Cling-cling-cling.

I weave my way between slot machines that clink, jingle, and chime. The racket is deafening—shrill bells, cacophonous trills, the clatter of coins spilling into cups and metallic trays. How do people stand this constant noise, enduring the ruckus without becoming dazed within minutes?

Mack, though, seems perfectly at home. His greedy gaze follows the flow of coins, the clinking and clattering of cascading winnings.

‘Money is just a means to an end, Mack, not an end in itself’, I remind him. But it’s no use. His attention is wholly consumed by the tokens tumbling and jingling before his hungry eyes.

Mack.

My alter ego glances at me, jolted from his prosaic daydreams by my silent admonition. I pull a small pouch from my pocket and offer it to him. With a gleeful grin, he snatches my coin purse and dashes off to the nearest empty machine. I shake my head. Knowing him, I’ll likely never see that money again.

Looking around, I find it curious that Admiral Singh allowed some gambling houses aboard the Ouroboros to remain open. Perhaps the Kasirga Clan insisted. Or maybe she decided that the Expeditionary Corps needed distractions to bear the peril of their odyssey. Whatever the reason, the Sahanka’s casino is in full swing, even at this late hour. The looming departure into the true Tumult likely fuels this last-minute frenzy.

Roulette, poker, blackjack, craps, baccarat—the tables are packed, the atmosphere feverish.

‘Place your bets’, announces a croupier nearby, spinning a ball. Moments later, he follows with a fateful ‘No more bets’ to signify that all chips are down.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot General Vong lounging at a table with his close officers. I’ll need to keep a close watch on him, given his political ties. Further away, I see Subhash ruffling his hair in frustration after another lost bet. Strange to see him here—I’d have expected him at the makeshift gambling den the Axiom crew set up in the small hangar.

But I can’t allow myself to be distracted. I have an important meeting to attend. I’m counting on Mack to keep his ears open, which he’ll undoubtedly do regardless. If anything could rival his love for money, it’s gossip. I watch as he leaps off his stool, grabs the slot machine lever, and pulls it with all his might, performing a backflip as the numbers and symbols blur across the screen.

In the distance, Asmodeus’ booming laughter echoes as he sweeps the table. Taking advantage of the distraction, I quietly slip through a hidden door.

Passing by the kitchens, I catch glimpses of bustling chefs and their teams, all working under the watchful eye of the head cook. The chaotic clamor of slot machines gives way to the din of clattering dishes, pots, and pans. Heat radiates from the stoves, and the rhythmic chop of knives on cutting boards blends with the aromas of spices, herbs, and sizzling meats.

The stone ovens are crafted to resemble stylized faces, their gaping mouths swallowing food for cooking. Accordion-like bellows inflate and deflate like breathing lungs. Everything in the Sahanka exudes a baroque, topsy-turvy energy. Yet, against all odds, it functions seamlessly. There’s something mesmerizing about this organized disorder, this illogical logic.

But as captivating as the scene is, I don’t linger. The Ouroboros’ corridors twist in shadowy complexity. Unlike the orderly halls of the Axiom’s Bastion, these passageways are warped, dented, and patched. Following the pipes, I hear them hiss, rattle, and gurgle, as if they were alive. The corridors expand and contract, descending and rising like the innards of some great beast.

It’s easy to get lost in this labyrinth, but I know my path. I memorized it before coming. That’s how I find without trouble the small blue door marking my destination. Glancing back to ensure I’m not followed, I see only darkness. If anyone were trailing me, I trust Mack would have warned me.

Of course, Grandfather. What did you expect? I hear in my head. Smiling, I push open the worn, peeling door.

The coolness of the space is a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the galleries. Before me stretches an immense chamber, its ceiling so high it vanishes into darkness. Rows upon rows of towering pillars descend from the unseen heights into pristine turquoise waters. We must be in the Sahanka’s potable water reservoir.

Around me, countless droplets fall from above, striking the water’s surface and creating a myriad of ripples that merge, clash, and overlap. Their plink-plonk echoes endlessly, amplified by the cavernous space.

I close the door behind me, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap, ricocheting off the walls, weaving through columns and beams. As the echoes fade and my eyes adjust to the gloom, I make my way across the catwalk toward the bluish light emanating from the central platform.

The glow comes from a Kelonic lantern. While it struggles to pierce the perpetual darkness of this hidden chamber, it illuminates the face of my conversation partner—my friend: Avkan, for a few more weeks still, Basileus of Asgartha.

‘I got your letters, old friend’, he says by way of greeting.

‘Good.’

I glance around, feigning casual curiosity.

‘An interesting choice for a meeting. Hard to reach, too.’

‘Indeed. Esmeralda told me the Ouroboros holds many secret places like this’, Avkan replies. ‘The Sahanka wasn’t built with science but through Alteration and Ignescence. Trying to understand it might cost me my sanity.’

I allow myself a smile.

‘Wise not to probe too deeply into the Kasirga Clan’s workings.’

He pulls me into a warm embrace, clapping my shoulder as he looks me in the eye. His face, framed by a thick beard and bushy brows, looks drawn and tired.

‘Troubles in Arkaster?’

‘Nothing that isn’t being resolved’, he reassures me. ‘What concerns me is all the free time looming ahead. What will I do with it?’

‘Gardening? Carpentry, perhaps? Joking aside, I doubt either of us can stay idle for long…’

He smiles again, the bluish light accentuating the deep lines fanning from his eyes.

‘Don’t be so sure, my friend. I intend to enjoy my retirement.’

His words unsettle me, and he notices.

‘I’ve done what I could’, he continues. ‘But there comes a time to let go, to let what we’ve built chart its own course. I won’t be a crutch every time the Rediscovery Endeavor falters. It must stand on its own.’

I stare at the ripples forming on the water.

‘Is that wise, Avkan? The Rediscovery Endeavor is still a colossus with feet of clay. We built it on a phantasm, on a sleight of hand.’

He sighs, considering my words, watching droplets fall from the stone canopy. His silence prompts me to continue.

‘When we reach the City of Scholars, they may realize the fraud—that this so-called Source of the Tumult is nothing but a fabrication.’

‘You don’t have all the pieces, Waru.’

I frown, taken aback.

‘What are you implying? I know what I know. I orchestrated this scheme. I hired the forgers, paid the experts to authenticate the fakes. The Source of the Tumult is a ruse, a mirage…’

‘And that white lie has propelled the Expeditionary Corps into motion’, he interrupts. ‘The endeavor is too vast to fail now.’

Turning toward me, his expression softens.

‘You’ve known me forever. You know I always have an ace up my sleeve.’

A chill runs through me.

‘And you’ve kept me in the dark.’

He shakes his head.

‘It wasn’t necessary. Even now, I ask for your trust. All that matters is that the Rediscovery Endeavor reaches the City of Scholars.’

The implications of his words hit me like a wave.

‘You know what’s there, don’t you?’

Avkan nods.

‘I suspect, yes. Like a silence discerned amid a cacophony of echoes. But even I don’t have all the cards to be completely certain of anything.’

My throat tightens.

‘And from your words, I sense something that fills me with fear and confusion.’

His eyes seem to hold a glimmer of sadness—or is it regret?

‘The realization that, in the end, I too have been but a mere executor?’

Despite the cavern's chill, I break out in a cold sweat. For years, I believed we were the architects of this grand plan. Now, to learn I’ve been but a pawn—and that Avkan, too, danced on the strings of an unseen puppeteer—shakes me to my core.

Anger wells within me, tempered only by an irresistible curiosity.

‘You’ve said too much to turn back now, Avkan.’

The Basileus crouches and grazes the water’s surface with his hand. Shimmering droplets slide down his hair and shoulders, just as they cling to my face and tunic. Without turning, he begins to murmur, as if wary of unseen listeners.

‘I know, and believe me, I wish I could share everything with you. I wanted you to lead the next phase…’

I hold his gaze, silent.

‘But it’s a burden far too heavy to bear, even for you.’

My eyes widen as the Eidolon manifests above him, draped in heavy chains...