The woods were still the night the elven ambassadors came. Their faces were white, inscrutable masks of manners, but their eyes blazed. They had heard tell of the underground trains of Darsha and of the dwarven halls—rails that tunneled under cities, carrying humans unseen under ground.
And the elves had never been asked to do their own.
At the top, the voice of the Elven Queen was serene, but her words were piercing.
"Why were we omitted, Emperor Sharath? Why were we not trusted with this secret? Did you fear our trees? Did you fear our magic?"
The leader of the beastmen, his shoulders as wide as a bear, his scent carrying the hint of oil, knocked his clawed fist on the table. "And we? You let dwarves dig the earth, you built tunnels in your own realm—but never once did you address us! Are we inferior? Are our claws too unwieldy for iron?"
The hall stiffened, courtiers hissing behind their sleeves. The criticism was biting enough to hurt diplomacy.
But Sharath stood there, his hands behind his back, and his voice firm.
"You were asked."
A wave of bewilderment passed through the chamber.
Sharath did not blink. "Two years ago, when the initial plans were sketched out, you two were invited. We offered rail, subway, and joint construction. And you two declined. The elves were afraid of the wounds of industry. The beastmen did not trust iron and fire underfoot. So we constructed with those who would construct.
Marcel stood up alongside him, beard quivering but voice unyielding. "We offered no discourtesy. You made your decision, and we honored it. But now the vision has been vindicated, you regret what you did."
The Elven Queen's poise wavered, just for an instant, then recovered. The beastman chieftain snorted, nostrils distending.
It was so—and yet the truth seared worse than falsehood.
Lastly, the Queen bowed her head. "Then let us speak not of refusals in the past. Let us speak of today. We desire to join this iron web. We ask for subways for our forests, for railways for our people."
The leader of the beastmen nodded. "And us. Make us what you made for yourselves. Let the beastmen not be left behind."
The Division of Tasks
The summit had changed from tension to negotiation. Finally, there was agreement: Sharath would control the beastmen's routes, Marcel would control elven subways.
It was a pragmatic split. The dwarves had demonstrated their expertise at working with stone and burrows; the elves preferred dwarven fingers to iron-fisted human diggers. Sharath, on the other hand, had already done business with beastman territory in the form of petroleum commerce. His engineers, already working with their soil, would stretch iron across their plains.
The deal was done. Hurrahs ensued, though beneath the surface, resentments remained.
The Problem of Oil
Sharath went to the beastmen's lands shortly after, accompanied by engineers, architects, and a contingent of magicians. Initially, the country appeared friendly-looking—wide, open seas of grass, firm earth ideal for digging. But soon, within weeks, issues arose.
Wherever they dug, oil burst forth.
Not the smooth barrels which the beastmen boasted to export, but black, crude oil. It seeped into tunnels, dirtyed spells, poisoned the air. Laborers returned oiled with muck, coughing, eyes red. One shaft collapsed completely, engulfing rails before they could be laid.
During a council late one night, Sharath hunched over maps smeared with oil-stains. His gloves were stained, his face somber.
"It cannot be done," his chief engineer told him bluntly. "Subways here are a death trap. The oil veins run too close to the surface. Every tunnel will drown."
Sharath drummed his fingers, quietly, then turned to the beastman chief. "Then we build above."
The choice was made. No subways for the beastmen—only railroads laid down upon the land itself. Rails would span plains and hills, strong bridges across rivers, stations elevated like fortresses. Less streamlined than underground wonders, but no less potent.
And thus the construction began afresh, iron lines running across beastman lands like veins of fire.
Elven Subways
While they worked, Marcel and his dwarves disappeared into the green realm of elves. Their labor was more rapid.
Elven dryads spoke to trees, requesting that roots move. Magicians kept earth stationary as dwarves pounded through. What human or dwarven engineers could take years to accomplish, elves and dwarves in tandem dug tunnels in months. Roots which before would have choked rails now curved willingly aside.
By the first year's end, the elven capital boasted its first finished subway line. Glowing soft green light came from enchanted lamps. Carriage frames were carved of living wood and iron-bound. As the first train thundered beneath the forest, elves gasped not with horror, but with awe.
It was as if nature herself had sanctified the iron serpent.
The Goblins Watch
Deep away, the goblins watched.
Shadows of their mountains, spies infiltrated beastman plains, hiding at stations. They observed rails being laid down, rivets being counted, blueprints being stolen.
When the initial beastman railways opened, goblins smuggled tricycle and carriage scraps from previous raids. From these scraps, they fabricated engines, rough and cacophonous.
Their first models burst apart. The second collapsed. Workers were set aflame, wheels disintegrated.
But goblins were obstinate.
In three years, they had their own rudimentary railway system. Their trains puffed blacker smoke, their tracks warped under load, their stations rough stone and mud. But they operated. And to goblins, that was success.
Speed of Progress
Within a year, the elves had finished their first complete subway network, from their capital to outlying villages. Beastmen railroads crisscrossed plains, transporting oil, grain, and iron. Sums marked the inauguration of each railway, flags streaming, bands playing.
By the second sum after groundbreaking, the elven Queen herself traveled beneath her forests on a dwarven-built train, while beastmen chief rode over plains with Sharath.
And yet—something had altered.
Where previously invention gave way to invention, now progress faltered. The great blaze of industry grew cool. For decades, trains had revolutionized the world, oil power had driven engines, identity schemes had regulated lives. But now, new inventions did not appear. There were improvements, yes—safer brakes, more durable alloys, quicker furnaces—but nothing that convulsed the period as previously.
It was an era of refinement, not revolution.
A Stagnant Prosperity
Three years went by. The goblins toiled in hiding. The elves prospered in their green tunnels. Beastmen exported oil to all kingdoms, their treasuries swelling. Dwarves extended their underground halls with even more fervor.
And Darsha? Darsha prospered, but Sharath sensed the oppression of stagnation. His empire was large, his folk nourished, his rails whirring—but the fire of revolution seemed to fade.
In the grand palace, he strolled long corridors, observing engineers quarrel over decreasingly smaller contraptions. Nobody mentioned advances. Nobody imagined as audaciously as once.
And so he reverted to diplomacy once more.
A new summit was announced. Letters were dispatched to all empires—elves, dwarves, beastmen. Even remote tribes were invited. Only the goblins, still ostracized, did not receive an invitation.
The world was set to convene once more.
The question hung in the air like smoke over a dying blaze: would the next summit fan the flame of invention—or would it uncover the embers of strife already smoldering?