“You never see them aboveground!” Fione insists, and for this one moment the usual curious twinkle is back in her eye. “They require incredibly high levels of bessell acid to grow! And then there’s the pressure, the small-worm growth, the light levels—whoever made this had to get every single aspect perfect. Has to! Continuously! Or this would wither in a second!”

“I’ll pass your compliments on to the artist,” Nightsinger smiles.

“Is it art?” Lucien asks quietly. “Or is it a show of magical strength?”

“Both,” she says. “Feats of magic are our art, brethren. To make art is to be strong. To have precise control over your magic, to have the diligence to maintain it and see it through, to have the endurance to practice and not give up—all indicators of strength. Of worthiness in magic.”

“Aha,” I start. “So it’s a competition.”

“Somewhat,” she agrees. “A competition, and a display, and a communication.”

“Yeah, well, this one says, ‘Don’t fuck with me and my giant glintshroom.’” Malachite waves his hands at the sapphire fungus’s everything, and Lucien and I laugh.

The Bear quarter of Windonhigh is, unfortunately, no laughing matter.

It’s the seat of war and politics—the High Witches have a stately sandstone tower in the very center, this one not curly or whimsical in the slightest. This building stands perfectly straight, perfectly conical, great banners of red and gold strung from a gleaming lapis orb on the very top, and descending long down the sides of the building, pulled taut at the ends to form a beautiful spiral that undulates in the wind and frames the massive staircase leading up to the dark, open archway of an entrance.

“The walls.” Malachite points when we get closer. Sure enough, dozens of runes are carved into the imposing building. Familiar ones—ones I’ve seen on the stone gates of Vetris.

“Old Vetrisian.” Fione marvels. “I’ve never seen so much of it before. And so intact.”

“The witch-cities were constructed in the Old Vetrisian era,” Nightsinger says. “And I’m afraid Windonhigh is one of only a handful left in the world. We are hardly capable of making such a large piece of land float anymore.”

“How did you guys stay hidden for so long,” Malachite muses, “if the Helkyrisians have airships? They’d see you up here, right?”

Fione shoots him an “obviously” stare. “If the Helkyrisians flew a ship into Cavanos territory, it would be an act of war.”

“Ah.” Malachite puts his fist in his palm. “Right you are.”

“Do you know what keeps it floating?” Lucien asks.

Nightsinger flashes him a small smile. “Not entirely. Magic, perhaps. Technology, maybe. But an Old Vetrisian blending of the two is most likely. They were a decidedly advanced bunch, but we work to understand them—and what they’ve left behind—every day.”

“Do you have polymath equivalents researching it?” Fione blurts.

“Something like that,” Nightsinger agrees.