‘Rapsit, Major Dimuri.’

The entire Ouroboros creaks and groans as the metal of its hull twists and buckles, whole walkways torn apart by the swirling winds, vanishing into the cyclone’s gusts like into an ogre’s gullet. The Wayfarer fares no better: spires and rooftops are ripped away, their tiles forming, at this distance, a trail of particles inside the storm. One of its balloons bursts under the shearing currents.

And those nagging vibrations running through the vessel, ebbing, intensifying… It is like the breathing of a beast in troubled sleep.

‘Situation as normal as possible, Admiral! Superficial damage only!’

Temera bites her lip. Her hands are clenched as she looks through the cracked bay window. Within the roaring clouds, half veiled by atmospheric blur, she sometimes glimpses the tails of the Leviathans, whose procession they follow without deviating a single inch. Sagitta, Alelo, Lucan, Koi, Zaratan… with Halua leading them into the Turmoil.

The entire Armada moves in their wake, where the flows have been weakened by their passage. All those behemoths form a kind of arrowhead, a cavalry spur charging into the fray. They open the way, and the fleet benefits from their slipstream. Admiral Singh frowns, tries to steady her breathing. How she hates feeling powerless, at the mercy of the elements. But she can do nothing more, aside from encouraging the troops. The dice have been cast. All that remains is to cross fingers and trust in fate.

The plan has a chance of working, and that is already something. Calling the Leviathans has been a feat. Guiding them through the storm is a daring gamble. At the very front, the Exalts stand united to protect the fragile skiff from the ravages of the Tumult. They all shield the caller, who plays the lure to draw in the Leviathans, like the Piper commands the rats… By their nature, the Leviathans gorge themselves on Mana. The void they leave behind attracts less Tumult. And by piercing the hurricane like this, they create behind them a brief lull, with a drastic drop in wind speed, a pocket that allows the flotilla to avoid being crushed…

But it would take only one of them breaking formation for everything to fall apart. Temera banishes the thought the instant it surfaces, by reflex. Among the military ranks, stubborn superstitions persist: to envision defeat invites defeat; to believe in the impossible makes it achievable… but what could be more natural, in a world where visualizing an idea allows it to manifest in reality?

‘Any news from Mandjet?,’ she asks the bridge officer.

‘Lagging behind, but it’s catching up.’

She sighs in relief. Losing a flagship so soon after its refitting would be a terrible humiliation. A new crack blooms along the armored glass. The Yzmir have warned them that their efforts would focus primarily on the Tumult. It makes sense on paper. Whether it is the right call, however… Tumult or cyclone, the result would be the same in the end.

‘How long?’

‘T minus four minutes, Admiral.’

Only a few minutes left to hold. They can do it. The Augurs have estimated that crossing the hurricane would take just under three hours. And they have been terribly long, as if stretched to infinity. Looking at the officers, she sees that all eyes are fixed on watches or on the countdown on the main screen. Aside from the whistling armor and spasms, the silence is deafening.

‘Support request from the AES Sonata, Admiral! Their port side is too exposed!,’ shouts the communications officer.

Her blood runs cold.

‘Put us on vector 6.34 and tell them to position at five o’clock.’

‘Yes, Admiral,’ he answers after a brief hesitation.

No, they will take no losses today. Not if she can help it. She hears the Ouroboros groan as it edges closer to the border of the safety cone. A little more, and the wind’s bite will be enough to gut the Sahanka. With the decompression that comes with it. She clicks her tongue, locking the images that come to mind into a dungeon of her thoughts.

‘Adjust the angle of the outer ring by 1.36 degrees starboard.’

‘Yes, Admiral!’

Then she turns toward the clock, listening, her stomach tight, to the hull howling, grinding, lamenting under the pressure of the Tumult and the Turmoil. It is no longer a matter of minutes, but seconds, before release. Just a few more handfuls of seconds. They only have to hold a few more klicks. She could cross her fingers now. She could offer prayers to Ganesh, Lakshmi, or Benzaiten… She counts down in her head. She cannot help it. It is as if everyone is holding their breath.

5.
4.
3.
2.
1…

Outside, the Tumult still blows, filaments of pink mingling with the gray of the devastating winds. Her stomach knots, but she holds back any comment. A few more seconds pass, and she prepares to rally her troops again. She orders her thoughts: what directives to give to keep them focused, what words to use to keep hope alive… That is her function, her mandate. She inhales, ready to speak.

Suddenly, a violent light floods the entire command bridge, so intense and blinding that she has to turn away to avoid being dazzled. She shakes her head and blinks repeatedly to chase off the dizziness, then looks straight ahead.

The relief is immeasurable. The blue of the sky is there, above their heads. The hurricane forms a wide ring around their position. She makes quick calculations, nods, satisfied with the result. They have drifted slightly off course, but negligibly. They are in the eye of the cyclone.

She sees the Leviathans dispersing ahead, now that the caller has stopped luring them. Some dive beneath the clouds, others climb toward the vault of the sky. Alelo coils sharply and snaps its jaws in defiance at Zaratan, but it is more intimidation than anything else. The two forces of nature part without conflict. The Admiral sighs and finally relaxes. Her hand trembles now that the ordeal has passed and the adrenaline begins to fade.

They will live another day…

She looks around, suddenly noticing a heavy silence on the bridge, where she expects shouts of joy. Many officers are standing, turned toward the south. They look slack-jawed, as if something has—

That is when she sees it, and her eyes widen in shock. Around her, silence turns into murmurs. Rana grabs the arm of one of the radio officers, but that detail, like many others, does not even register in her mind.

Because her eyes are fixed on the incandescent column stretching to the firmament. The one they have followed like a pole star for long weeks. The one that answered, like a twin signal, the pillar of light from the City of Scholars. And its source… They can now see its source, and the revelation is of such magnitude that even she stands speechless, unable to put her thoughts or emotions in order.

It is a vast floating island, drifting lazily at the center of the vortex. And a gigantic tree spreads upon it, almost as large as the Nilam or the Spindle. Another world-tree… Yet that is not what takes her breath away, but the city — white and vibrant — that has burgeoned at its base and along its trunk up into its branches. When she regains some composure, she makes a quick estimate: by its verticality, the metropolis’s surface area must be immense. It may even surpass Arkaster. No, this is no mere metropolis. It is a megalopolis that has colonized every inch of the atoll.

But where the City of Scholars was an abandoned, deserted, sterile city before their arrival, the suspended city she beholds teems with life. A multitude of flying vessels surrounds it, so many they look like a swarm of bees around a hive. She sees platforms and docking ports, sumptuous gardens, rivers of golden liquid flowing down the trunk and cascading to its roots… and dwellings, so many dwellings.

She knows she should say something, but she remains voiceless before the spectacle. Streets that look carved from alabaster and veined with gold. No — with Sap, of course. Entire districts fully vegetated, arranged in a myriad of terraces and levels… There are flocks of birds flying and nesting here and there, bridges, funiculars, zip lines… And their technology seems equal to, perhaps even beyond, their own…

‘A-Admiral, ship approaching at ten o’clock!,’ stammers the sensor officer.

Indeed, she sees that one vessel has already boarded the Exalts’ craft. Another is moving to intercept Halua, while several ships leave the city’s docks to reinforce it. And the Armada is also in their sights. What look like frigates and destroyers are approaching their position.

Are they hostile? The possibility blooms in her mind, though she hopes it is not so. Could the light signal have been a lure rather than an invitation?

‘Arm the cannons and compute firing solutions,’ she finally orders.

Doubt is not permitted. Inaction either.

‘Aye, Admiral!’

After a graceful maneuver, the warships come to a halt, forming a barrier between the Asgarthan flotilla and the city in the clouds. Admiral Singh watches them, trying to detect the slightest clue of their intentions, while a heavy silence settles over the bridge.

‘Ouroboros, Mandjet, Mesektet, Horizon, Tempest. Ready to fire!’

She nods without speaking. Her mouth is dry. Her heart pounds. Tension rises as the minutes tick by. Then, after what feels like an eternity, a voice resonates through the speakers. Temera turns toward her Horomancer, who probes the spoken words with his Irises and translates them.

‘The Reka people greets you, lost sons and daughters of humanity,’ intones a warm, steady voice. ‘We welcome you to Asty.’