used to. Been busy. Raising a boy. Running a valley. Fixing trucks. You know, normal chief shit.”

  Miss Dorthea smiled faintly at that, but it was tight—restrained.

  “And as for the man gunnin’ to take your seat…”

  Elmore’s voice dropped just a touch, his eyes narrowing.

  “I know him.”

  He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees.

  “General Rhyfel. Warhawk. Decorated ten times over. A walking military-industrial complex with a spine made of doctrine. Man’s got no love for Aither users unless they wear a flag on their shoulder, and he’s damn strict about thrones. Wants to tear ’em down or force ’em to kiss the ring. From what I hear, he’s lookin’ to make this whole country uniform again—whether folks like it or not.”

  He shrugged, but his expression stayed sharp.

  “And if we’re being honest, I didn’t vote for either of you. Either term. I’ve been outta politics. Don’t mean I’m blind, just… been busy takin’ care of my own.”

  Miss Dorthea studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod and leaned in just slightly.

  “That’s a bare-bones understanding, but close enough.”

  Then, her tone changed. The calm velvet of her voice hardened just slightly, like steel wrapped in cotton.

  “Tell me, Chief… do you know how much of your valley’s manufacturing capabilities have been protecting cities across the country and supplying the military directly? How many of your foundries and smiths and engineers have been producing not just local tools—but weapons, shielding, armaments?”

  Elmore’s brow furrowed. His fingers flexed slightly on his knee.

  “I—don’t think my people have those kinds of connections with the military. We’ve sold some defensive goods, yeah. Made gear for folks who came to us. Skill forged stuff. Durable as hell. But we haven’t been shipping out battleships or nukes, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Dorthea tilted her head, watching him carefully.

  “That’s… surprising,” she said, her tone laced with just a hint of amusement. “Because according to every domestic intel network I still have access to… LakeVail is now the leading industrial manufacturer in the country. Not just by volume— but also quality.”

  Elmore blinked. For the first time since entering the room, he looked genuinely caught off guard.

  “That can’t be right. i don’t think we even have the logistics for that kind of output. We don’t have—”

  “You don’t need them,” Dorthea said, cutting him off gently but firmly. “You have Aither. You have craftspeople who’ve been blessed by their nexus. You have artisans whose hands can shape reality. You’ve created goods that are better than anything coming out of corporate factories. And people… people have noticed.”

  She leaned forward, voice low, serious.

  “You’ve built something unique, Elmore. But in doing so, you’ve also built a target.”

  Elmore didn’t respond right away. His jaw clenched, and his fingers curled tight into his palms as he sat with the weight of that.

  He could feel it now—every pair of eyes in the room on him. Armed men and women. Veterans of power and war. And Miss Dorthea, with all the grace of a dying flower blooming one last time before the frost.

  Elmore blinked again, slower this time, like his brain needed an extra few seconds to catch up. His brows pulled together in a mess of confused calculation as he looked at the woman across from him—President of the United States of North America, the so-called “Flower Crown of America”—now speaking as though she’d just admitted she’d lost her keys to the kingdom.

  "Wait," he said, voice low, disbelieving. "What do you mean, 'the leading industrial manufacturer in the country'? What happened to the damn infrastructure? To the hubs? The industrial grid? To—hell, Detroit?"

  Dorthea’s shoulders slumped just slightly, and she leaned back into the thick, living seat that responded to her like an old friend. A heavy breath left her as she pinched the bridge of her nose and let the weight of that truth drop like a brick.

  “Gone,” she said, with the tiredness of someone who had said the same word one too many times in too many briefings. “Most of it was destroyed—vandalized by ex-corporate militiamen, disgruntled workers, even rogue Aitherists looking to tear down what they called the ‘Old Gears.’ And wildlife, of all things—Aither-mutated animals chewing through power lines, tearing apart substations, nesting in foundries. It’s like the earth itself decided we didn’t need factories anymore.”

  She laughed, but it was dry, mirthless, hollow.

  She leaned forward again, arms braced on her desk now. The vine-woven chair creaked slightly beneath her.

  “You don’t get it, Elmore. Your valley… LakeVail is now producing more weaponry, more defensive armaments, more high-grade goods than any other single area on the planet. Not the country. The planet.”

  Elmore’s mouth opened slightly. But no sound came.

  She saw it—the look. The honest, bewildered look of someone who genuinely didn’t know what the hell they’d built.

  “And how the hell are you doing this?” she demanded, the careful polish of her voice breaking now under pressure. “How are you holding your people together? How are you functioning at that scale? No major imports, no visible logistics network, no corruption, no burnout—nothing. We get glimpses through drone flights and traders, but none of it makes sense.”

  She reached down into the drawer at her side and pulled out a small metal case. Clicking it open revealed a smooth cylinder of silver-blue metal, about the size of a thumb, with streaks of dark residue along one edge. She turned it slowly in her fingers. The lighting in the room shimmered strangely as it caught the surface.

  It was a mithril shotgun slug.

  Elmore immediately recognized it. no doubt. Probably from the Charleston war, years back. That was a dark time.

  “This,” she said, voice low now, with an edge that was all frustration wrapped in curiosity, “this is mithril. That’s what people call it now, because of your damn valley. Because of the stories. It’s a goddamn household name.”

  She set the lump on the desk with a click.

  “We’ve acquired… roughly one ton of the stuff. Piecemeal. Mostly traded for outrageous sums from your people before the supply line went dry about four months ago. Since then? Nothing.”

  She held Elmore’s eyes with a ferocity that reminded him of cornered animals and battlefield standoffs.

  “But here’s the thing, Chief. We’ve found hundreds of natural veins of this material all across the continent. In the Rockies. Under the Great Lakes. Down in the bayous. Even in your back yard the Appalachians.”

  She slapped the desk lightly with an open palm, just once, a sharp note of exasperation.

  “And we. Can’t. Do. A damn thing with it.”

  The last words burst out of her in a breathless, almost feral tone.

  “We can’t mine it. Can’t cut it. Lasers don’t work on it. Shaped charges bounce off. It laughs at plasma torches. We can’t extract it, purify it, work it—not with our tech. It’s like the earth itself has locked it away from us.”

  She glared at the lump on the table like it owed her money.

  Then she looked up at Elmore again. Her eyes bloodshot, a little manic, a little desperate. Not for power—no. For answers.

  “So tell me, Elmore,” she hissed. “How are your people doing this? Why the hell can you shape the unshapeable?”

  As President Dorthea’s breath quickened with each word, the vines of Elmore’s chair began to move beneath him—not threateningly, but with a kind of empathic resonance, a living mirror to her state of mind. Twisting in slow pulses, the green lattice of the seat bloomed fresh clusters of wildflowers—little white and blue blossoms pushing from the creases in the wood. Her hair, braided with morning glories and moss, was giving off a visible shimmer of golden pollen with every exhalation, a subtle haze catching the slanting rays of sunlight through the window behind her.

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  She wasn’t angry. Not yet. Just confused. Frustrated. Grasping at a puzzle that refused to be solved.

  “How have your people capitalized on this?” she demanded again, voice still reeling. “Is it one person who can mine it? Some kind of skill? A relic? An interface trick?”

  She stood now, pacing behind the desk, gesturing in wide arcs. The flowers in her hair fluttered with her motion like a queen of spring unraveling into war.

  “And how—how—does this material let you produce machines and defenses faster than anything we’ve seen since the height of Detroit’s golden age? You’ve got no AI industry, no cybernetics, no automated labor, no industry we can see from the air. And yet you’re churning out armored personnel carriers and battlefield barricades like you’re Henry Ford with goddamn divine right!”

  She slammed both palms on the desk, then gestured at a wall-sized digital display behind her, showing rough satellite composites of LakeVail.

  “And your valley—your land—by all accounts you’ve packed tens of thousands of people in there. Tens of thousands. That should look like Calhoun’s walled city. It should look like a stacked, metal nightmare. But it doesn’t.”

  Her voice dipped again, quieter now, and she leaned back, the vines of her desk curling up gently to support her arms as she collapsed into the floral chair behind her. A long breath. One more. She folded her fingers together on the desk.

  “It looks idyllic. It looks like a goddamn dream. We’ve seen the photos. People have lawns. They’re smiling. Children are playing. I don’t… I don’t understand, Chief.”

  She finally looked back up at him, voice soft and clear. “And we need to understand.”

  Elmore had sat quietly through the entire thing. He was a man who had stood on a battlefield bleeding from the shoulder, still cracking jokes. A man who once out-cooked a man with the [Spirit of Fire] skill for his wife’s birthday dinner. A man who had built a town with his hands and taught his son how to skip rocks.

  But he was also the Chief now.

  He sat back a little in his chair. Let the pollen settle on his shoulders like dust. Gave her a long, flat look.

  “No,” he said simply.

  Dorthea blinked. “...No?”

  “No,” he repeated. “You don’t get to understand. Not yet.”

  He shifted slightly, resting his forearms on the armrests of the living chair as though he were addressing a court.

  “Until the rest of the world learns how to mine and work mithril on their own—and I mean without stealing, spying, or starting another war—then I’m keeping the knowledge of how to process it locked behind my walls. And more than that…”

  He raised one hand, index finger up, as though pointing to a hidden law written above their heads.

  “There’s an Aither Law in my valley. Something you or your generals might not fully grasp yet. That law states: No mithril is allowed to leave LakeVail’s land. Not a gram. Not a shaving. Not a bent nail. If someone tries to move it? It won’t move. The material physically won’t allow it. It’s bound by the will of the valley.”

  The silence was profound. Even the vines seemed to hold still.

  He let that hang in the air for a beat before continuing, voice calmer now, more businesslike.

  “Now, all that said… I’m not heartless. I understand the value of cooperation. And I don’t want to see the world burn because of fear and confusion.”

  That caught her attention. She sat up slightly.

  “I’m willing,” Elmore said, “to strike a deal. A real one. Exclusive trade, just with the Federal government. You help us get raw veins of exotic ore—rare earths, newly unearthed Aither metals, the kind your mining ops are finding but can’t do anything with.”

  She leaned in again. He continued:

  “You don’t need to refine it. I know you cant refine it or even break it. We’ll take the whole vein if you can get it here. Hell, we’ll even come pick it up with a convoy of my folks if need be. You bring it in, and in return... we’ll keep fifty percent. That’s non-negotiable.”

  Dorthea nodded slowly, absorbing the terms.

  “In exchange,” Elmore said, his voice now carrying the full weight of his mantle, “we’ll start limited production of mithril body armor. Nothing more. No tanks. No missiles. Just armor. Personal protection. Something that can help your soldiers, your diplomats, your peacekeepers.”

  He leaned back again.

  “You want more? Then bring more. You want to make peace with my people? Then understand: we aren’t hoarding this knowledge. We’re guarding it. For good reason. The world’s not ready for the things we’re pulling out of the ground.”

  Dorthea looked at the slug of mithril again.

  The vines writhed again as her frustration surged. A scatter of orange blossoms burst open across the desk, the scent of crushed citrus thick in the air. President Dorthea stood, began pacing with short, tight steps across the deep green carpet, each exhale trailing glittering threads of pollen. Her eyes blazed, not with wrath—but with disbelief.

  She whirled suddenly. “Why armor? Why at all? And why not just tell us how to mine it ourselves so we can bring more of it to you?”

  Elmore remained seated, arms folded loosely, jaw set like weathered stone. His voice was steady, calm as the mountain wind that shaped him.

  “Because I’m keeping it a monopoly, Madame President. Plain and simple. That’s the game.”

  She blinked. “You’re admitting that?”

  “I’m not a liar,” he said. “And I’m not a fool. You want my people’s knowledge? Our technique? What we’ve learned digging into the bones of this new world? That’s our edge. And I’ll be damned if I hand it over like some trade surplus to a government that might turn around in two years and declare my entire valley a threat to national security.”

  Her fingers curled. A bloom wilted on the desk as her breath stilled.

  “See, right now,” Elmore went on, “we’ve got a throne-to-throne relationship. Your seat, my seat. That means terms matter. Deals matter. Trust matters. And trust starts small.”

  He leaned forward.

  “You bring mithril ore to my people—raw ore, not dust or flakes—and my workshops will turn half of it into personal-grade mithril armor. Only armor. You get the finished product, we keep the rest. And let’s be clear: none of that armor can ever be used against LakeVail, or anything my people build.”

  She opened her mouth, but he raised a finger.

  “You breach that, and the agreement dissolves. You try to smuggle out mithril? The metal itself will refuse. You try to reverse-engineer our working techniques from the armor? Good luck—it’s alive. It’s ours. Bound by Aither to our hands, not yours.”

  President Dorthea’s voice dropped to a knife-edge whisper. “Then why armor? Why give us anything?”

  Elmore met her gaze without flinching.

  “Because armor isn’t an advantage to you. It’s a buffer. A shield. It helps your people survive what’s coming—but it doesn’t tip the scales against mine.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “So it gives us equal footing?”

  “No,” Elmore replied, blunt and without venom. “It doesn’t.”

  She stood stock still, eyes storming. He went on.

  “There are other materials,” he said. “Ones my people have access to. Ones that boost the capabilities of the armor tenfold. They don’t just protect. They adapt. They evolve. And those materials?” He shook his head. “They never leave my valley. Not an ounce. So you’ll get armor, yeah—but not our armor. Not truly.”

  A long silence stretched between them. Her hands rested now on the desk, fingers slowly unknitting. The vines no longer writhed, but lay relaxed, petals turning toward the light.

  “And what happens,” she said finally, “when the rest of the world figures it out? When they start pulling mithril from the ground themselves? What then?”

  Elmore stood now too, slowly, gaze level. “Then they’ll have proven the world’s ready. And only then will I be willing to teach you how to mine it properly. Until then, I don’t give up that edge. But…”

  He exhaled.

  “…we can renegotiate. In good faith. When the time comes.”

  Her jaw shifted slightly. A hundred thoughts passed across her face. She looked not just like a president—but a woman—trying to balance the ideals of peace and the pressure of empires. Then she nodded once, slow and grave.

  “Alright,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

  And so they did.

  The door was opened. The aides brought forth paper and stylus, tablets and recorders. The documents came—a thick stack of scrolls, some digital, some bound bythread. Lawyers from both sides of the room appeared like conjured spirits, reviewing clause after clause. They debated. They rewrote. They tore it apart and began again.

  The conversation flowed for hours. Sometimes tense. Sometimes light. Sometimes full of laughs or pauses where Elmore shared a flask and Dorthea passed along a vial of nectar that bloomed roses on the tongue. They worked through the night as two thrones carving the rules of a new age.

  By morning, the accords were ready.

  Not perfect. Not peaceful. But functional.

  And they bore both of their signatures, etched into the weave of Aither with binding magic neither could revoke without great consequence.

  The LakeVail Mithril Accord was born.

  And the world would not be the same after.

  The President rubbed her temples, fatigue rolling off her in waves. Her flowers had closed for the night, the pollen settling, her hair like a wilted bouquet framing the sharpness of her now half-lidded eyes. Still, her voice was resolute as she straightened and brushed an invisible wrinkle from her lapel.

  “One last thing,” she said. “For optics.”

  Elmore tilted his head, wary but listening.

  “I want to visit your valley,” she said. “Meet your people. Walk the land. Shake hands, smile for pictures. Meet your wife, too—Ash, right?” She offered a genuine smile at the name. “From what I understand, she’s half the reason LakeVail is what it is.”

  Elmore gave a soft exhale through his nose and nodded. “She’s the better half, I won’t lie.”

  “I’ll come publicly,” Dorthea said. “No spooks. No spies. You guarantee my safety, under your Aither laws. You’ll provide the protection. We’ll do a tour, maybe a small Q&A. Just something to give people a little hope.”

  He considered it, then nodded again. “Alright. That’s fair.”

  She leaned back… and her expression hardened.

  “Now. About the dungeon.”

  Elmore’s brow twitched slightly. He knew it was coming.

  “I’m tired, Elmore,” she continued. “But I couldn’t let this wait. You know how it looks. Every intelligence agency that’s still functioning has eyes on your dungeon. And what we’re seeing—and what’s leaking—is not small potatoes.”

  She tapped the table, and a projection shimmered above her desk—satellite captures, heat scans, seismic readings.

  “There are only two other confirmed dungeons globally. One’s deep in the Sahara—buried in the miles of scorching sand. The other’s in Madagascar. And both of those land masses are infested—I mean, crawling—with monsters. Not just apex predators—things out of myth, Elmore. Things that rewrite the rules of nature by existing.”

  She paused. The air in the room had grown still and thin.

  “There’s a rumor,” she said slowly, “that these dungeons will eventually spread. Consume everything in monsters. I’m not saying I believe it. But I’m saying other countries do. And they’re scared.”

  Elmore didn’t flinch. His voice was gravel-soft but firm.

  “They can but I’ve got ours under control. America is safe”

  She stared at him, tight-lipped. For a long moment, nothing passed between them but the silent weight of things neither could afford to say aloud.

  “I don’t like that answer,” she finally murmured.

  “Didn’t ask you to,” Elmore replied gently.

  She looked down, then nodded. “Alright. For now.”

  Elmore reached for his hat, giving her a final glance. But before he could step away, she raised a finger.

  “One more thing, Chief.”

  He paused.

  “We agreed the armor can’t be used against you. That your people’s machines—whatever you’re making up there—won’t be turned against you from this country. Even under the next administration.”

  “Correct,” Elmore said.

  “Well…” she looked away, almost sorrowful, “the next administration might not play so nice.”

  Elmore stilled.

  “You need to understand something,” she said, voice grave now. “General Rhyfel isn’t just a politician with stars on his shoulders. He’s coming in hot. Angry. And full of vision.”

  She turned and looked Elmore directly in the eye.

  “The diplomat you turned to red mist on your land?” she said quietly. “The one who disrespected your people, tried to make demands, and wound up with a mithril slug through the front of his skull?”

  Elmore’s jaw tightened just slightly.

  “That was his nephew,” she said.

  She didn’t wait for a reply. She simply offered a tired smile—genuine, even now.

  “Good luck, Chief Elmore. You’re going to need it.”

  Elmore will soak this in and decide to be nice. “ as a show of goodwill i will let you in on a secret” she perks up at this like a scared rabbit. “ The dungeons are most likely tied to the tectonic plates, madagascar proved it for me. It is in the names. Mine is called the North American continental dungeon of the ancients. Even the Aither uses short hand with that name sometimes but if i look it's there. So look south for more.” and he turns

  The fog rose like a tide to his left. The hidden door reformed, humming faintly with Aither. Without another word, Elmore stepped through—and the world blinked.

  Back in his bedroom, the mist receded with a sigh and the door was gone.

  And from his phone, still in his pocket, Hydra’s voice chimed in without hesitation.

  “Wow. That was productive.”

  Elmore blinked, then groaned. “You were listening?”

  “Technically you gave me access to your network. That includes your phone. You never turned me off.” Hydra’s voice was smug but oddly cheerful. “Also, I seem to be able to link to any system within about… ten meters of your phone now.”

  Elmore took off his hat, rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Well,” he said, glancing toward the letter's ashes, “guess we’d better get ready for company.”

  “Want me to polish the valley’s social media presence?” Hydra asked helpfully.

  Elmore barked a tired laugh. “No, just make sure the goddamn power grid doesn’t crash when the news drones show up.”

  Hydra paused.

  “Noted. Also… congrats. You just started a Cold War built on magic armor and polite threats.”

  Elmore gave the phone a weary look.

  “Yeah,” he said. “And we’re the ones with the furnace.”

  AITHER LAW (1): citizens are not allowed to kill one another under any circumstances, except for ordained executions, or duels which may be allowed as long as they are witnessed by at least two unrelated citizens and both parties agree and agree to the terms of the duel. Non-citizens may never kill a citizen and may not declare a duel, in the case a citizen declares a duel the non-citizen may not decline and must be approved and witnessed by at least three unrelated citizens in this case only the challenger may set the terms.

  AITHER LAW (2): A sacred boundary is established with a radius of 500 meters surrounding the residence of Elmore, Chief of the Valley. This land is inviolable and considered sanctified by both tradition and Aitheric decree. No person—citizen or otherwise—may enter this boundary without the express permission of Elmore himself, or in his absence, clear evidence of his intent to allow entry. This intent may be verbal, written, or otherwise made obvious by Elmore's known will. Trespass upon this land without such permission will be impossible . Only those invited with purpose may walk the path to his hearth.

  AITHER LAW (3):No item that either requires Aither in its creation or naturally contains Aither may be exported beyond the borders of Elmore’s domain. This includes, but is not limited to: weapons, tools, constructs, crystals, infused materials, alchemical substances, and any product shaped, grown, or altered by Aither. Only subjects of lakeVail may own such items. Visitors may retain what they bring with them, but anything made or awakened within this land remains bound to it.

  Export tax (1): A small levy is placed on all exports leaving the valley. This tithe must be paid in recognized currency or fair barter and will be collected automatically at all designated checkpoints. The rate and acceptable forms of payment are set by Elmore or those he entrusts to enforce the tax code.

  Aither Production Tax (2):Elmore now passively collects a fractional tithe of all Aither naturally produced by the Nexus systems of those within his territory—citizens and visitors alike. This draw is constant and subtle, never enough to hinder use, development, or expression of abilities, but always present, like a breeze one quickly forgets.

  The collected Aither is silently funneled into the hollowed skull set into the back of Elmore’s throne, where it is stored until called upon for rulership, ritual, or war. None may opt out, and only the land itself acknowledges the taking.