Chapter one: The Crown Prince of Smog and Sludge
Death, James had decided, was a monumental disappointment.
He had spent thirty-four years in a fluorescent-lit cubicle, fueled by lukewarm coffee and the desperate hope that the "Great Beyond" would be a quiet meadow where the Wi-Fi was nonexistent and the deadlines were banned. Instead, his soul had been plucked from the void and stuffed into a body that felt like it was made of frozen marble and high-octane anxiety.
James—now Peregrine Henry Wellington—sat on a collapsible brass field chair, staring out at the humid, verdant nightmare that was Aethelgard.
Aethelgard was the "New World," a continent discovered three years ago across the Boiling Sea. It was a land of bioluminescent jungles, mountains that floated in defiance of gravity, and ruins that hummed with the discordant melodies of the Primordials. To the Iron-Blood Empire, it was a goldmine of Aether-crystals. To Peregrine, it was a humid, bug-infested hellscape where everything either wanted to eat his soul or draft him into a political conspiracy.
"Your Highness," a voice hissed. It was a rhythmic, metallic sound, like a shovel hitting wet gravel.
Peregrine didn't turn. He watched a squadron of Imperial Steam-Gryphons patrol the perimeter of the colony. The mechanical beasts beat their copper wings against the oppressive, violet sky of Aethelgard, plumes of black soot trailing behind them.
"If you are here to tell me the Aurelian Commonwealth has crossed the neutral zone again, tell them to take it up with the border harriers. I'm on my lunch break," Peregrine said. His new voice was smooth, cultured, and carried an inherent authority that made his own skin crawl.
The Commonwealth remains in their sector, my Lord," replied Barnaby, Peregrine's personal attache. Barnaby was a man who had replaced sixty percent of his respiratory system with clockwork bellows after a run-in with a Void-tainted gas leak. "However, the Union of Merchant-Cities has sent a formal protest regarding our excavation of the 'Weeping Spire.' They claim it falls under the maritime salvage act of the Southern Isles."
"The Merchant Union would try to claim salvage rights on their own mother's funeral," Peregrine sighed, finally turning.
He looked at his hands. They were pale, slender, and unscarred—the hands of a Rank 4 Magic User, specifically an Aether-Kin. In this world, power was divided into rigid tiers. Ranks One through Nine were the 'Fodder,' the foot soldiers of the era. Above them sat the Grandmasters, the Saints who could channel the divine, and the terrifying Angels who were living nukes. James was currently a "gifted" mid-ranker, but the Wellington bloodline meant he was expected to ascend to Saint-hood before his twenty-first birthday.
He hated every second of it.
"Barnaby," Peregrine said, leaning back. "Do you see that tree over there? The one with the purple sap and the screaming fruit?"
"The Mourning Willow, Highness? A fascinating specimen of the Primordial Devil's influence on local flora."
"I want to be that tree," Peregrine said seriously. "No paperwork. No 'High-Dimensional Beings.' Just sitting in the dirt, screaming at passersby. Why am I here, Barnaby? Specifically, why am I in a tent in the middle of a demonic marshland?"
"Because you are the Crown Prince, Highness," Barnaby replied, his mechanical eye whirring as it auto-focused. "The Emperor believes that overseeing the colonization of Aethelgard will 'build character' and 'solidify the Wellington claim' against our rivals. Also, the Church of Steam and Machine insists that a member of the Royal Bloodline must be present to sanctify the new Great Cog being installed in the colony's heart."
Peregrine groaned. The five Orthodox Churches were the real power behind the thrones. While the Empire, the Commonwealth, and the Union squabbled over land, the Churches of Life and Death, Darkness and Light, War and Peace, Wisdom and Foolishness, and his own nation's favorite—Steam and Machine—acted as the wardens of reality. They were the only thing standing between humanity and the "Out of Control" Primordials.
The Void Lord, the Primordial Devil, the Lord of Destruction, and the Devourer.
James had read the histories in the palace library. He knew the world was a fragile shell created by the three Sacrificed Primordials: Mother Earth, the Elemental Lord, and the Lord of Creation. It was a beautiful, tragic construct currently being gnawed at by the four Evils who had refused to sacrifice themselves.
"The Church of Steam is worried about the 'Thinning,' isn't it?" Peregrine asked, his voice dropping an octave.
Barnaby's clockwork lungs hitched. "The High Priestess believes the seal on Aethelgard is... porous. The Primordial Devil's whispers are louder here. The cults are active, Highness. The 'Red Hand' and the 'Abyssal Eye' have been sighted in the lower camps."
Peregrine looked out at the colony of New Victoria. It was a sprawling mess of brass pipes, canvas tents, and stone fortifications. Thousands of workers, soldiers, and priests swarmed over the landscape, stripping the land of its magic.
To the North, the Aurelian Commonwealth—a collection of snooty mages and dragon-riders—watched them with icy disdain. To the South, the Merchant-Cities Union—a plutocracy of gold-obsessed innovators—waited for the Empire to do the hard work so they could swoop in and buy the leftovers.
And beneath them all, the "Dark and Ancient Demons" of Aethelgard waited to reclaim their land.
"I just wanted to be a librarian," Peregrine muttered, standing up. He smoothed out his navy-blue military tunic, heavy with gold braid and medals he hadn't earned. "Fine. If I'm to be the figurehead of this industrial disaster, let's get it over with. Where is the Saint?"
"Saint Elara of the Church of War and Peace is waiting at the dig site, Highness. She is... displeased by your tardiness."
Peregrine winced. A Saint was someone who could channel a fraction of a God's power. They were terrifying, beautiful, and usually had the personality of a sharpening stone.
"Right. Death and taxes," Peregrine said, grabbing his cane—which doubled as an Aether-focusing staff. "Actually, I'd prefer the taxes. At least they don't involve tentacles."
As he stepped out of his tent, the humid air of Aethelgard hit him like a physical weight. The smell was a mix of ozone, rotting vegetation, and high-grade machine oil.
A squad of Imperial soldiers snapped to attention, their steam-powered exoskeletons hissing in unison. "GLORY TO THE EMPIRE! GLORY TO THE WELLINGTON!" they roared.
Peregrine gave them a half-hearted wave. I'm going to die here, he thought with a strange sense of calm. Some cultist is going to turn me into a ritual sacrifice, or a Demigod is going to step on me. And frankly, the paperwork I'll avoid by being dead is starting to look like a fair trade.
But as he walked toward the excavation site, a cold shiver ran down his spine. It wasn't the wind. It was a sensation he had felt since the moment he arrived on this continent—a heavy, oily pressure at the back of his mind.
A wisp of the Devourer, the histories had said, infiltrated the world during Creation.
In the distance, past the steam-vents and the screeching cranes, the jungle of Aethelgard seemed to pulse. The shadows between the trees didn't behave like shadows; they lingered, stretched, and seemed to watch him with a hunger that was older than the stars.
"Your Highness?" Barnaby asked, noticing Peregrine had stopped.
"Barnaby," Peregrine said, his violet eyes fixed on a patch of darkness in the treeline. "Does the Church of Wisdom and Foolishness have a stance on 'Preemptive Cowardice'?"
"I believe they call it 'Strategic Preservation of the Self,' my Lord. Why?"
"Because," Peregrine whispered, "I think the jungle just blinked at me."
Far above, the violet sky darkened as a second moon—a pale, sickly green orb that shouldn't have been there—began to rise. The "Breaking" of the world wasn't a future threat. It was happening here, in the New World, and James was stuck in the middle of the fracture.
He gripped his cane, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He had wanted a carefree life, but the universe was a cruel comedian, and he was the punchline.
"Onward then," Peregrine sighed, stepping into the mud. "Let's go see what the Saint wants before the demons decide to have us for tea."