A jingle hums across the airwaves, smooth horns blending with digital beats. The camera sweeps through the studio before resting on Thomas Galloway, seated upright at the central desk. His fingers drum lightly against a stack of papers, though he never glances down. The background flashes through the world map, glowing red where thrones are in flux.
Thomas Galloway“Good evening, everyone, and welcome back to Aither Talks. I’m your host, Thomas Galloway, and as always, it’s a privilege to bring you the stories that shape this strange new world of ours. Tonight’s broadcast will be digging deep into the drama unfolding in Appalachia, where a long silent throne, one that most of us thought had gone dormant after its last war years ago with Charleston, has returned to the stage in a very big way. Its sudden reappearance is already rattling global interests, and we’ll be breaking down what that means for everyone watching. But first, as always, let’s check in with sports. There are now only thirty two throne wars in our great old United States Empire and global conflict is down after Africa almost completely became depopulated. We are now sitting at only one hundred and fifty throne wars world wide with that said lets have a look at the biggest shake ups in the home front over to you Jackson.”
He gestures toward Jackson Kent, who leans forward with infectious energy, hands spread wide on the desk.
Jackson Kent “Thank you, Thomas. The board keeps shaking, folks. First up, the Silicon Syndicate has taken down the Cascadian Confederation. Not only that, but instead of dismantling them, they’ve registered Cascadia as a branch office. Now that’s a first. A throne labeled as corporate real estate with the nexus? Wild. Our field team’s digging through the implications of that, what abilities or bonuses and tradeoffs that will award the syndicate I can only speculate, and as soon as we know, you’ll know.
Jackson Kent
Meanwhile, down south, the Bayou Throne’s troubles have gone from bad to worse. The Gulf Dominion rolled over southern Louisiana this week after a long power struggle, they were annexed outright, and with that, vaulted themselves into position as the second-largest throne in the united states empire. Their borders now stretch from the deep Delta up through parts of Arkansas. Only Texas, the big dog of the interior and the Great Cold North, who still have well over a million square miles left to expand into, so this story is far from over.
Jackson Kent
And since we’re talking about growth, let’s not forget what happened overseas. The Carpathian Keepers were eaten alive by the Slovakian courts , doubling their population of chattel humans overnight after their elder dealed with the Danube Valley’s high-king and were left in a draw . And, closer to home, the Prairie Alliance pulled off what many thought impossible, they tamed a whole herd of ironhide bison and are now using them to drag mobile iron fortresses across the Great Plains built by their high lord the steel derringer. That’s right, folks, rolling towns, protected by beasts covered in Aithergrown armor plating. Every day is wild in these strange times Back to you, Thomas back to you.”
The camera swings smoothly. Thomas tilts his head in a show of sympathy, his hands folded neatly.
Thomas Galloway“Thank you, Jackson. We’ll all be watching to see how the Cascadians hold up, especially with winter pressing in. We learned the hard way last year that mountain beasts wielding ice and earth skills are no joke, after watching three thrones collapse under their onslaught. We can only hope this time the preparations will hold.
Thomas Galloway
Which makes it the perfect time to bring in our next guest, Dr. Whitaker. She’s well versed in the animal life of those ranges and what adventurers and homesteaders alike might need to brace for this season. Dr. Whitaker, the floor is yours.”
The camera cuts to Dr. Whitaker, seated in front of a projection screen. She thanks Thomas with a short nod, then flicks her wrist to bring up a large, startling graphic of a monstrous wolverine, its fur mottled with jagged rock-like growths. The beast is shown tearing down the side of a small home, then in another frame, freezing a stray cow solid in a shimmer of frost. The final clip shows it fending off an entire herd of overly muscular bovines, their rippling, absurd physiques bordering on parody.
Dr. Whitaker“As you can see, folks, the extreme seasonal cold in these mountains tends to awaken certain Aither-driven adaptations in animals as they mature. The time they hit adolescence seems to lead to the traits coming in sharp contrast . This year we’re predicting a spike in earth and ice skills across predators with them breeding later in the year. My advice? Have a geomonipulator in your community, whether that’s raw strength to move stone and dirt or one of the rare elemental skills. Earthworks can mean the difference between keeping your homestead upright and watching it crumble in the snow.”
Dr. Whitaker
“And the surprises aren’t limited to the north. Out in the Great Lakes, we’ve documented loons that now dive into the water and come back up carrying frozen fish encased in ice like trophies. Some are even dropping them on settlements like bombardiers. And in the high Rockies, ravens have begun flocking in numbers we’ve never seen, tens of thousands at once. They’ve learned to mimic voices so perfectly that hunters are chasing each other’s echoes for hours before
realizing they’ve been tricked or descending on a farm and cleaning vegetable from vine , fruit from trees and meat from bone leaving nothing left.”
Dr. Whitaker
“And… nature always finds a way to make me laugh, too.”
She clicks the screen again. This time, a single clip rolls, an Amazon toucan, bright beak gleaming, perched on the shoulder of a weary handler. The bird cocks its head, feathers fluffing, before it belts out a chirpy phrase. Subtitles appear at the bottom
Tommy the toucan
“Can I ride the dog again, bro?
You know he doesn’t mind.
I don’t mind. It looks cool.
Maybe just this once?”
Tommy's handler
off camera, grumbles, “No.”
Tommy the toucan, and Marley
The toucan makes a warbling laugh, hops down, and without hesitation clambers onto the back of a large, sleepy hound. The dog lopes forward, ears flapping, as the toucan throws its wings wide and they shout together, “Freedom! Adventure!” The two bound down a dirt path, vanishing into the trees.
she, shaking her head.
Dr. Whitaker
“Every year they get smarter, and every year they get cheekier.”
The camera cuts back to Thomas, who’s chuckling right along.
Thomas Galloway “I swear, I love knowing what the smarter animals think. They really are a hoot. And speaking of hoots, we’ve got to take a quick commercial break, folks, but don’t go anywhere. When we return, we’ll be diving into Appalachia and what this reawakened throne means for the global balance. Stay tuned.”
The screen fades into the grainy shot of a twisted mountain road. A battered pickup rattles down it, headlights cutting the mist. Suddenly, figures step out, gaunt hillbillies with too many teeth, each brandishing grotesque makeshift weapons. The game logo slams across the screen: Mountain Madman. Shots flicker of players unlocking grisly skills, bone-shard spears erupting from their arms, chainsaw-limbs tearing through walls. A laughing scream cuts the feed.
The next clip is clean, sterile. A middle-aged man in a lab coat addresses the camera in a grave monotone “If you or a loved one have taken Aither Viagra, you may be eligible for compensation.” The disclaimer speeds up, rattling off absurd side effects as the screen shows an old man sitting on the edge of his bed, doubled over while his wife fans the air behind him. The words “loud, long, painful flatulence” flash briefly across the bottom, along with “a pervasive sense of dread, Uncontrollable howling. False Phantom limb itching.”
The final ad bursts in with overexposed shots of mothers smiling at the camera while stirring soup or hugging their sons. A narrator swells in with syrupy warmth. moms for the Adventurer’s Guild. We’re proud of our sons who go out there, face the dangers, and keep our world just a little bit safer.” A young man in dented armor waves shyly at his mother as he’s cheered on by guild members after killing an electric squirrel. She hands him a packed lunch and an apple. The slogan splashes across the screen in gold: “Because even heroes need a packed lunch.”
The jingle faded out and the camera swept back across the glass desk. Thomas Galloway leaned slightly forward, clasping his hands with practiced calm, his sharp smile just brushing the edges of sincerity.
Thomas Galloway
“Welcome back, folks. We’ve got some important updates in the world of space tonight,” he said, his voice a practiced mixture of gravitas and enthusiasm. He gestured to the great screen behind him, which shifted from its bright studio tones to a sweeping view of galaxies and nebulae, swirls of light cast across the backdrop. “For that, we turn to our own head research consultant , Dr. Maxwell Wright.”
A third window opened on the broadcast, revealing a man in a white lab coat hunched before an arc of glowing monitors. His brown hair was messy, his eyes shadowed with the kind of exhaustion that came from too many sleepless nights. But when he looked into the camera, the fatigue melted into unmistakable energy, a scientist riding the wave of discovery.
Dr. Maxwell Wright
“Thank you, Thomas,” he said, rubbing his palms together before catching himself and folding them tightly in his lap. “Everyone already knows by now that life exists across our own solar system. We’ve seen the footage from all the planets and even our star, basically all of it teaming with life. That’s old news. What I’m here to talk about is the first confirmed proof of alien life beyond our star.”
Dr. Maxwell Wright
He leaned forward, voice rising with excitement. “The James Webb telescope has come back online, and, by sheer chance, it was oriented directly at Alpha Centauri when it began transmitting again. And what data it’s sending back is frankly impossible for the technology it was built with.”
The studio screen behind Dr. Maxwell Wright lit up with the sight of three stars one very reminiscent of our sol, the next a smaller dimmer yellow star, the two orbiting each other and a dim red star orbiting those inner two, their fiery coronae rendered with such depth the broadcast seemed like a window rather than an image shifting from closeups of each star in as much detail as pre-Aither photos of sol. Their coronae a dancing mop of ejections and energy.
Dr. Maxwell Wright
“This,” he continued breathlessly, “is the Alpha Centauri trinary, captured in detail we should not yet be capable of. And around them, the five previously confirmed planets. Two Neptunian giants, their rings gleaming and infested crawling with some kind of ameba-like organism feeding across the ice. Two rocky worlds, their surfaces covered in forms of life made entirely of stone, different colors moving like a living tide across continents with spires of crystals looking like trees only as massive as mountains. And then the last the crown jewel of the system and maybe a future home for humanity.”
The feed shifted again, displaying a blue-green world ringed in clouds surrounding the equator. To the north and south the world has endless chains of Islands jutting from the endless ocean. Rising from the seas below where forms measured in miles not feet or yards, the massive shadowy shapes stirred perpetually, titans rolling in the water, the world spinning far faster than earth a day being every hour.
Dr. Maxwell Wright
“A world 4 times larger than Earth, an archipelago planet covered in water, teeming with truly colossal life. This is proof not just of alien biology but of something greater, the spread of Aither itself appears to be universal, as we had some data from after Aither was officially recognised to exist and the spectroscopy of the world's atmosphere has drastically changed. Some theorize this data proves Aither originated on Earth but that's just speculation at the moment.
Dr. Maxwell Wright
He paused for breath, eyes glittering with the thrill of possibility. “We are standing at the edge of a new age of astrophysics. The Webb’s capabilities, well, some of them are still classified even from me. But I’ve heard whispers of omni-frequency scanning. Just the thought of having a telescope be able to tune into any and all frequencies of light with this power its hard to judge what we will find. A tool that could let us map life across the stars, cosmic time, the very dawn of creation, it is all beyond words.”
Dr. Maxwell Wright
Looking momentarily caught in a thought his eyes expanding in ecstasy and the words fell from his lips like tears of truth “ to see the hand of God form anima, materia, patentia, using the divine to form the cogs and laws only for us to see his smile through time and space as he knew we would be looking back”
Thomas Galloway
Giving a low whistle, chuckling as he leaned back in his chair. “So the aliens are real after all, and it might be our fault.” The audience’s muted laughter rolled under his voice, and he tapped his desk lightly. “Well, Dr. Wright, if this truly ushers in a new space age, here’s hoping we can get our own blue marble secure first.”
Thomas Galloway
The levity drained from his tone as he straightened, his gaze shifting downward, more somber now. “Because before we look to the stars, we have to face what’s happening here at home. It is time to release the yearly global census. With a heavy heart, I wish all those lost this past year a good afterlife.”
The screen behind him dimmed to muted tones as the feed transitioned.
seated in her modest office, medical charts pinned neatly on the wall. She had short auburn hair and carried herself with quiet composure, though the fatigue of long hours clung to her features. As her name was announced, she gave the smallest nod, as if acknowledging the weight of what was to follow.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Dr. Helena Rourke
“I share your heavy heart, Thomas,” she said softly, lifting a folded letter from her desk. Her hands trembled as she opened it, and she let out a weary sigh, one that seemed to carry the grief of millions. “The world’s population has dropped again. We now stand at 3.564 billion. The loss of over five billion souls in just a decade… it is beyond staggering.”
Dr. Helena Rourke
Her eyes lifted to the camera, fire returning to them. “And yet, there is hope.” She reached down, holding up a vial of dark green liquid, the glass catching the studio light. “Many of you will recognize this. It is the same class of potion used by the Mithril Chief Elmore’s army during the Charleston War. This formula, though weaker than his own, has been released to the public by Elmore himself. Its ease of creation is staggering. And let me be very clear, no other person has replicated anything like this until now.”
Dr. Helena Rourke
She shook her head in disbelief. “Since its release, global death rates have plummeted by over forty-five percent. Forty-five. And yet the FDA has not approved it. So tonight, I will show you why this deserves our attention.”
She stood abruptly, the camera wobbling as she moved offscreen. A muffled sound, the scrape of metal. Then she returned, holding her arm forward. Her wrist was slashed deeply, blood pouring in a terrible fountain, bone flashing white beneath the torn muscle. Gasps rang from the studio audience, and even Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his chair, jaw clenched.
Dr. Helena Rourke uncorked the vial with her teeth and swallowed the potion before splashing the rest over the wound. The blood halted instantly, as though frozen. Then, with grotesque grace, her muscles writhed like worms, knitting together as skin crawled and pulled itself closed. Within a minute, her arm was whole again, unscarred, flawless.
Dr. Helena Rourke
“This,” she said firmly, voice cutting through the stunned silence, “is a panacea for flesh wounds. And we do not yet know what else it may cure. This is only the beginning.”
Dr. Helena Rourke
She set the empty vial down, lifting another file. “And consider this, Elmore’s hospitals, run entirely free of charge, staffed with registered nurses and doctors using nothing but their own healing skills, training and these potions. This is medicine without profit. Medicine that heals. And no law is being broken. It is, by every account, above board.”
The screen flicked back to Thomas, who shifted in his chair, his composure cracking just slightly. His hands fidgeted with his papers, and his jaw worked against some thought he didn’t want to voice.
“Well,” he managed with a tight chuckle, “that was certainly… vivid. And effective. Thank you, Dr. Rourke.” He cleared his throat, the strain in his voice undeniable. “We’ll be right back after this short break.”
The screen cut to black, and the broadcast slipped into its daily sequence of commercials.
The first one erupted with bright colors and booming voices, the kind of cartoonish energy clearly meant for children. The logo Nexumon blazed across the screen in rainbow letters while upbeat music chimed in the background. Children cheered as the camera darted between a series of little creatures, all with small but dazzling Aither-born talents. A blue crawdad clicked its claws and spat out little arcs of electricity that danced harmlessly across a kid’s backpack. A hamster puffed out a tiny ember of fire, enough to light a marshmallow on a stick. A Hercules beetle gleamed, its metallic shell catching the sun as it scuttled forward like a little knight. A slim salamander wriggled, tossing out icicle-like darts that shattered when they struck a fencepost. The camera panned to groups of children in backyards and playgrounds, each calling out moves like trainers from an old cartoon, their creatures responding with loyalty and excitement. The ad ended with a voice booming, “Nexumon! Aither friends for life, safe, loyal, and fun!” while the kids shouted their creatures’ names in unison.
The next commercial shifted tone immediately, elegant black-and-white visuals, a deep voiceover with a European accent. A man in a clean apron stood at a spotless counter, holding a simple steel knife. The camera zoomed in as the blade shimmered and warped, transforming into a cleaver, then a paring knife, then a serrated bread blade, and finally a carving fork, before snapping back into its original form. “Created by German master craftsman Herr Klaus Richter,” the narrator intoned, “and infused with his skill [Amalgam Craftsmanship]. One handle. Infinite tools. A legacy for your kitchen.” The craftsman held the blade up to the light, showing its sheen. A caption at the bottom read: Each form must be maintained. If one breaks, it reverts until none remain. Then the price appeared in bold lettering, $599.99, just as a proud housewife sliced a tomato in perfect paper-thin rounds.
The third ad exploded with raw Appalachian grit. A burly man in overalls, beard down to his chest, stood in a forest clearing with an ax slung over one shoulder. He stared dead into the camera, voice like gravel. “You ever out huntin’ beasts and feel like you’re about to be overrun? Adventurers? Hamlets under siege by mother nature’s fury?” He bent down, picked up a little paper baggie, and held it up. Inside was something that looked like dried manure. “Then you need Beast-B-Gone. It stinks, but it works. Scatter this around your homestead, or toss a pinch at the end of a fight, and I promise you, nothin’ will want to come near you. Ever.” He tossed some into the wind, plugging his nose, as a raccoon visibly gagged and scurried off. The ad closed with the man grinning and holding up a pack, “Comes with free nose plugs!” before the logo slammed across the screen.
The next spot opened with soft orchestral strings, camera gliding through marble halls of a grand art museum. Walls lined with paintings that looked centuries old, sweeping landscapes, portraits, and mythic scenes, but each canvas seemed to shimmer faintly. A man in a suit stopped before one, touched the surface, and stepped through. The painting rippled like water, and suddenly he was a figure of brushstrokes, walking across a meadow that looked painted but felt alive. He strolled for a while before stepping back out, restored to flesh and blood, smiling in awe. “At the LeBlanc Stallone Gallery,” the narrator whispered with reverence, “art is not simply to be admired. It is to be lived. Explore worlds of paint. Walk the master’s visions. Fifty dollars per hour.” The last image lingered on a family, their hands pressed to a massive landscape painting, eyes wide as ripples began to spread across its surface.
The next cut was jarringly loud again, this time with pounding rock music and neon streaks. Roller coasters twisted across the screen, rides spun violently, and water cannons blasted against shrieking crowds. “Are you level two?” the voice barked. “Are you the cream of the crop? An adventurer with hardened skin, iron bones, and nerves of steel?” The footage jumped from one insane attraction to another: The Slammer, a ride that dropped passengers faster than gravity, slamming to a halt at the bottom, sending riders into vomiting fits between howls of laughter. The Death Loop, a roller coaster with eight loops, each smaller than the last, riders flung screaming through tighter and tighter circles until they collapsed in exhaustion. A warning crawled across the screen: Resistance 13 or higher required. Then came The Cannon, literally a cannon, firing a man through the sky, his body hitting the lake below with a slap, before he surfaced grinning, thumbs up. Another caption scrolled: Resistance 16 minimum. The voice thundered, “Randy’s Rockers and Racers, live the thrill old world amusement parks never dreamed of!”
The final commercial softened again, taking on the calm tones of a law firm ad. A pair of lawyers, one tall and lean, the other short and stocky, stood confidently in front of a courthouse. “Here at Lexie & Devon LLC,” the taller one said, “we specialize in insurance claims. Ordinary lawyers fight for your rights, but we wield [Lexical Mastery]. We find the loopholes others miss.” Images flashed: a bear mauling survivor getting stitches while grinning with his settlement check, a family whose house had burned in a sudden wildfire standing in front of a new home, and then, most unsettlingly, a devastated woman at a dinner table, with the voiceover saying, “Have raiders… eaten your children?” The shorter lawyer slammed his fist on a desk and declared, “We’ll fight to make sure you get your claim. Your justice. Your compensation.” The logo sealed the promise with a bold line: Lexie & Devon LLC. Because words are weapons.
The commercial sequence ended, fading back toward the news desk.
The jingle returned soft and short before fading away again. The camera swept across the glass desk, catching Thomas Galloway’s practiced grin as he leaned forward.
Thomas Galloway
“Welcome back, everyone. Let’s take a quick look at the weather before we move on to tonight’s security segment.”
He gestured behind him as the screen shifted, the studio glow giving way to satellite maps and radar projections.
Thomas Galloway
“Well, it’s the end of summer, and fall is creeping in, though I’m sure many of you will argue the seasons don’t mean much anymore. Down here in the Gulf of America, we’ve still got the Eye, our resident category six hurricane, now rolling into its third year of sitting in place. It’s not going anywhere, folks. That means Texas should brace for another winter of extremely heavy snowfall, and Florida… well, Florida continues to be the perpetual waterlogged hellscape we’ve come to expect. But as they say, Florida man survives.”
A ripple of muted audience laughter carried under his voice. The map shifted again, highlighting a pulsing red zone across Wyoming.
Thomas Galloway
“Now, Yellowstone. The localized temperature spike there has climbed another degree. The ambient temperature within fifty miles of Old Faithful has officially reached one hundred and twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Viewers, please, keep your distance. Only credentialed professionals should be anywhere near that zone.”
The screen broadened to show a full North American temperature map. To the untrained eye, it looked nonsensical, sharp jumps and plunges in impossible gradients. Thomas carried on smoothly, as though it were as ordinary as tomorrow’s rain forecast.
Thomas Galloway
“As you can see, the fluctuations remain extreme for the third year. It may look illogical, but the pattern holds, higher elevations remain more stable, lower and flatter ground swings wildly with environmental shifts. For those of you living down in the basins, be prepared for sharp changes, hour by hour. But you already know that just keep in mind it's not changing any time soon”
He let the map cycle for a moment before it climbed northward.
Thomas Galloway
“Now to our northern states the ex-Canadian territories can expect another brutal stretch. Temperatures ranging anywhere from negative one hundred and fifty to negative thirty Fahrenheit, with no precipitation over the next four months. A dry winter yet again. Keep your eyes open for a roving sleuth of glacial polar bears. If a sleuth passes near your settlement, expect temperatures to plummet closer to negative two hundred. Stay safe.”
The weather display faded, and the studio light returned to its calm, authoritative glow. Thomas straightened, his tone shifting to something more serious.
Thomas Galloway
“Now, to security. There have been some new developments in Appalachia worth a closer look, and for that, we’re joined tonight by Colonel Marcus Hale, retired, but always sharp, our senior security and defense analyst.”
The feed cut to Colonel Hale. His posture remained crisp despite his age, gray hair clipped short, his presence radiating the kind of discipline that never fully left a soldier. Behind him hung a plain wall map peppered with glowing marks of active conflicts.
Colonel Marcus Hale
“Thank you, Thomas.”
Thomas Galloway
“Colonel, I’d like to hear your thoughts on the new Dungeon School, and in particular, the unbreakable oath the students are taking upon themselves.”
Hale gave a firm nod, his gravelly voice cutting through the air.
Colonel Marcus Hale
“It’s a strange turn, I’ll admit. Especially from Elmore. Up until now he’s shown complete unwillingness to let anyone into his dungeon, much less access its deeper resources. He has been a true isolationist up until now. That makes this choice unusual. Let me break it down point by point.”
He raised a hand slightly, as though organizing his thoughts into tactical briefings.
Colonel Marcus Hale
“First, Elmore’s willingness to open the dungeon, even partially, is noteworthy. But notice he still won’t let these students reside within his territory. To me, that signals a lack of trust. He’s giving them advantages, yes, but he doesn’t want them living under his roof. Curious, though not alarming on its own.”
He shifted, voice steady and methodical.
Colonel Marcus Hale
“Second, the requirements. Students need a combat-related skill, which nearly everyone has in some form. It doesn’t filter much. Still, that’s reasonable. Those with no stomach for battle shouldn’t be trained for it. I don’t find this troubling.”
His expression hardened.
Colonel Marcus Hale
“Third, the religious undertones. This concerns me more. Some students have been posting images, at the center of the academy sits a Christian cathedral. The staff include a sanctioned priest of the Vatican. He wasn’t directly sent by Rome, but his priesthood is recognized. That raises the question: are we creating warriors or crusaders?”
Thomas leaned slightly forward at his desk, though he said nothing yet. Hale pressed on.
Colonel Marcus Hale
“Fourth, the oath itself. I’ve gone through the wording. What it boils down to is this, once they swear it, they cannot be ordered by any man, ruler, or authority. They are bound only to protect the people. On one hand, I respect that. It creates a safeguard for the nation. On the other hand, it places these individuals entirely outside the chain of command. If that oath truly applies to the president, as it seems to, then we are talking about a powerful new class of actors operating beyond the law, guided only by their personal morality and the constraints of the oath. Fortunately, it does not include any religious wording, which lowers the threat of zealotry.”
He paused, letting that sink in.
Colonel Marcus Hale
“Fifth, the leveling. Hundreds of these students will rise to level three, while over ninety-nine percent of our population remains at level one. This is significant. Communities lucky enough to host one of these individuals will finally have the means to defend themselves against stronger wildlife, maybe even resettle outside the cities. That is a good thing. It also reduces the likelihood of these oath-bearers being swept into throne wars, which would otherwise be a slaughter.”
His mouth thinned slightly, as though weighing the next point carefully.
Colonel Marcus Hale
“Finally, the equipment. All students are guaranteed mithril armor and tools. Basic gear, nothing exotic, but still priceless compared to what most people own. More interestingly, Elmore is providing mithril melee weapons, gear he is not supplying to the government. That suggests intentionality. He wants these oath-bearers always armed, always ready.”
Hale leaned back slightly, his voice lowering a notch.
Colonel Marcus Hale
“Overall? It’s a mixed bag. There are advantages here, no doubt. Communities will be safer. People may thrive again outside the cities. But we are also creating an independent class of warriors, bound by no one, and equipped in ways that tilt the balance of power. It’s… a gamble. One we’ll have to watch closely.”
The feed cut back to Thomas at his desk, smiling with his usual light touch.
Thomas Galloway
“Well, Colonel, always a pleasure hearing your analysis. A curious situation, no doubt, and a bold experiment. Let’s hope this new generation of mercenary crusaders, if I can call them that, use their gifts wisely.”
A few chuckles murmured in the audience as the broadcast shifted toward the next segment.
The jingle carried soft and triumphant as the camera swept once more across the studio. Thomas Galloway leaned forward at the glass desk, his posture easing into something more conversational but no less commanding.
Thomas Galloway
“Now then, folks,” he said, voice rich with theatrical weight, “we turn our attention back home. To a place that seems pulled from the pages of myth itself. Lakevale.”
Behind him, the great screen shifted to sweeping shots of a city gleaming against the mountainside, its buildings like titans of stone and light. Perfectly hewn blocks interlocked seamlessly, their edges so fine it was as though the city had been carved whole out of the earth. Immense mithril pillars rose from the corners of the structures, glowing faintly as if reflecting more than sunlight, buttressing towers that climbed far taller than any mason of the old world could have dared attempt. Some rose three stories, others ten or more, their heights limited not by mortar or gravity but only imagination. The whole of it looked like the dream of some ancient architect, conjured into being overnight.
Thomas Galloway
He turned his head toward the camera, his tone darkening. “But along with its marvels, there have been… a few disconcerting changes within Lakevale. And perhaps a few promising ones just outside its walls. To speak on that, we have our final guest of the evening. Dr. Alexei Morozov, engineering and infrastructure specialist, a man rebuilding and adapting the bones of our world for this strange new Aither age.”
Another window opened on the broadcast. Dr. Alexei Morozov appeared seated at a crowded desk. Behind him, walls papered with blueprints and schematics of bridges, power grids, and reinforced highways. Some looked like the old world’s blueprints, all angles and careful notes, but others bore the tentative touches of Aither integration, glowing shifting measurement symbols mixed in with ordinary measurements. His sharp gaze met the camera, and when he spoke his thick Russian accent cut clean and blunt.
Dr. Alexei Morozov,
“Thank you, Thomas,” he said briskly. Without preamble, he reached for a stack of papers and unfurled one, holding it up so the broadcast could cut it to full screen. It showed the interior structures of Lakevale’s great buildings. “We have studied what little is available. From what we understand of mithril’s properties, these towers? They are small. Very small. With this material, you could build a space elevator, and it would not bend. You could anchor a bridge across the Atlantic, and it would not sag. What we see in Lakevale is not the limit, it is only the beginning.”
Dr. Alexei Morozov,
He set the papers down, leaning forward. “But the strange thing, the outer plating of mithril on these buildings. From engineering perspective, unnecessary. The internal struts, the supports, they already hold more than enough. So why waste mithril for the outside?” He gave a quick shake of his head, lips tightening. “That, I leave to higher minds. My pay grade is only brick and steel. What I can say, their choice shows complete ethical shift. Not just survival anymore. Not just rebuilding. They are shaping their world anew.”
He tapped a button, and the feed shifted to shaky ground-level footage. Work crews dotted a valley town, carrying beams and quarried stone with bare hands. Men and women lifted blocks the size of refrigerators, moved whole rafters, ran across construction sites with the speed of athletes. Every one of them held turquoise-colored tools, hammers, saws, levels, ladders. But every piece they laid down was ordinary: steel, iron, stone, timber.
Dr. Alexei Morozov,
“You see here,” Morozov narrated, his blunt tone tinged with awe. “They use mithril tools, yes, but not for structures. The homes, the bridges, the roads… all old materials. Hardest woods, rust-proofed wrought iron, large quarried stone. But their speed, their efficiency, is beyond natural. Skills, obviously. One bends wood like clay, see?” The video slowed to show a man wrapping a beam neatly around the edge of a window frame. “Another floats rebar into place as if it weighed nothing.” A second replay showed bars of steel hovering, weaving themselves into a bridge’s skeleton. “What they are building is all to code. In most places, above code. And I tell you, these communities will outlast many others on this continent.”
Dr. Alexei Morozov,
The feed cut back to Morozov, who spread his hands. “To be frank, it astonishes me. They could build with nothing but flash and spectacle. Instead they are building to last. And I admit openly, I wish to work with these men. My immigration papers are in process now. Lakevale has opened borders to international immigrants, from certain nations, if they already gained American citizenship. I, like many, would go tomorrow if I could.”
Thomas Galloway
Giving a short laugh, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t blame you, doctor. I’ve thought about tossing in my application myself. But New York’s still home to me. Even with the murder bats in the air, and pigeons five times bigger chasing giant rats through the subway tunnels, it’s still my home.”
Thomas Galloway
The audience chuckled, the camera catching his practiced grin. He straightened, ready to deliver the warm close of the evening. “And with that, folks, we want to thank” He stopped abruptly, one finger pressed to his earpiece. His expression sharpened.
Thomas Galloway
“Hold on… ah. Hello, everyone, we have a breaking update coming in. Give me one moment to hear it through.” His voice faded as the studio played a soft standby jingle. For several long seconds, Thomas sat in silence, eyes narrowed, hand pressed against his ear.
Thomas Galloway
Then he lowered his hand, straightened, and his tone carried the weight of history. “It has just been released that the United Nations has formally requested the presence of the Mithril Mountain King himself, Warchief Elmore of Appalachia, to represent his nation at a worldwide summit. A nation now recognized as separate, directly disconnected from the United States Empire, which will also be in attendance.”
The crowd murmured loudly, an excited, electric hum rolling under his words.
Thomas Galloway
“ Folks that is the end of the broadcast tonight but don't forget to be here tomorrow, we plan to get reporters into lakevail if we can and see what the mountain man says about the request. Have a good day.”