Corvis Eralith
Kamiel Rennoux... died before I was born?
I asked myself the question silently, the world seeming to tilt on its axis. Tessia raised her bright teal eyes, the perfect mirror to my own, and stared back at me, utter disbelief and creeping dread written plainly across her face.
She abruptly snapped her foot back, breaking contact with the soil. The root sank back into the soil, returning to its normal function within the Elshire Forest, and I deactivated the Bubblespell that was aiding her mind.
"Corvis, why did you ask me about your music teacher?" Tessia asked, deep worry colouring her visage as she stepped closer. "What... what is happening?"
"We need to stop the Interdicathian," I said, blind panic bleeding into my voice.
Tessia jumped slightly, startled by my sudden declaration.
"This has always been his plan!" I realised, the puzzle pieces violently slamming together.
Some of Draneeve's final words—not too long before Suncrusher had reduced the spymaster to featureless gore—had been about the Alacryan plans to wreak discord, chaos, and wanton destruction in Xyrus City during the Interdicathian.
Tessia frowned, crossing her arms. "Are you seriously that scared about one single guy?" she demanded (you don't understand, Tessia!). She pursed her lips stubbornly. "It doesn't matter... who or what... Kamiel is. The Interdicathian will be held! I have never seen Grandpa so happy in our entire lives. You would know that too, if you were actually home more often."
Tessia was right, even if she currently only cared about it from Grandpa Virion's perspective. The Interdicathian was simply too big to cancel now; preparations were finalised, and too many powerful figures were already en route to participate.
Calling it off on the vague threat of a dead music teacher would cause political suicide for all the organisers: from Grandpa to Cynthia, to even Gideon and Elder Rahdeas.
"We need to prepare to fight, then," I said grimly, forcing my frantic mind to formulate a plan. I put two fingers to my mouth and blew a sharp, piercing whistle to call for Soleil.
Coco glided rapidly towards our position, initially confused on where to settle: on Tessia's outstretched hand, or my head. Soleil opted for the latter, landing softly in my gunmetal hair.
"Go and tell Alea and Cylrit we have work to do..." I ordered, rubbing my temples as a headache began to build. "And Chul. And Evascir and Lugano. And the Clan. Fatima too. Just call everyone!"
Soleil immediately took off like a bullet, not even chirping a polite goodbye, instantly understanding the lethal gravity of the situation.
"Corvis? What is going on?" Tessia asked, taking a step back. "Why did Coco just... she never behaves like that with me."
"I will explain everything later," I said, turning away from my sister as I frantically calculated where I needed to go next. Fiorwato was already resting on the grass, ready for me to use Wind Surfing and glide away. "I swear I will. But right now, I need to go to Xyrus. And to Darv. And Pitrah too."
I had to use my Portal Frogs—
My heart sank even deeper, bottoming out in my stomach.
Paranoia, Nabyun, is exactly how Vritra wages war.
The phantom words of Evascir echoed in my mind. Out of sheer, blind paranoia, I had ruthlessly slaughtered all of my Portal Frogs. And now, when I needed them most, I was left without a fast means of continental transportation.
"Fuck!" I cursed violently, kicking the dirt.
Tessia flinched; she had never heard me use such language before.
Did Agrona plan this? Did the High Sovereign know I would panic and kill all my Portal Frogs out of fear? But that would mean he knew Caera would try to contact me, which meant Caera was currently in extreme, torturous danger, which meant whatever future help she could give me would never come, which meant I—I—
Smack.
A sharp, stinging slap across my cheek brought me violently back to the present. I blinked, my vision clearing to see Tessia standing right in front of me, her hand still raised.
"You are behaving exactly like you did when we were toddlers," Tessia said, her voice resounding with the absolute, unshakeable authority of a queen making a royal proclamation. "Panicked and desperate, like when you cried in the middle of the night, or spent days sleepless from nightmares. You are not that Corvis anymore. Stop it."
I took a deep, shuddering breath, actively forcing the Trucewater in my system to surge forward and violently suppress the spiralling panic. The cold logic of the Arbiter washed over my fraying emotions.
"You are right. Thank you," I said, chilling seriousness settling into my voice. "Tessia... how many Elderwood Guardians can you currently call to your side?"
—
Through Zestier's portal, I arrived in Xyrus City under the familiar guise of Finn Warend.
It was time to pay a visit to the self-proclaimed greatest genius to have ever lived, to see if he had finally finished working on the Djinnic blueprints I had entrusted to him months ago.
One of those three ancient Lifeworks was absolutely fundamental for what was rapidly approaching: the Djinnic radio; or the Tuned Insight Receiver, as the Djinn who first designed it had originally named it.
I strode briskly down Artificers Road, the affluent street where Gideon Bastius resided.
The mad inventor's cooperation was paramount for what was to come: what I deeply feared might culminate in the first true battle of my life.
It could be the violent opening act of a war I had desperately wanted to delay as much as possible, despite knowing it was Fated to come.
Reaching the property, I raised my hand. The ochre runes of the Kain Clan flared brightly across the dorsal side of my hand as I channelled Massbinding, delivering two powerful, gravity-enhanced knocks against Gideon's front door.
To convince the man (if kind words weren't going to be enough), I brought Avicenna with me, the blue Vaultlamp resting at my hip as usual.
The inventor had salivated seeing the blueprints I originally brought him; having the bottomless well of Djinnic technology that was Avicenna presented directly before his eyes would make any artificer yield to my demands—even one as notoriously peculiar as Gideon.
The door opened.
"Young Warend," Himes Cogwright, Gideon's butler, greeted me.
In my hurry, tho, I didn't greet him back. "I need to see Gideon," I said, forcing my way inside towards where I remembered the inventor's laboratory was. "It is of the utmost importance. The Fate of the Interdicathian and of the entire continent is at risk."
The butler clearly took issue with my sudden intrusion, but he did nothing to stop me when I arrived in front of Gideon's laboratory, my mana-strengthened ears picking up mechanical noises from inside.
"Let me—" Himes reached out to open the door, but I simply kicked it open, revealing the dominion of dust and chaos within.
"That will work too, I suppose," Himes sighed.
"Gideon!" I called out. "Are you done with the projects I gave you? I need the radio!"
Inside the messy, Renaissance-like laboratory, the pungent smells of heavy industry and burning oil stung my nostrils like needles.
Gideon Bastius, wearing his usual vintage lab coat stained with oil, caked in dust, and burnt at the edges, was tinkering with something, completely ignoring Himes and me as if he were in his own world.
He remained bent over his workbench, surrounded by noisy gadgets.
Laying on the table was a humanoid metallic figure, a prototype I vaguely remembered from the canon timeline. Truly... the very depiction of a mad scientist pulled from the most cliché of books.
"Master Basti—" Himes tried to gently get Gideon's attention, but unfortunately for the man, I had no time to indulge in anyone's antics today.
I slammed my hand onto his workbench. "Gideon! Did you hear me?"
The inventor finally pushed the protective goggles up onto his forehead, revealing deep, dark eye bags.
"Tinkerfool, what do you need from me? I am busy," Gideon grunted, ever the sociable host. "I am finishing my final preparations for the Interdicathian."
"Master Bastius has almost never left this room since you last visited, young Warend," Himes murmured from behind me.
"I need everything you have made regarding one of the blueprints I gave you," I demanded. "The one I labelled Tuned Insight Receiver."
"Ah! The scroll-less communication scrolls!" Gideon exclaimed, standing up from his chair.
(We definitely are not going to call them that, I immediately decided).
I followed Gideon towards a shadowed corner of his laboratory. He turned to me with narrowed eyes as he stopped before a large table covered by a white cloth.
"No eyes are meant to see this before the Interdicathian. I am only showing you this because you are Tinkerfool, Wonderboy," Gideon said, probably just stringing words together to call Finn Warend "Tinkerfool" one more time.
He pulled back the cloth. Beneath it, a series of variously sized radio-like devices were perfectly displayed.
I picked up one of the smaller ones: a portable box cast from a magical red alloy in the shape of a nautilus shell. It featured a small antenna on top, a comfortable black strap attached to the back and precise cogwheels and buttons for tuning.
I smiled at the design. Yes, I might have modified the original Tuned Insight Receiver blueprints to better suit my own aesthetic tastes: a bold mixture of elven naturalistic arts, Djinnic technology, and the principles of Art Deco from Earth.
The same style I had once shamelessly named Corvian Deco.
I gazed across the table, counting more than enough devices for what was to come. I turned to Gideon.
"I will take them all," I stated.
"What?! Wonderboy, we didn't agree to that," Gideon refused instantly. "These devices are to be presented during the Interdicathian, not a second earlier!"
"These devices might be the only thing that prevents a slaughter, Bastius," I said, my cold eyes locking onto the artificer's. "I am going to need all of them, along with your utmost cooperation. Do this, and you will be rewarded beyond your wildest desires. You think what I have already given you is revolutionising? I haven't even scraped the surface of the knowledge I can access."
I lifted the Vaultlamp of Avicenna, the blue material making the beaked lamp shimmer in the dimly lit room.
"This thing right here contains the consciousness of an Ancient Mage, Gideon," I declared. "The secret to all of Finn Warend's revolutionary inventions: the Water Generator, the Servo-Limbs. This lamp right here was the source of that knowledge."
Gideon and Himes were left completely speechless. The artificer shook his head, his messy hair flying around, and clicked his tongue.
"This actually explains a lot of things... how a brat like you can know so much..." Gideon muttered. The rigid mind of a scientist naturally rebelled against believing in such a thing, even in a magical world like this one, but the tangible proof surrounding him was too great to ignore. "What kind of slaughter are you talking about?"
"The kind I don't even want to start thinking about," I said grimly. "Are you in or what, Gideon?"
"Yes, yes! Fuck, you Warends are truly impossible to deal with. You always get what you want," Gideon threw his hands up. "But I am no fighter. Brains can only get you so far in this world, and you are no Throneholder yet. How do you plan to get the manpower to prevent whatever slaughter you think is going to happen?"
I smirked. "Well, Finn Warend is not the only person I am," I said.
REmould did its trick, and the human disguise melted away, leaving the gunmetal-haired, teal-eyed elven prince standing proudly before Gideon's eyes.
"That is because I am also Corvis Eralith, Prince of Elenoir."
—
I walked the halls of Xyrus Academy with purpose, Leòn Leurenzian heading straight for the office of Cynthia Goodsky, grim determination the only thing filling my heart.
Alacrya wanted war, and war they would get.
I threw open the heavy doors to the Director's office.
Inside, I barely recognised one of the minor side characters from the novel: a pompous professor I didn't care to remember the name of. He was whining about something to Cynthia, but I shot him a venomous glare.
"Leave," I commanded. Cynthia, catching my tone, was kind enough to personally escort the bewildered professor out of her office.
The doors sealed shut behind me, the intricate sound-dampening spell Cynthia always kept active to prevent eavesdropping during critical academic meetings snapping perfectly into place.
"Great Lord?" Avier asked from his perch, the owl's eyes narrowing in suspicion. I sat down heavily in the chair opposite the desk.
"The Interdicathian will be under attack by Alacryans. I am absolutely certain of it," I stated bluntly. "We need to prepare for the worst. I came here to alert and inform you of my plan of action."
"An attack? But the spymaster died, and so did his network of spies," Cynthia argued, her brow furrowing.
I shook my head. "One was left missing. One I don't fully know who—or what—he truly is: Kamiel Rennoux, an "elf,"" I said, profoundly disgusted at calling whoever currently wore Kamiel's stolen face an elf. "I need you to be on extreme high alert. Inform only the people you trust most to prepare for... for war."
"Wait, Leo—Lord Highprince," Cynthia corrected herself. "I am the Director of Xyrus Academy, but the Interdicathian's true benefactor and organiser is not me. It is Virion Eralith, of the Kingdom of Elenoir."
It was time to let the disguise fall with her too. REmould ceased its constant work, and in a brilliant flash of aetheric sorcery, Leòn Leurenzian melted away. Corvis Eralith sat before Cynthia Goodsky.
"I will inform my grandfather in due time," I said, watching the utter shock wash over both Cynthia and Avier as clear as the brightest day. "For now, I need your unyielding confirmation. We will not abandon the Interdicathian. We will not allow Agrona Vritra's terror tactics to win—so we will fight back. Am I clear?"
"Of course," Cynthia stammered, quickly regaining her composure.
I reached into my pocket and placed two of Gideon's shell-shaped, magical red alloy earpieces onto Cynthia's ebony desk. Even smaller versions of my transistor, shaped like the shell of a clam—of a Cravenite.
"It was supposed to be a grand reveal for the Interdicathian, but this is something Artificer Bastius has been working on for the last couple of months," I informed her. "A way to completely substitute those obsolete communication scrolls the continent currently relies on. You will be contacted through this when I am ready for the next move."
Before I left, however, there was one last, crucial task I needed Cynthia and Avier to handle.
"One last thing," I said, retrieving a large basin of water from my dimensional storage ring. It was easily wider than my torso, and as I set it down, the water rippled.
Dozens of bulging eyes poked above the surface.
Some fifteen new, second-generation Portal Frogs, each meticulously crafted in a matter of mere minutes using the Re-Construction Greatrune, croaked in a bizarre, rhythmic chorus.
They were vastly superior in every aspect now, the perfect conceptual bridge between this living world and the river of time. Their bodies, a rich, deep blue teal, possessed an almost ethereal quality, reflecting and refracting the ambient light exactly like rippling water.
And, as always, crowning their heads were two small horns of solid malachite, serving to anchor them fully to this reality.
If Agrona wanted to steal one from me again, he would need to plunge into the river himself and face Fate directly; these upgraded Portal Frogs could now instinctively "hop" into the other side via REtrocurrent the second they sensed danger.
Paranoia is the weapon of the Vritra. Agrona wanted me to fear my own powers, to be so terrified of him reverse-engineering my magic that I crippled myself.
But Tessia and Evascir couldn't have been more right: I would not let my own fears defeat me ever again.
Fate had granted me these authorities for a reason. If they could be stolen so simply, then anyone could be the Arbiter.
As long as Caera resisted Agrona, I held an insurmountable advantage over everyone else.
Caera... I thought, the image of her Soul-Body standing defiantly in the hellish landscape of the Bloodlet Bourne flashing in my mind.
I had to break the curse of the Blood of Vritra. It was the absolute least I owed her; if Dicathen survived this impending slaughter, it would only be thanks to her gamble.
Fortunately, I already had a plan, or a theory at minimum, on how to deal with that curse.
And my next destination served as the perfect practice field: Vildorial, the subterranean headquarters of the Warend Trading Company.
It was time for Olfred to finally be freed from the Artifact binding him to the unworthy Greysunders.
—
Chul—or rather, Elijah Knight, as he was known to those outside the Asclepius Clan—followed closely behind me as we reached the Warend Trading Company's headquarters, the stout yet authoritative stone building welcoming us.
I maintained the guise of Corvis Eralith so that Elder Rahdeas would immediately grasp the gravity of this meeting. I only ever visited the old dwarven merchant in my true elven form when serious, world-altering business was to be done.
"Un—ehm, Prince," Chul called out softly, his own nervousness for what was rapidly approaching clearly even greater than mine.
"Yes?" I asked, glancing back.
"Nothing," Chul muttered as we climbed the heavy stone stairs. The half-Phoenix was forced to duck his head to avoid scraping the ceiling. The architecture was tall by Darvish standards, but Chul remained a Herculean figure. "I am just so, so nervous. I don't know why."
Elder Rahdeas, as always, was waiting in his office. Olfred was present too, leaning casually against the far wall, immediately saving us precious, invaluable time.
The dwarven Lance narrowed his eyes at the sight of Chul, and my nephew mirrored the glare. For some inexplicable reason, the two just fundamentally did not like each other.
"Kid..." Olfred greeted me, his arms crossed. "Knight."
"Rahdeas!" Chul greeted the elder with a bright, booming smile, which immediately darkened as he turned back to the Lance. "You."
I genuinely wondered what the canonical Olfred thought of the canonical Elijah Knight, and if that innate animosity had somehow bled over into this timeline too.
Rahdeas and I both coughed loudly to ease the rapidly growing tension between the other two.
"Elder, let us cut all pleasantries," I said, not even bothering to take a seat. "You surely know by now that Elijah—Chul—is not just the mundane son of your old master. Or, at the very least, you have suspected it."
Elder Rahdeas leaned back in his heavy armchair. His one good eye widened in slight confusion, but I saw the sharp glint beneath it. He had known a conversation like this was going to happen sooner or later.
"I would be lying if I denied it, Finn," Elder Rahdeas said carefully, choosing the human alias intentionally. "After so many decades, seeing the boy who is undoubtedly my master's son being so... young... it surely made me raise questions."
"I-I would have answered them all! But—" Chul stopped himself, respectfully understanding it was my place to lead this conversation.
"We have no time for the proper, lengthy explanations that you and Olfred deserve, so I will make it short."
As I spoke, I dropped REmould and gestured for Chul to drop his disguise and return to his proper Nirmanakaya form.
Both of us seamlessly shifted into our Asclepius appearances. Chul did not change drastically in physical shape, but the oppressive, fiery aura of an Asuran half-breed immediately flooded the room.
I, on the other hand, shifted into Nabyun Asclepius. My gunmetal hair melted into burnt copper, glowing faintly like steel being heated in the very sun.
"The first time we met, I didn't know the truth myself, and the full story is impossible to explain without sounding completely insane," I said calmly. "But in short—I happen to also be the Highprince of the Asclepius Clan. A clan of Phoenixes, not much different from the Dragons that the Sapinese people venerate as deities."
"Uncle! We are nothing like the Dragons!" Chul protested immediately.
(Pay him no mind, Corvis, I sighed internally).
Chul barrelled on. "Father was not a Phoenix, though! He was... what do you call the Djinn? Ancient Mages, right?"
"An Ancient Mage who impossibly survived until our modern era," I clarified. "But how Hythlodaeus Knight managed it, or if he is even still alive... we do not know."
I paused for a long second, giving Olfred and Rahdeas time to breathe and let this massive mountain of information settle in their minds.
"Why reveal this now?" Rahdeas asked, his voice razor-sharp.
"Because Xyrus City is going to be attacked soon, right in the middle of the Interdicathian. I need your absolute help to stop it, Elder," I said, turning my mismatched eyes. "And yours too, Olfred."
"I cannot leave Darv," Olfred stated through gritted teeth, his posture rigid. "I am bound to the Greysunders."
"I think I know exactly how to unmake the Artifact tethering you to Dawsid, Olfred," I said.
That single sentence—not the existence of the Asclepius Clan, not Hythlodaeus Knight being an Ancient Mage—was the one to completely shatter the composure of the two dwarves. The revelation that Olfred could be entirely free from his Lancehood hung in the air like a thunderclap.
Elder Rahdeas tensed violently in his armchair, gripping the armrests, and Olfred aggressively kicked off the wall he was leaning against.
"Do it," Olfred demanded, suddenly seething with a lifetime of suppressed hate and anger. He didn't even look at Elder Rahdeas for permission to make such a demand. "Whatever you have to do, kid—Highprince. Do it."
I shot a quick look at Elder Rahdeas, catching the profoundly bittersweet smile trembling on his weathered face.
The novel explicitly mentioned that Olfred only became a Lance because Rahdeas had wished for him to do so. But in that original timeline, Rahdeas had fully believed he would eventually free his foster son using the poisonous promises of Alacrya and its High Sovereign.
In this timeline? He had no such treacherous hope. He had genuinely feared he had condemned Olfred to a lifetime of slavery under the very Darvish tyrants they both despised.
And now, I was offering them a miraculous lifeline.
"Olfred... what is your favourite wall?" I asked genuinely.
The dwarven Lance blinked, his reaction one of the best I had ever seen.
"Huh?"
—
Let it be known that, by my will and by the sacred words of this relic, I appoint Olfred Warend Pitrah of Darv as bearer of the Warrant of War.
Upon him I bestow this great Lifework: to stand as a paragon of Peace, unbroken in his Balance; to be a champion of Freedom; to forge Unity and deliver Justice for all that was lost; to triumph with Solidarity burning in his heart; to grasp boldly the threads of Fate and chart an unyielding course across the river of time—rising through suffering into greatness.
Justiciar, Finn Warend Burim of Focularsa.
We were standing deep in Pitrah. Olfred's "favourite wall" belonged to the dilapidated shack where he had lived as a starving orphan before being rescued by Elder Rahdeas.
It was a ruined thing, its crumbling bricks many times older than I was, caked with decades of dust and abject poverty.
Pitrah was finally resurfacing from its Powders. Many of the dwarven slaves I had freed during my concert tour in Sapin—those who had nowhere else to go—had decided to join the struggle to make the former Pits of Vildorial a city worthy of its name. But deep scars were still visible.
Alongside newly forged homes, the old husks still lay, waiting to be either demolished or renovated.
And yet, dozens of hopeful voices echoed across the cavern, the oppressive darkness slowly being defeated by new, warming lights every single day.
Freecity Pitrah, an amalgamation of Asclepius and Djinnic naming conventions, was truly an apt moniker for this subterranean settlement resurrecting from its own cinders.
"This is it?" Olfred asked, looking down at his calloused hands. "I don't feel diff—"
The backlash of the Warrant of War hit him immediately. It took a fraction longer to manifest due to the sheer complexity of this specific mandate: requiring the Re-Construction Greatrune to perfectly mimic what Mordain Asclepius had done with Dawn and Evascir.
I was no master of the Samsara, nor I was an Asura, but I was the Justiciar of Peace, and my tools held weight even when compared to those of Mordain.
Olfred suddenly folded in on himself, letting out a ragged groan of intense pain. His mana signature instantly went wild, violently expanding outwards.
I swiftly cast a heavy Bubblespell around us to shield the nearby Pitrans from the crushing atmospheric pressure of a Lance's unleashed aura.
I felt the sheer weight of it myself. I didn't know if he had just become this strong or if he had always possessed such latent potential, but Olfred's unrestricted mana signature was noticeably more powerful than Bairon's.
The raw might of his white mana core washed over me like a collapsing mountain. My highly advanced mana senses physically felt the moment the artificial constrictions placed on Olfred—the very same magical shackles Arthur had violently broken in the novel—vanished completely, dissolving into harmless mana.
When the violent storm finally settled, I was left utterly breathless.
"Lord Throneholder!" Filbrass Torserian, captain of the Bronzhers and Pitrah's temporary garrison, shouted as he rushed towards us.
He had actually felt the vastly weakened, residual tremors of the mana signature—which meant he had successfully become a mage! The Magician's Potion had worked. His heavy bronze armour gleamed like a lit candle in the peculiar, ambient light of Pitrah.
I even spotted a small, fiery salamander-like mana beast perched securely on the dwarf's pauldron. Had he already managed to bond with a wild mana beast roaming the uncharted depths of Darv?
"Everything is fine, Filbrass," I reassured him, still catching my breath. "As for..."
"Champion of Freedom," Olfred murmured, slowly standing up and tightly clenching his fist. He stared at his own knuckles in sheer wonder. "I... how do you think Dawsid will react? That dwarf-child is attached to his Lances like a spoiled toddler to his sweets."
"Do you really care?" I asked the renewed Lance—if he could even still be called that. It was a purely rhetorical question; even Filbrass could have guessed the answer.
Olfred flashed a vicious, liberated grin. "Not even a little."
"Lord Throneholder," Filbrass pressed, his eyes darting cautiously from left to right as he surveyed the ruined wall. "What exactly is happening?"
"As I said, nothing to worry about," I reassured the captain, just as more heavily armed dwarves wearing the distinctive bronze armour (which strongly resembled the hoplites of old Earth) marched up right behind him. "You are all mages now, right?"
"Yes!" the Bronzhers replied in a booming, unified chorus. It was a shout of primal pride from men who had been considered the lowest of the low for their entire lives.
"Then I have a crucial mission for all of you," I declared, my voice echoing off the cavern walls. "You will aid me in the defence of the Interdicathian fair."
I was not met with the immediate, roaring enthusiasm I would have liked, but the stoic dwarves standing before me clearly didn't want to refuse, either.
"To you, Vildorial above is already another world. I can only imagine how daunting the surface might seem," I said, softening my tone to address their unspoken fears. "I am sure many of you just want Pitrah to prosper in peaceful isolation, and I am sure that is entirely possible. But what will happen when enemies inevitably come from the outside? Who will stand together with you? We need to be one united front, stretching all the way from here in the former Pits of Vildorial to Xyrus City in the sky!"
"A Chain of Solidarity," Olfred murmured from behind me.
He seemed to like the sacred words of the Warrant a bit too much. Perhaps he and Chul despised each other simply because, deep down, they were far too similar.
"A Chain of Solidarity? Yes!" I exclaimed. "A Chain of Solidarity! Olfred, I knew Elder Rahdeas taught you poetry, but I didn't realise you actually had an ear for it."
"It is a line from Elder Rahdeas's favourite poem. One written by his former master," Olfred said smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. "The Mordainflower, it was called."
Operation Chain of Solidarity. It was a damn good name.