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Miroslava slaps the radio again, which barks back a storm of static. She’s on the same comms line as the other tank crew, and can’t understand why they’ve suddenly gone dead. She didn’t hear any artillery or mechanical failure.
The tank - a T-35, chassis number 288-14, six machine guns and one monster K-28 76mm main gun, forty-five tons (with crew) of red Soviet glory - trundles carefully though the Lviv landscape. The fog is heavy this morning as they skirt around a forest on a Ukranian excuse for a road, passing over meadows thick with mushrooms and mud. The fog has slowed their progress, and Miroslava is privately anxious about the T-35’s poor reputation as an offroader. Borov, the driver, sits in position in front of her, her knees at his shoulders. The front hatch doesn’t reveal anything but fog and meadow - they’ve well and truly lost the road.
“Anything, Miroslava?” asks Sergeant Vorshilov, behind her, even though he can hear the lack of radio communication perfectly well. He pokes his head out of the turret, peering around. When they’re outside of a firefight, it’s better for him to poke his head out rather than use the periscope. Hopefully no Nazi snipers. The crew is grateful for the fresh air - tanks tend to smell... strong. Especially after a long journey from Russia, through Belarus, and now into Ukraine to meet the Nazi front where they’ve crossed the Polish border. The air smells of crisp pine and clear water, and feels much warmer than she’d expect from a bitter winter.
She shakes her head, fiddling with the dials across the frequencies. “No, sir. Nothing. I can’t hear the other crews, but there’s no radio at all. Not even civilians.”
“It’s a warzone,” he says, “of course there’s no civilian radio. Keep trying. Maybe we’re close to the Nazi front - see if you can pick up some of their chatter.”
She nods, tuning the radio to more silence and static. Strange.
“Stop!” calls Vorshilov, and the tank jerkily comes to a slow halt. He slides down, “Stations!”
The tank brakes hard, Miroslava doesn’t brace quickly enough and jerks forward, banging her head on the low ceiling. Without a radio, she’s deaf, so she leans down and peeks out of Borov’s driver hatch in the front, which is open so that he can see what’s directly in front of him and not much else. She’s also responsible for loading the main gun for the gunner, Anvelta, who is already in position, eyes glued to her sight. She’s frowning, confused.
Outside, from what Miroslava can see, the fog has lifted as they come up a rise, they’ve come across a camp of some kind. It doesn’t look Nazi to her - or Soviet, or even British. It looks... medieval. The people, all men, are wearing a sort of leather armour and carrying swords. It’s not the most unusual thing about them.
“They’ve got fucking *wings*,” breathes Miroslava, eyes wide. Next to her, Borov is just as surprised. “Do Nazis have wings?”
The camp of winged maybe-Nazis are just as confused as the tank crew. One of them, the tallest, strides out, chin high and wings flaring in a display of intimidation. He shouts something at the tank, pointing. It takes a belated second for Miroslava to realise that he’s speaking English. English! She speaks English!
“A metal monster! Warriors, to me!”
Miroslava turns to Vorshilov. “He thinks we’re a monster!”
“Talk them down,” barks Vorshilov.
She calls out to the winged man, whose troops are gathering near him - some *fly* to him, beating those powerful bat wings through the air. Tight fear grips her stomach - they’re the monsters, not her. “We’re not a monster, we are Soviet! Russian! Are you fighting Nazis? You’re English? American?”
Confusion abounds in the winged man’s ranks.
“It talks with a woman’s voice!”
“Is it from Hybern?”
“What’s a Soviet?”
The winged man, their commander, makes a decision. “Illyrian warriors! Siphons out - end the monster before it kills us all!”
“They’re going to attack!” shouts Miroslava.
“Forward, front guns fire,” barks Vorshilov.
The front hatch slams closed as Borov starts forward, the tank’s engine roaring, petrol fumes filling the air, but through the toughened glass Miroslava can see the men form up and start to take off, glowing gems as big as eggs at their hands and chests flaring to life. *Maybe it’s a kind of weapon,* wonders Miroslava as she readies to reload after Anvelta fires.
Whatever the gems were about to do, they don’t, because the two front gunners open machine gun fire and begin mowing the men down. The noise is tremendous.
Tanks are designed to mow down infantry huddling in trenches, punch through fortifications, and engage with other tanks. They’re devastating at basically unarmoured infantry, which Miroslava supposes they are. *Or are these men technically an air force?*
They make quick work of the men, and quickly, there’s no movement on the battlefield ground. Then, a *bang* on the roof - of perhaps a person landing on it.
“Monster!” roars a man on the outside, and there’s a scream of metal and sudden influx of daylight as the man *peels back the armour* and stabs his sword through the gap - Miroslava jerks back away, but not far enough. The man stabs her thigh, and she shrieks, blood welling up immediately. Pain spikes through her before the adrenaline rushes through her, and the man locks eyes with her, his eyes widening in surprise before he lunges forward to finish the job.
He doesn’t get the chance. He raises the sword, and a dark shape with flashing steel knocks him to the ground, backwards off the tank. The man shouts in surprise, and then in anger. There’s a woman’s roar of fury, the English too fast and distorted for Miroslava to catch it. The man screams again, this time in agony - she hears a splintering, and a wet crunch that echoes inside the tank. The man’s voice gurgles, and he starts to beg - Miroslava can catch *I’m sorry* and *please* and *I can make up for it*. Them, his screams echo again in pure agony, then trail off into gurgles. The woman laughs - dark and mad and... relieved?
Anvelta doesn’t move from her sight, but Borov turns quickly, Miroslava’s blood starting to run down his neck. “Fuck,” he says, bunching up her coat at her wound. “Apply pressure! Mirosky! Come on!”
Miroslava presses where she’s told, and the wave of agony that follows is enough to make her sway. *Come on, it’s not a bullet wound, you’re a Red Army woman, you knew there’d be combat!* She tries to breathe deep and even as her blood flows through her fingers.
“Hybern monsters in there!” calls a woman’s voice from the tank’s treads. “Don’t attack! Can we talk? Please?”
“Y-yes!” Miroslava’s voice is tight with pain, but she’s determined to be useful. She doesn’t know why this woman killed her countryman, but she wants to find out. Maybe they have a new ally, and they could refuel at this camp with the men’s supplies. “Let me ask my Sergeant but we won’t shoot!”
“She wants to parley,” says Miroslava. “Sir?”
“Borov, help Miroslava put pressure on that. Keep talking, Miroslava, see what the *fuck* is going on, and don’t bleed out because nobody else can talk to these freaks. Gunners, be ready for a trap.”
“Sir!” barks back the crew as a whole.
Borov applies pressure, the first aid kit being nearest his feet.
Miroslava calls out, “Yes! We can talk. We are tank crew 288-14 of the Red Army, commanded by Sergeant Vorshilov. I’m private Miroslava.”
“I’m Nova. Part of the central Illyrian war-camp. Miroslava, why are you here? Where are you from?”
Miroslava blinks slowly. “The Nazis are invading the CCCP, our home. We’re going to stop them.”
“I’ve never heard of a Nazi. Or a CCCP... is that the Court of CCCP? Or are you from Prythain?”
“Movement, ten o clock, around the purple tent”, snaps Ankhelm, turning her gun to aim. “Am I shooting?”
“No! They’re not Nazis,” says Miroslava quickly, in Russian. She switches back to English, “Nova! Purple tent! What’s that?”
Miroslava hears a gasp, and then Nova shouts, “Celeste! Get *down tell the others to stay away!* Miroslava! Don’t hurt her, she’s my friend!”
“Don’t shoot!” says Miroslava to the crew, knowing Nova is close enough that she could rip off more of the tank’s armour if she chose to, and she’s too close for machine gun fire to get her. The crew have pistols but she really, really doesn’t want to get stabbed again.
“Nova,” says Miroslava, “Why did you kill that man? Wasn’t he a commander?”
Nova laughs now. “Was. He’s dead now. He used to lead this war-band. He was going to clip Celeste’s wings tomorrow. She’s too small to be a proper warrior, according to him. We’re too far for the High Lord to stop him, so I should thank you.”
*A lord? Like a tsar? And clipped wings? Like a pet bird? That might not be a human woman, but that’s a human being that can fly. I suppose they’ve not had their worker’s revolution.* Miroslava frowns. “Why are they clipping her wings?”
“It’s traditional. When you have your first bleed and become a woman, the men clip a woman’s wings and she spends the rest of her life breeding and grounded. High Lord Rhysand outlawed it. Not like his law stops it from happening.”
“That’s disgusting,” says Miroslava, without thinking. Borov catches the expression on her face and looks at her curiously. “Women should have the same opportunities and jobs as men.”
“I wish it were like that, but it is what it is and nobody can change it,” says Nova sadly. “Thank you, Miroslava, but we’d best be gathering supplies and going... maybe the Summer Court will have us. We’re outlaws now. Good luck with your Nazis.”
“Wait,” calls Miroslava. “We can help each other. We have a tank, and guns. You know the area and have supplies. Let’s work together.”
There’s a long silence from Nova. “Alright. Let me get the women. We’ll decide together.”
---
When Nova returns, a dozen winged women in tow, the tank crew are crawling out of the tank onto the ground. Huddled among the tents are dozens more women, but not warriors - their wings all bear a large, silvery scar on a main tendon, and they’re dressed in medieval styled clothes rather than armour. They’re unarmed, and look afraid. Outside, they can see that they are definitely **not in Ukraine or anywhere near it.
The landscape looks like paintings of wilderness - wild forests deep in Russia, beautiful - the sky a piercing blue, the mountains snow-capped like an illustration, the pine trees nearly as wide around as the tank. The air is fresh and clear, the landscape un-shelled.
There is some initial confusion - Nova thought the tank was one creature, not a vehicle with a crew, and the tank is unlike anything she or the other winged women Illyrians, explains one of them) have seen before. They keep a wary distance from the hulk of metal, silent now that Borov killed the engines to conserve petrol. They’re a long, long way from resupply, so bullets and petrol are going to be tightly rationed. Food and medical supplies, though, the Illyians seem to have plenty of. One of them is seeing to Miroslava’s leg, humming as she cleans the wound with practiced ease.
Nova, and her Illyrian squad, are all dark skinned, tall, and graceful. Miroslava’s never seen such a beautiful woman, and that includes in illustrations and in movies. From the moon-eyed look of the men among the crew, she guesses that none of them have, either. They all have dark wings like a bat’s, which move about with the women’s changes of mood and expression. All of them can fly if their wings haven’t been clipped. Most of them are splattered in blood, and there is a conspicuous lack of men around which may have something to do with the blood. Apparently, the women were off doing chores before training, and so none of them were caught in the crossfire.
After some explaining, Miroslava is able to translate between the two groups a few key facts.
1) They are not in Ukraine anymore. They are not even in Europe anymore.
2) This place, called Prythain, looks like Great Britain, but isn’t.
3) They are in the part of Prythain that would be Scotland, which is called the Night Court, or the Court of Nightmares.
4) There are no Nazis in Prythain. The King of Hybern is apparently going to invade Prythain, so mentally Miroslava classes him with “Hitler” in her mind, and the Illyrians as allies.
The part the Illyrians are most curious about, though, is how many women are on the tank crew. How are they part of the army? Did their High Lord let them do it? Is their commander going to force them back into their role as broodmare?
“No!” says Miroslava immediately. She doesn’t translate the part about the commander - Vorshilov would be sickened by the implication, just as she’s so sick and angry on behalf of these women. “We don’t have a High Lord, or a Tsar. We killed him twenty-four years ago,” she says, proud of Lenin’s coup against the unjust Tsar.
Nova blinks slowly. “You *killed* your High Lord?”
Miroslava nods. “Yes. And his entire family and the rest of the ruling class. We had a revolution - we live under communism now, where everyone has the same rights, and there’s no ruling classes anymore. Anybody can be anything, or anyone.”
“So who’s your High Lord now?”
“We don’t have one,” says Miroslava patiently. “We have the All-Union Communist party. They rule as a committee, together. It works really well. The Tsar never cared about the workers who made him rich while we lived in poverty, so they banded together and took power and means of production from him. Now the workers rule themselves.”
Nova looks shell-shocked. So do her squad of women. But, a fire burns in Nova’s eyes after a few moments. “The High Lord outlawed clipping and said we were to train the same as the men. But he never checks... he goes off with his new bride and dresses down the commanders, but it’s so much worse after he leaves. It’s probably the same in all the camps. There’s... so many women who might feel the same as us.”
Something burns within Miroslava, too. Maybe this is how Lenin and Stalin and the greats felt in October, 1917, before they changed the world forever.
The group of women fractures, talking amongst themselves but a smaller one, with short, dark hair speaks up, tugging on Nova’s arm. “ We should just hide. The High Lord is so powerful and every war-camp will come after us...”
“Did you see that?” Nova stands taller, gesturing to the tank. “They just ripped through the whole camp.”
“Nov, what if they *kill* us for this? Or worse -“
“They’ve *already done worse!”* roars Nova, fists balled. A flare of static burns in the air, and her eyes flash gold for a moment. “I refuse to live in fear of the men I’m meant to fight with, and I won’t let them clip your wings, Celeste! I’ll die fighting them, sword in my hand and in the air! This is a chance, and I’m not wasting it.”
Nova takes a steadying breath, and to Miroslava, seeing her in profile, she looks like Lenin or Stalin in a portrait, eyes burning with hope as she looks onwards to a bright, Communist future. “Illyrian women, we have nothing left to lose. Our High Lord has abandoned us. Let’s show them all that we’re born warriors, too. It’s time for a change.”
---
The tank trundles onwards, north - to the Hewn City, where the Court of Nightmares and High Lord Rhysand reside. The radio is silent, and Miroslava ends up just turning it off.
Along the way, they decimate war-camps, the women in the war-camps swelling their ranks. Not only the winged warrior women, but healers, cooks, servants, and slaves that followed each camp join their army. After the first war-camp they hit, the Illyrians realise what the Soviets already know - that there’s more of *us* than there are of *them*, and that united, they are unbreakable. The ranks grow exponentially - not just with warrior women, but also with other war-camps looking to unseat the High Lord. Nova considers only the camps that have women with unclipped wings - the other leaders are torn to pieces before they can get two words out.
The tank crew carefully monitor ammunition, firing when required - besides, the women, who name themselves the Night Drakes - are just as devastating as a 76mm artillery barrage. Anvelta taught the women how to use their single bolt action rifles, which are useless while the crew are in the tank. The women use them to much greater effect in the air, picking off their opponents at range, who seem to lack any kind of ranged option. Miroslava is surprised to see Celeste as the most adept, racking up enough kills to qualify her as a fighter ace of aces within a couple of weeks.
When they reach a great mountain, the army stops, waiting.
And it is an army, now - the united forces of warrior women, but also peasants of villages they pass through who told tales of starvation and poverty who are more than happy to take up arms in search of a better future. The tank crew - especially Miroslava, who speaks English - are asked to recount, again and again, how their Communist leaders stormed the Winter Palace and changed the world forever.
This is the Hewn City, heart of the Court of Night.
The battle is vicious. The forces of Night - the remaining Illyrian army as air cavalry, archers on the mountains, mages firing spells are united against him. The High Lord himself is there, along with his closest guards, on the edge of the battlefield.
Unfortunately for the forces of Night, they were not really ready for an onslaught of this ferocity - or for twentieth century gunfire, which the crew had saved until this very moment. They mow through the army until it’s forced to surrender - the Hewn City is taken, but the High lord escapes elsewhere. The general consensus is that he is a coward.
When the arrive to the Hewn City, they find the doors open and the scene of a bloodbath. Dead warriors, aristocracy, and the ruling class litter the place after the servants and the women took the chance while they were occupied with the army. They drag the King of the City out of the closet where he cowered. One of his female servants cuts his throat with unrestrained glee - a trial is the last thing on this revolution’s mind. The noble women are killed too - allies of the men, complicit in the abuse and oppression of millennia, who never lifted a finger or said a word to stop this in fear of losing their own privileges.
Someone paints a hammer and sickle, with a moon in place of the star, as the symbol of communist Prythain in the throne room. The throne itself is torn down and used as firewood on the pyre of the bodies. Some of the women suggest carving an enormous portrait of Lenin on the mountain, but they settle for a banner for now.
The riches in the city stunned the tank crew and the warriors alike - who knew that the king had hoarded such vast wealth in a mountain while his people starved? Fury burns through the ranks.
Finally, where was the High Lord? Weeks pass while the tank crew complete repairs - having worked out how to use magic to fuel the tank, but magic can do nothing for the T-35’s transmission problems - but there’s no sign of the High Lord for three weeks.
On the twenty-second day, a whip cracks in the throne room, and a blonde woman with pointed ears, no wings, dressed in a red gown appears in the throne room. Her amber eyes widen as she takes it in - the blood has been cleared away, but the red hammer and sickle are new, and so is the round table where the new All-Union Communist Party of Prythain meet. The Illyrian women chose leaders, which includes most of the tank crew - as Advisors to Communism. Today, they were discussing places the High Lord may be hiding.
“I’m here to negotiate on behalf of High Lord Rhysand,” she says quickly, looking warily at Celeste’s raised rifle. Celeste has not let the weapon leave her sight since she received it, but she keeps the barrel trained on the woman. “Who’s in charge here?”
“We all are,” says Nova, gesturing to the people in the room. “You’re the Morrigan.”
“Yes,” says the Morrigan, smile breaking out over her like the sun breaking through clouds. “I’m here to talk with... all of you, then? You can call me Mor.”
Nova nods. “I’ll make this quick, Morrigan. The High Lord will come out of his bolt hole, step down and answer for abandoning his people. The Communist Party has taken the Night Court, and we hold it. No longer will women be oppressed by men. No longer will the rulers of this land hoard wealth. No longer will we starve while you and your Lord wear silk and eat well.”
Mor blinks, tilting her head to the side. “I know. You know my story - I’m a victim of this as much as you all are. I see how it is. The treatment of women here isn’t right, but we can work *together* to change it slowly without *destroying* anything -“
“Wing clipping was banned before Amarantha,” snaps another one of the women, Stella. “But it came back under her, and the High Lord’s done precious little to stop it. Where is he, anyway? Hiding?”
“It’s still banned, but change takes time,” says Mor, trying to placate them. “We want the same things. Can’t we work together - the High Lord will talk to you.”
“In that *time*, women have been clipped and raped and killed, Morrigan. And your fucking High Lord Rhysand has done NOTHING! He sees all of this happen, and he doesn’t CARE! If he did care, he’d actually change it - but he’s not, because he doesn’t *want this to change,”* shouts Nova, and to Miroslava it looks like Nova has finally realised the truth of why the aristocracy won’t act on injustices, no matter how heinous. “He wants his strong male war-camps to serve him and he actually wants the Hewn City to be like it was. He only cares about himself and his bride - don’t your remember he punished the King for insulting *her* but not for *anything else he’s ever done?*”
Nova is breathing hard, cheeks red. Magic burns in the room. Mor’s expression is torn, her hands shake.
“Morrigan, he’s never punished the king for what he did to you, either. How can you serve him?”
“He’s my High Lord,” says Mor, obviously shaken. But, she rallies. “And he’s your High Lord. He cares very much about you all, but you’re hardly worth saving in my opinion. Is that your response, then? You understand that Hybern is looking to invade - we cannot splinter now. We have to work together.”
“We are working together - it’s only your High Lord that can’t see it. See you on the battlefield,” says Nova. “If he even lets you fight.”
Mor winnows away with a *snap* of air without another word.
---
No response ever comes back from the High Lord. Not formally, anyway.
A letter does arrive, though. It’s anonymous. It reads;
*We, the people of Velaris, have heard of your cause and our hearts weep for the injustices on the outside. We are sheltered and unaware of all of the events on the outside, but we extend our welcome to you, the Communists of Prythain.
It is time to unite the Night Courts.
Equality and unity for all.*
The fae are just as mystified. None of them have heard of a Velaris or knew about more Night Courts, but they guess that Velaris is where the High Lord is hiding. The letter comes with a map.
So, wary of a trap, the tank and the army march to the location marked, through the mountains.
It takes them to a rise, where Miroslava and the tank crew see a jewel of a city, a river winding through it. It looks like how she imagined Paris would look, if she ever gets to see it.
The fae, on the other hand, describe it as a hazy mirage - a half visible blur that gives them a headache to try and focus on.
The tank crew pushes on, even though the fae grow more and more reluctant to proceed to the mark. When they get there, there is a person standing under a jag of rock - them, and their red banner (which looks like a tablecloth) hidden from the air but not the road. The tank and the army halt.
“You made it,” cries the man. “Are you the Communists?”
“Yes,” calls Nova. Today she’s perched on the roof of the tank as it rolls along the road. “Did *you* send the letter?”
“Yes! I’m Caelan.” The man starts forward, coming closer to the tank. Then, he kneels, touching his head to the road. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry - on behalf of all of Velaris, we are sorry for our cowardice. How we looked away from you all outside and let you suffer. We didn’t know but that doesn’t make it any better.”
The man looks up, eyes shining. “We want to make it right. Please, *be welcome to Velaris.*”
A magical charge ripples through the air, and the city snaps into focus. Gasps roll through the ranks as they see the city for the first time.
“Come on,” he says, looking up to the tank and to Nova. “We don’t have much time, but the people are with you.”
---
It turns out that Mor’s exchange with the All-Union Communist Party of Prythain leaked out, and made its way from her report to her High Lord down to the streets of Velaris. The good people of Velaris - who live in comfort and riches, explains Caelan - heard of the coming revolution brought on by the horrific conditions on the outside world. When questioned, their High Lord apparently publicly responded that it was a necessary diversion in order to keep Velaris safe and out of enemy hands - shouldn’t they be happy they were safe? The bad people outside were never going to change their ways. He had personally kept them safe and sacrificed so, so much to protect them. His bride had looked beautiful and sad when he said that, because she was the one who toppled the former dictator, so she is a hero of the people and had also suffered to much.
But change their ways they did. And the people of Velaris - who Caelan explains that they also sat out some kind of enemy occupation for fifty years that ravaged all of Prythain - refused to ignore their fellows this time. So, out of the citizens who disagreed with their High Lord, they sent a letter hoping to invite the communist army in to share the riches of Velaris.
Caelan was sickened when he heard what the outside was like, face falling in grief. “I feel sick. I can’t live like this knowing that - that all of these things are happening to other people on the outside. It’s not fair - why do we get to be in Velaris and you don’t?”
Miroslava assures Caelan that no, he didn’t choose but he’s making the right choice now, instead of wanting wealth hoarded, he wants to share it so everyone is equal. Caelan smiles at this - riches may be regained, but life and art are the most precious things to many in Velaris.
When they reach the wall of Velaris, a row of winged fighters rise to meet them. Magical gems - the Siphons, as they now know, flare to life as the Illyrian warriors prepare to fling magic at them. The Night Drakes hang back for a few moments - they’ve practiced this manoeuvre for weeks for this very moment. They know Illyrian tactics well, after all.
The tank roars, and and Anvelta fires the main gun while the forward machine gunners fill the air with bullets. The Night Court’s finest warriors don’t stand a chance. Wings shredded, they drop like stones, the drop finishing any stragglers off with a sick crunch.
Then, the gates open, and the army marches into Velaris, unopposed.
---
Rhysand darts to the window when he hears the explosions at the walls. He is mostly dressed for battle - he buckles the greaves on while he surveys the battle. He’s frustrated - don’t the women know that he’s trying to help them, and carving a bloody swathe through the Court isn’t the way to go about this?
Azriel and Cassian went out to investigate a disturbance, but a pool of horror grows in his belly as he sees the streets and markets of Velaris fill with an army. However, they aren’t here yet - he goes to the window, ready to launch out and confront the invaders himself. Their metal drake - called a *tank*, according to Azriel’s intelligence - spins its long metal proboscis towards him, angling up.
There is a *bang*, and a microsecond later, he feels nothing at all as the world explodes. His last thought is surprise - he can’t *believe* that they think he’s a bad guy in this situation.
---
It is, overall, a fairly bloodless coup. The citizens of Velaris aren’t fighters - most aren’t even armed. The ones that are, the army, surrenders after the House of Wind is enthusiastically shelled to pieces. Red banners with hammers, sickles, and moons are hanging there by nightfall, when a party to end all parties rolls through the streets. The citizens of Velaris have heard all about the outside world, and are ready to invite a new and equal world order.
Revolutionaries, citizens, and one Soviet tank crew celebrate, drink, and dance until sunup. The tank is parked in a large market square, and painted by local artists with flowers, stars, and dragons.
After that day - named the Iron Revolution in honour of the tank - Velaris becomes the official seat of power of the Night Court, now renamed the Prythain Soviet Socialist Republic, or the PSSR for short. The Party appoints the Commissar of Nightmares to look after the Hewn City, and a Commissar of Dreams for Velaris, with the Party watching over all of them. The other Courts cautiously extend diplomatic ties, aside from the Summer Court, whose sympathetic Lord enthusiastically arrives via boat to Velaris the next week. Apparently, he has always wanted to erase class boundaries between the fae, and he leaves inspired and declaring his allegiance to the new Night Court. It’s only a couple of months before the Summer Court announces itself as the newest Soviet Socialist Republic, with their former High Lord cheerfully an interim steward for the power of summer until the election.
The crew made attempts to return back, but they all agree that spreading the message of communism to other worlds is just as important as killing Nazis, and until all of Prythain is united under one Communist banner, they can’t exactly up and leave. So, they stay, flying the red banner onwards.