Chapter 2: The Serpent in the Steam
The walk from the royal pavilion to the excavation site of the "Weeping Spire" was a journey through the sheer, arrogant will of the Iron-Blood Empire.
Peregrine Henry Wellington—formerly James, the man who just wanted to sleep—walked with a practiced, rhythmic thud of his Aether-cane. Around him, the colony of New Victoria was a symphony of industrial cacophony. Piston-driven hammers pounded into the ancient bedrock of Aethelgard, and the air was thick with the copper tang of "Sanctified Steam," a specialized fuel blessed by the Church of Steam and Machine to keep the local miasma at bay.
"Barnaby," Peregrine murmured, his voice barely audible over the hiss of a nearby pressure valve. "Remind me of the geopolitical layout of my father's headache. I find the humidity is melting my recollection of our 'loyal' subjects."
Barnaby adjusted his whirring optical lens. He knew the Prince's 'memory loss' was a lingering side effect of the Aether-fever, or so the official record stated.
"The Empire rests upon five pillars, Highness," Barnaby began, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial hum. "The Five Archduchies. To the North, we have the Duchy of Iron-Grave, held by Godfrey Sebastian Ravenswood. He controls the primary coal mines. To the East, the Duchy of Whispering Pines under Silas Oliver Ashwood, our primary source of timber and alchemical reagents. To the West, the Duchy of Silver-Coast under Julian Alexander Cartwright, who manages the naval shipyards."
Peregrine nodded, eyes tracking a squad of soldiers wearing gas masks embossed with the symbol of the Church of Wisdom and Foolishness—a split mask of a scholar and a jester. "And the two heavyweights? The ones who look at the throne and see a vacant chair?"
Barnaby's metal throat clicked nervously. "Indeed. Archduke Felix Theodore Bertram of the Duchy of Obsidian-Spires, and Archduke Cedric James Montague of the Duchy of Storm-Hold. Their territories are not merely provinces; they are sub-empires. Their private armies are outfitted with Rank 7 'Void-Breaker' cannons, and their coffers are filled with Aether-gold. Combined, their influence nearly eclipses the Wellington line."
Peregrine's grip tightened on his cane. Two sharks in a small pool, he thought. And here I am, the prize ham floating on the surface.
As they navigated the muddy trenches of the dig site, Peregrine's mind raced—a remnant of his old life's habit of over-analyzing corporate hierarchies.
If I were a cultist aiming to tear reality a new one, Peregrine mused internally, I wouldn't start with a riot. I'd start with a signature. Aethelgard is a land born of the Primordials' sacrifice, a raw nerve of the universe. Whoever controls the colonies here doesn't just get rich; they get the keys to the laws of physics.
He glanced at a group of laborers hauling a crate marked with the seal of Obsidian-Spires—a black tower wreathed in lightning.
Felix Bertram is a traditionalist. He believes the Empire has grown soft. He wants the 'Old Ways' back—the era before the Churches put a leash on the Aether. If he's in league with the Red Hand or the Abyssal Eye, he isn't doing it for religion. He's doing it for leverage. He wants a God-Shard to power his own ascension.
Then there was Cedric Montague. A man of cold, mercantile brilliance.
Montague is different. He's a 'Progressive.' He thinks the Five Churches are an anchor holding humanity back. If he's the one whispering to the cultists, it's because he wants to 'rationalize' the Void. He probably thinks he can harness the Lord of Destruction like a steam engine. The fool.
"Highness," Barnaby interrupted his thoughts. "We are approaching the Spire. The Saint is... radiating."
The "Weeping Spire" was a jagged needle of translucent stone that pulsed with a rhythmic, heartbeat-like glow. Surrounding it were twelve massive brass rings, each etched with the scriptures of the Church of War and Peace.
Standing at the base of the Spire was a woman who looked like she had been forged rather than born. Saint Elara stood seven feet tall, clad in white-and-gold plate armor that lacked any visible joints. Behind her, a faint, golden halo shimmered—not a circle of light, but a literal distortion in space-time that hummed with the power of her Goddess.
Around her, the environment was silent. The insects of Aethelgard didn't dare buzz in her presence. Even the smog seemed to part around her like a shamed dog.
"Prince Peregrine," she said. Her voice didn't travel through the air; it vibrated in the marrow of his bones. "You are late. The Goddess of War does not favor the sluggish, and the Goddess of Peace has little patience for those who delay the protection of the innocent."
Peregrine offered a shallow, graceful bow—just enough to be respectful, not enough to be submissive. "My apologies, Saint. The mud of Aethelgard has a unique way of clinging to royal boots. It's almost as persistent as the bureaucracy of the Merchant Union."
Elara's eyes, which glowed like twin stars, narrowed. "Levity is a shield for the weak, Prince. We have detected a disturbance. The veil here is thin. One of the 'Out of Control' has left a stain on this ground. A wisp of the Devourer has been sensed by the Church of Life and Death's auguries."
Peregrine felt a drop of cold sweat slide down his neck. The Devourer—the primordial who sought to consume the very concept of 'Being.'
"And I assume you want me to 'Sanctify' the ground with Wellington blood?" Peregrine asked, his cynical edge sharpening. "Because my DNA is supposedly the only thing that stabilizes the Church's brass seals?"
"Your blood is the anchor of this world's laws," Elara stated flatly. "But be warned. There is a rot in your camp. I feel the stench of a soul that has been traded for Void-sight. Someone among your 'noble' allies is paving a road for the Primordial Devil."
Peregrine's heart skipped. She knows. Or at least, she suspects.
"Barnaby," Peregrine said, turning away from the Saint as if to inspect a nearby steam-gauge. "Walk with me. Quickly."
They moved to the edge of the excavation pit, away from the Saint's divine senses.
"Barnaby, I need you to be very careful with what you say next," Peregrine whispered, his eyes scanning the crowd of soldiers and laborers. "The Saint mentioned a soul traded for Void-sight. Yesterday, when we were unloading the supplies from the SS Sovereign, I saw a manifest signed by a representative of the Duchy of Storm-Hold. It was for 'agricultural minerals,' but the crates were lead-lined and chilled with liquid nitrogen. Why does Archduke Montague need refrigerated dirt?"
Barnaby's clockwork eye whirred frantically. "Highness... I... I should not say."
"Barnaby," Peregrine's voice turned cold as the Void itself. "I am the heir to the throne. If the world breaks, I'm the one who falls first. If you know who is funding the cultists, you tell me now, or I'll have your bellows replaced with a hand-crank."
Barnaby shuddered. "It is whispered among the servants, my Lord... that Archduke Bertram of Obsidian-Spires has been seen meeting with a figure in a red robe—a priest of the 'Abyssal Eye.' They say he's looking for the 'Shard of Despair' buried beneath this continent. But... Archduke Montague is also suspicious. He's been buying up every Rank 5 Magic User who fails their Church Sanity Exam. He's building a 'Private Research Wing' that the Church of Wisdom isn't allowed to enter."
Both of them, Peregrine thought, a feeling of dread washing over him. One is looking for a weapon, the other for a forbidden science. And both are using the cultists as a smokescreen.
"The Empire is a house of cards, Barnaby," Peregrine said, looking back at the Saint, who was now beginning a chant that made the air turn into liquid gold. "And I'm the one sitting on the roof. If Bertram or Montague succeed in bringing a wisp of a Primordial into this world to use as a battery, the 'Breaking' won't just be a theological concept. It'll be the end of the menu. And I haven't even had dinner yet."
"Prince! To the altar!" Saint Elara commanded.
Peregrine sighed, adjusted his velvet coat, and stepped toward the glowing Spire.
As he approached, he felt the rank-four Aether in his veins begin to boil. The Spire wasn't just stone; it was a sensory organ of the planet. As his fingers brushed the cold, vibrating surface, he felt a flash of a billion screams. He saw the Lord of Destruction laughing in a void of cinders. He saw the Mother Earth weeping as her skin was peeled back to make the crust of the world.
Then, he saw a vision of the Imperial Capital. He saw a man—he couldn't see the face, but the signet ring was unmistakable: the Black Tower of Bertram or the Crowned Kraken of Montague. The figure was holding a small, pulsating black orb. A God-Shard.
The figure looked up at Peregrine through the vision and smiled.
"Sleep well, Little Prince," a voice whispered in his mind—a voice that sounded like teeth grinding on glass. "The Devourer is hungry, and you are the first course."
Peregrine jerked his hand back, gasping.
"The ritual is complete," Saint Elara said, her voice sounding oddly distant. "The seal is set for now. But you look pale, Highness. Even for a Wellington."
"I'm fine," Peregrine lied, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I just... I think I need a very large glass of wine and a map of the Archduke's private shipping lanes."
He looked out at the jungle of Aethelgard. The shadows were deeper now. The cultist was here, in this camp, hidden behind a mask of loyalty or a soldier's uniform.
I wanted a carefree life, Peregrine thought, his violet eyes darkening with a newfound, bitter resolve. But if these bastards think they can use my Empire as a sacrifice for their pet monsters, they're going to find out that a man who just wants to go back to sleep is the most dangerous enemy of all.
"Barnaby," Peregrine said, turning back toward the pavilion.
"Yes, Highness?"
"Double the guard. And tell the Chef that if there are any tentacles in my calamari tonight, I'll have him executed for treason. I'm in a very bad mood."
As Peregrine walked away, the green moon rose higher, casting a sickly light over the gears of the world. The politicking of the Archdukes had invited the end of days, and the "Reluctant Prince" was the only one who had seen the face of the monster in the steam.