The Great Hall of the Terran Parliament was a masterclass in modern transparency—a vast dome of reinforced glass and brushed titanium. Today, the usual debates over resource allocation and orbital debris were replaced by a historic session. At the center of the floor, under the cool glow of the overhead LED arrays, sat the Elven delegation.
President Jasmine Smith looked down from the high rostrum. "We are here to discuss the variables of the Southern Migration," she began, her voice amplified by hidden acoustic resonators. "We have received data indicating that the Aen Seidhe are not the only ones moving. Our satellites have flagged new signatures: shorter, sturdier humanoids and smaller, agile ones. They are moving in the wake of the elven exodus."
She looked toward Filavandrel and the Elven leaders who had been invited to speak. "Tell us about these people. Are they a threat to the Republic?"
Filavandrel stood, his elven robes a stark contrast to the sharp suits of the Terran politicians. "They are the Dwarves, the Gnomes, and the Halflings," he said. "Like us, they are the 'Elder Races.' Like us, they share the same fate in the South—their lives are measured by the cruelty of those who fear what is different. The dwarves are the masters of the deep mountain; the gnomes, the architects of the small and intricate; the halflings, the tenders of the earth. If we are 'vermin' to the South, they are the 'taints' and 'freaks.'"
The Parliament erupted in a low murmur of data-crunching and debate. Phineas Johnson, acting as a scientific advisor, tapped his tablet. "If their skill sets match Filavandrel's description, they aren't just refugees, Madam President. They are an untapped labor force of specialized engineers and agriculturists. From a merit-based perspective, their integration could accelerate our expansion in the western mountain sectors by fifteen percent."
The vote was swift and clinical. The New Terran Congress designated the Dwarves, Gnomes, and Halflings as Potential Refugees. The Automated Defense grid was updated once more: do not fire, but maintain a high-alert escort.
At the frost-bitten perimeter of Sector 9, the first of the scouts arrived. A group of heavily armored Dwarves, led by Barclay Els, and a team of Gnomes with brass-rimmed goggles stopped dead in their tracks. They were staring at a Shredder Turret that had risen from the snow, its barrels humming as it tracked their movements with terrifying mechanical speed.
"By the ancestors' beard," Barclay growled, gripping his axe. "Is that a golem or a siege engine?"
"It's a warning," a voice called out.
From the shimmering white curtain of the border lights, a squad of Terran soldiers in matte-gray power suits emerged, accompanied by a familiar figure. Gloir, a prominent leader among the first wave of elven refugees, stepped forward. He no longer wore the tattered rags of a wanderer; he was dressed in a clean, thermal-regulated Republic uniform with a citizen's ID badge pinned to his chest.
The soldiers did not raise their weapons. One of them, his helmet retracted to show a calm human face, nodded to the newcomers. "Welcome to the Terra Republic. You have been designated as authorized immigrants. Lay down your weapons for scanning and follow the elven guide."
Barclay Els looked at Gloir, then at the towering, glowing city of glass in the distance. He saw elven children playing near a heated transit station and gantry cranes moving tons of steel with the flick of a switch.
"Gloir," the dwarf whispered, his jaw dropping. "What in the name of the mountain have you found here?"
"A world where your merit matters more than your blood, Barclay," Gloir replied with a faint, proud smile. "Come. The President is waiting for your census data, and the soup in the guest houses is still hot."
The gates of the North swung wide. The migration was no longer just an elven flight; it was the gathering of the Elder Races into the arms of a civilization that didn't believe in magic, but was more than willing to build a future for anyone who could hold a tool.
******
The guests in the Sector 9 Guest Houses did not sleep. While the Terran soldiers outside monitored their bio-signs through reinforced thermal glass, the Elder Races were busy dismantling the silence that had protected the Republic for centuries.
Inside the modular hall, Barclay Els sat on a synthetic-wool chair that felt far too soft for a dwarf of his standing. He stared at Filavandrel and Gloir, his eyes wide with a disbelief that even a mug of warm, Terran-manufactured broth couldn't soothe.
"You're telling me," Barclay rumbled, his voice echoing off the composite walls, "that there are no kings here? No mages with their noses in the air? Just... logic?"
"And a wall of fire that never sleeps," Gloir added, pointing toward the window where the Automated Defense turrets sat like silent gargoyles in the snow. "They have turned the North into a forge, Barclay. There is no cold in their homes, no hunger in their bellies, and most importantly—no hatred in their hearts. They do not see us as 'Elder' or 'Vermin.' They see us as potential."
The Gnomes and Halflings listened, huddled around the heaters. They had spent their lives in the Northern Kingdoms being taxed to death or pushed into ghettos. To hear of a place where a gnome's precision was valued as "engineering" rather than "freakishness" was enough to spark a fire that the South could never quench.
"The letters," the Aen Saevherne Sage whispered, her eyes glowing with a faint, residual Chaos. "We must send word. Every blacksmith in Mahakam, every herbalist in Dol Blathanna, every halfling tilling the bitter soil of the South—they must know. The Iron Cradle is open."
Under the cover of the arctic night, the magical messaging began. It wasn't a single pulse this time, but a coordinated silver thread of thought and traditional megascope communication. The elves used their telepathy to reach the hearts of their kin, while the dwarves and gnomes used ancient, attuned crystal balls hidden in the depths of their mountain strongholds.
The message was simple, yet devastating to the status quo of the Continent:
"Pack your bags. Leave the ash and the blood behind. There is a paradise of glass and steel in the extreme North. The humans here have no magic, but they have the power of the stars. They welcome the makers, the builders, and the survivors. Move immediately. Do not look back."
Across the South, from the Empire of Nilfgaard to the farthest reaches of Kovir, the Elder Races heard the call. In the middle of the night, dwarven families began quenching their forges. Elven artisans began burning the looms they couldn't carry. Halflings began loading their sturdiest carts with grain and heirloom silver.
They moved in silence, a ghost-army of thousands slipping away from the civilizations that had spent five centuries trying to break them. They didn't care about the Conjunction of the Spheres or the prophecies of old. They only cared about the Terra Republic—a nation that promised them a life measured by merit, not by the shape of their ears or the height of their stature.
The Great Migration had become a flood. And as the morning sun rose over the empty ghettos of the South, the kings of men would soon wake to find that the hands that built their world had simply... vanished.